August 16, 1987: Porlock Weir to Lynmouth

The church at Culbone

On Sunday morning, August 16, we woke to bright sunlight streaming into our windows. I had urged as early a start as possible, knowing that we were in for a long day, but Tosh had balked at this – and essential preparations had been put off until after breakfast. I had some extra time before this meal and took Toby out for his morning walk.

At the table next to ours a large group from San Antonio was in conversation with their group leader, a guide from the English Wanderers. The women in our party engaged in endless speculation about the prosperous looking couple at the hub of this little universe – I seemed to be the only person in either group in a hurry to get moving. Some of us wandered over to the village store in order to buy snacks and soft drinks. Janet was sure she had been undercharged by the curious old duck in command of this operation. The latter told Harold she no longer stocked deodorant but I found some in the glass shelf beneath the counter. We returned to our rooms, packed and came downstairs to pay up and collect our lunches. Toby, on lead, made a sudden lurch that pulled on Dorothy’s back again and thus we had one member of the party in tears before we had taken a single step from the posh confines of the Anchor Hotel. Today was Harmonic Convergence Sunday, a day of cosmic significance in the calendar according to Shirley MacLaine. Certainly we would find it memorable.

We did not begin walking until 9:50. Some steps behind the hotel led us up to a series of cow-filled meadows and onto a road at Worthy. We avoided the tollbooth here and passed through the arches of Worthy Lodge. Then there began a steep climb through Yeanor Woods, a truly delightful path that was very similar in character to yesterday’s walk up North Hill. We were parallel to the coast and had occasional glimpses of the sea but eventually we turned inland and, to my surprise, descended into a forested combe of great beauty. I could see the steeple of Culbone church through the foliage and at 11:00 or so we reached this hamlet and entered its churchyard.

I took off my pack and rested it at the base of a large stone cross in order to take in some liquid; it was already getting warm. Everyone had a look inside the church, reputedly England’s smallest. I encountered the English Wayfarers here and engaged its leader in conversation about the choice of paths ahead. He implied that he used the lower route going to Lynmouth and the upper on the return journey but he seemed rather unhelpful – as though I wasn’t entitled to free advice.  Unfortunately the signs were somewhat confusing hereabouts; two routes were mentioned but which was the official and which the alternative was not at all clear. “They all meet above anyway,” Natty Bumppo told me. This was even more confusing intelligence, for the two routes seemed quite distinct on the HMSO map. Meanwhile my group had scattered and it took some time to get them all assembled for the circuit of Knap Tor.

We headed uphill on the seaward side of this height but where I expected to begin a descent into woodland there were warning signs about washed out paths and arrows diverted us back inland again. We continued to climb steeply but in a direction that seemed to me to be more characteristic of the original route, not the alternative we had been looking forward to. Sure enough, the Wayfarers were climbing up toward us on the “original” path as well. They passed us as we left the cover of the woodland, sparking off more heated debate among our ladies about the Texas matron with the bobbed grey hair and green shorts. I was somewhat disappointed in the loss of the alternative because I knew the original route would be more open to the sun. In this stretch the two routes seem to have been combined under the single heading  “diverted.”

As we crept uphill along tracks lined with hedgerows a new menace appeared – flies. Janet was particularly vulnerable to these pests. They swarmed about her, flew into her nose and ears and in a few minutes she was reduced to tears. The pack, the incline, the heat, and the flies now produced an intense misery; not even long pauses could reduce the agony much. At one point her camera came crashing down in protest against these injustices. Dorothy, struggling against her back problems and, with the reduced energies at her command (for she had an uncanny ability of starting a walk at the wrong time of month), was also in a grumpy mood. And the Lees had sunk into splendid isolation – often leaving the rest of us behind as if attempting to make a clean getaway.

In the distance: the farm at Broomstreet

I stayed behind with Janet. We obtained some relief with a little downhill leading to Silcombe Farm. The young woman in charge of a herd of cows here also complained about the flies; she was charmed by Toby. We climbed over the next hill and continued on our sunny track, the dog occasionally on lead because of nearby sheep. Across the next valley I could see Broomstreet Farm. First we had to cross two streams. But how slowly we seemed to be moving. I suggested that we needed to make faster progress on the level and downhill sections of the route but no sooner was this agreed than we decided to have lunch at the second of the streams.

Then it was uphill to Broomstreet and around the corner to catch our first glimpse of Yenworthy. I was happily predicting that in an hour we would be enjoying an ice cream at County Gate when – all of a sudden – we ran out of path. There seemed to be no way forward across the fields to Yenworthy (although, maddeningly, we could see some other walkers over there) and instead yellow arrows firmly required us to begin a steep descent into a combe below. Harold did some scouting and reported a bridge far below. We followed him but the path, after crossing the stream, continued westward at the lower level: we had been “diverted” back onto the “alternative.” As we were beginning to move off we spotted the Wayfarers coming over a cliff behind us; whatever route they were following required them to bushwhack their way across the stream behind us. I began to have my doubts about Natty Bumppo. As for his followers, they were still the objects of envy and contempt. Without packs, they were soon overtaking us again.

