April 8, 1989: Stoke to Bude

On the morning of Thursday, April 8, I got up shortly before seven and looked out the window into the farmyard at Stoke Barton. Not surprisingly, it was drizzling. I had completed most of my packing the night before so I was all ready to go when we sat down to breakfast at 7:30. I had asked for this early time because I knew we had a very long day ahead of us. Mrs. Davy had insisted that her bacon was not salty so we had the full English breakfast in a dining room that didn’t have enough chairs of the same size. She also brought us our packed lunches. I threw out the last of the Westward Ho! and Clovelly ham sandwiches so I could make room for Mrs. Davy’s. Tosh was talking to one of the Davy children, home in the middle of a school holiday.

We brought our gear downstairs, paid, and struggled into our boots. Harold and I were wearing full raingear that, in my case, included the infamous cape. I had also put both guidebooks, Westacott and Ward, back to back in the sleeve of my plastic map case. At precisely 8:30, a very good start time, we said our goodbyes and set forth. It wasn’t too cold but it was wet. We marched quickly back to yesterday’s turnoff and followed a cutting that paralleled the Hartland Quay road until, after crossing the latter, a stile lead us off into our first field. Just as we were doing this Joe Cosgrove came up behind us; we agreed to meet in Bude – and that was the last we say of him for hours.

The stage was now set for one of the most strenuous days in my walking career, an ordeal rivaled at this point perhaps only by the Porlock Weir to Lynmouth stage in 1987. I have certainly walked greater mileage and been more anxious about route-finding than I was today but the difficult terrain (with more than a dozen combes to cross) the unwelcoming weather, and my cold all combined to make this a most difficult task for me.

The going was not too bothersome at first. We dropped down to one stream and climbed up the opposite slope. As we descended to Speke’s Mill Mouth a dog, just getting out of a car, came charging up the hill to greet us. Her owner, who lived in a nearby cottage, called her back and showed us where the footbridge crossed the stream. Once again we disdained a scramble down to the beach for the best view of the local waterfall.

A long and mostly level walk along cliff tops followed. The coast was quite beautiful, rugged and exciting, but I wish I had felt better or that my views had not been so restricted by the hood of my rain cape. This garment proved its utter impracticality on the slopes we were encountering today. The wind off the sea made the cape into a sail and I had to fight against tremendous drag. Because it billowed out around me I often lost sight of my feet and slipped, especially going uphill. There was no convenient way to reach my dripping nose and I was soon trailing a plume of snot. One of the few encouraging things was the speed we were maintaining. No one wanted to linger for any great time anyway.

The long pleasant stretch of level cliff-top walking came to an end as we made our descent to Welcombe Mouth. For me this last valley in Devon marked a considerable milestone, for by reaching it I had completed 1500 miles on British footpaths. By a curious coincidence Tosh was marking her 750th mile at the same spot. Congratulations over, we climbed steeply out of the valley and over the cliff top to the next, Marsland Mouth. A signpost across the stream welcomed us to Cornwall. Harold and I had now walked the entire Somerset and North Devon Coast Path.

Steps helped send us up Marsland Cliff and over to the valley of Litter Mouth. Tosh was getting tired and wanted me to tell her exactly how many more ascents we would have to endure before lunch time. Using the silhouette guide at the bottom of Westacott’s maps I could tell her that the Morwenstow turnoff, a kind of half-way point, required only two more steep climbs. These we accomplished without too much bother – views of the village of Morwenstow cheering us up off to the left.

The decision to head into the village depended a bit on the time. I wanted to make sure that the pub was open. In addition we would be adding a mile to our already long afternoon. The Lees were very eager to get out of the rain. “Well,” I said, “in my planning I felt we could afford to undertake this detour if we reached our turnoff by 1:15. What time is it?” “1:14,” Harold answered.

We turned off the track and headed toward the village. I couldn’t see any obvious path but I kept above a line of gorse, passing through a herd of cows, and ending up opposite a locked metal gate. As I started to climb this my momentum carried me in a somersault onto the turf on the other side. My chest began to hurt after this, and several more black and blue marks appeared. When the Lees picked me up we continued forward and found some footpath signs. These lead to a bridge over the village stream and up into the churchyard. Harold did some scouting and found a way up through the graveyard to the road. At the rectory they were serving tea and snacks but I asked Tosh to find out where the pub was.

With some new information we began to climb a hill along the road. We encountered a family. The father said wryly, “Yes, there’s a pub up there and they’ll serve you if you’re over fourteen.” We soon found the Bush, undergoing renovation, and deposited all of our gear in a wet pile. The locals looked at us in horror, but the stuttering barmaid was quite pleased to serve us. I had a turkey sandwich and the Lees had soup and stew. We had arrived shortly before two but it was 2:45 before we were ready to leave. Everyone but a retired major type had already gone off by this time. He talked at us about the foul weather and Americans he had once known. On the whole, I’m glad we came into Morwenstow. We needed a good sit-down rest and we would not have gotten it on the path today. Morwenstow had marked Harold’s 700th mile.

A track lead back in the direction of the coast path just beyond the church. We used it to make our way against the renewed fury of the rain, blowing off the sea into our faces. We had been told that the Morwenstow to Bude section was not nearly as severe as the terrain we had already covered. I suppose this is technically true, but since we were now quite weary it hardly mattered that the hills weren’t quite as high. I continued to have difficulty with the muddy slopes, often pitching forward. With so much work being done by my toes my Achilles tendons were crying out with the strain. Whenever it was possible I cut off the nose of headlands, trying to get over the tops in the shortest distance possible.

The mileage for today’s walk, given by both Westacott and Ward, is 15 miles, counting the detour to Morwenstow. It seemed much longer. Interestingly enough, I had lunch with Hugh Westacott just a few days after completing this walk and I used the occasion to question his measurements. “Took them from the map,” he admitted – surely a mistake on a route with as many steep ups and downs as today. (I have always felt that Wainwright understood this problem better than any other guidebook writer and I have always had confidence in his miles.)

We descended to the Tidna, and climbed the slopes of Higher Sharpnose Point. Then it was down to Stanbury Mouth and up Lower Sharpnose Point. It was after 4:00 and the rain was coming to an end at last. I took off my snotty mittens and assisted in the removal of my rain cape. Opposite the forbidding perimeter fence of the tracking station we sat down for a second lunch. I sipped a little Bitter Lemon and ate some of Mrs. Davy’s pound cake. Harold had to chase a food wrapper in order to please tidy Tosh.

There was sun at last as we cut a corner off this hilltop. I had to scramble a bit in the gorse to find the path but I succeeded and, with wonderful views of the sun on the Atlantic, we continued wearily forward. There was a steep descent to Duckpool and a steep climb up Warren Point. How slowly the miles seemed to be going. A rescue helicopter was practicing out at sea and we felt like waving our arms. From the top of this ascent we could see the much lower line of cliffs stretching off in the distance toward the white houses of Bude. It still seemed like a long way to go, but we pressed on to Sandy Mouth and Northcott Mouth. It was now past 6:00. The sea was thrown into the most beautiful iridescent pattern by the cloud and the setting sun.

I told Tosh that Bude should be only a mile from the first house beyond Northcott Mouth. The problem was that as we passed this the path signs, which had been so good, seemed to disappear and we were left to follow hints in Ward as we crossed the grassy fields on Maer Down. We kept to the right of some stone walls and emerged at last with our first views of roads leading directly into Bude. There was actually a choice of routes, depending on how close to the sea you wished to remain, but the Lees, anxious to reach our hotel, headed off toward the first tarmac.

We left the grassland and entered into a small settlement dominated by hotels. Harold actually went into one that was alight but couldn’t get directions because there was no one about. A passerby with a dog was flagged down and he told us how to continue forward, over the hill, to emerge on the strand. “It’s half a mile,” he added. “What’s half a mile,” I grumbled, “when you’ve already done fifteen.”

The Lees left me in the dust as they raced up the hill. What tremendous energy they possessed. How lucky I was to have found such good fellow walkers. Our route led by a supermarket and three closed chemists. I had assured my friends that, if needed, we could walk in light until 8:00. Ironically it was 7:30 and getting dark when we at last got our first sighting of the Strand Hotel. We passed our future bus stop, walked along the canal, and used the zebra crossing to get over the busy road. Naturally our first sight was of Joe Cosgrove, who had also booked in for the night.

We were given our keys and directions to our posh rooms. Mine was on the first floor. I peeled each muddy garment from my body and went into the bathroom for a nice soak. At last I allowed myself to finish the bottle of Bitter Lemon. After dressing I called Dorothy, enjoying the luxury of my own phone. The TV set, another luxury, went untouched – as it had done in Westward Ho!

The Lees and Joe were at the bar when I got my gin and tonic and joined them. We had dinner in the dining room; some Dutch businessmen were our only other companions. I don’t think anyone was overly gratified by the meal. I had braised steak and onions, the Lees had roast chicken, and Joe ate fish. Tosh and I had some lemon meringue pie. Joe ordered a bottle of wine but I had had enough alcohol. I was actually in a bit of a haze because of my cold – and added very little to the conversation. The others were going on about the abolition of the dock labor scheme. “Imagine, paying people for not working,” Joe said, “of course the government was right to stop it.” “Yes,” I agreed, “but do you think this means they’ll abolish the golden handshake too?”

We did not return to the bar but went to bed at about 10:00. As usual I read some Gatsby and took a sleeping pill – I had a lot of trouble getting back to a normal sleep pattern after this trip.

In the morning I packed up, segregating my boots in a carrier bag, and wearing my Adidas for the return journey. At 8:00 I went across the street to take the last two pictures in my roll. I kept an eye on the bus stand across the street, trying to figure out if they were keeping to their schedule. The canal was quite lovely. A diving duck took thirty seconds to come up. I found the Lees at breakfast with Joe. Once again I was able to use a credit card to settle up.

Shortly before 9:00 we walked over the bus shelter. Our bus was already in position and the driver loaded our packs into the boot. We then had a delightful ride of a little more than an hour and a half, soon leaving Cornwall and passing through more lovely Devon scenery and some wonderful towns like Holesworthy and Okehampton. Chambermaids used the bus to get to their work and moms on shopping trips got on with the kids. Sun gave way to dark skies and rain and hail peppered the bus – which stopped often for people who rushed from cover to escape the downpour. By the time we had reached Exeter St. Davids it was sunny again. Once again we sat in the buffet until it was time to seek our platform for the 11:12.

We had reserved seats in coach A and Joe took one at our table. So passed the last of our conversation (India, Rochester, and boats) with this very nice chap. It was around 2:30 when I got back to Paddington, really quite weary and snuffling. I thought I had earned a nice rest but the next day I had to buy my wife a £500 watch.

Cold symptoms pursued me for another week. I had enjoyed the walk considerably but my pleasure would have been so much the greater had the weather and I myself been a bit cheerier.

To continue with the next stage of our walk you need:

Day 13: Bude to Crackington Haven