We said goodbye to any hopes of ice cream, having now descended well below County Gate. The tracks and trails were well marked with coast path signs but, as I told Dorothy, one of the worst aspects for me of this constant diversion was that I did not know, for hours, precisely where I was. Janet was busily fanning herself against the flies that were still swarming over us. For a while she used her return train ticket, then switched to bracken fans. “Shoo,” she entreated these vermin endlessly. We continued to pause often and I was becoming quite dehydrated. Toby was probably the happiest member of the group; he found plenty to drink in the streams that we encountered in all the low spots of a winding, twisting trail. We were only about half way in our journey and it was getting close to 3:00.

At a rest spot near one of these brooks (with a stone cross and an “Adders Breeding” sign thrown in for good measure) we encountered a lone bearded walker in shorts. He was actually taking notes on the trail and as we talked we learned that this gentleman was none other that Brian Le Messurier,  “Qualified tourist guide and local author” according to his card, but already known to me as the author of the South Devon Coast Path volume in the HMSO series, a book I had frequently looked at in the ASL library.

Brian said that the Exmoor National Park authorities were always diverting the coast path; he was not surprised to hear that the guidebooks were inadequate; even the most recent ones had given him some difficulties. As for his own, he too longed to bring out a revised version but HMSO had printed so many copies of the original that this was deemed unlikely. He implied that our route was now straightforward and free of flies. We did not believe him.

Some time after resuming our march the original path must once again have joined the lower alternative, but I couldn’t tell where. It was only when we began to encounter roads again that I could see where we were on Ward and Mason’s map. That was the good news; the bad news was that we still had over three miles to go, including a substantial uphill pull to Countisbury. We were now in open country again, with Foreland point to our right. For the last time I took the lead, waiting with the dog at the top of the lighthouse road for the others to appear around the corner. When they did I descended on a tarmac road to Caddow Combe and crossed the bridge, climbed steeply up a track and, when it turned a sharp corner to climb to the saddle of Foreland Point, threw myself down in the bracken to wait for the others to catch up.

We all had a rest in what would be the last shade for over two miles. I suggested to Harold that, in order to avoid the Seatoller effect, we ought perhaps to make a call in Countisbury to our Lynmouth hotel; it was already past five. I assumed that he and Tosh would be the first up the hill so I gave him a copy of our reservation letter with the relevant telephone number and the dog’s leash (for Toby always traveled with the frontrunners). Then we made way for the Wayfarers, passing us for the last time ever; they declined my suggestion that they carry our packs to the top. Then it was out into the bright late afternoon sun for the steep pull up to the saddle. Here I needed another rest but the Lees and a desperate but resurgent Janet, encouraged by sight of the motor road leading down into Lynmouth, charged forward up hill and were soon out of sight.

Countisbury church

I was sick to my stomach and hungry at the same time. Dorothy stayed behind to help me recover. I drank some more liquid and we stared down on the beautiful scene of Lynmouth Bay below us. When we carried on we met the Lees behind the Countisbury church. Janet had decided to hitch a ride to Lynmouth so no phone call was deemed necessary. I was full of admiration for her pluck. Evidently, on clearing the graveyard, she accosted the first citizen of Countisbury she could find. “How much would you charge to drive me to Lynmouth?” Thus for two quid she saved a two mile walk down the hill on a vertiginous path we could now clearly see before us, just below the highway.

There was a little breeze and the sun was beginning to lose its sting. Daytrippers were beginning to clog the path again. We had to walk on the road for a short distance, then there were leafy switchbacks almost to the beach. Toby had to be hooked and we strolled at last along the esplanade of the town park while Tosh asked for instructions on how to reach the Bonnicott Hotel. Pink like the Anchor Hotel, it was already visible on a hillside not far along the Watersmeet Road. We fought our way across the traffic of several busy roads and climbed up its steps. We had started our walk at the same time as on that fateful trek to Seatoller – but we were ten minutes earlier in our arrival; it was 7:00 pm. This had been one of the most difficult days in our walking history, thirteen action-packed miles. Fortunately, the first thing I noted as we entered the hotel, was that we needn’t eat before 8:30.

Janet was arrived and bathed and in much improved spirits. John, the nice Cockney hotelier, showed the rest of us to our rooms. We fed the dog and got cleaned up and went down to the lounge for drinks. A pint never tasted better. Tosh agreed – even though she knocked hers over with an expansive gesture. We ordered from the a la carte menu (I had scampi) and had a very nice meal at a table with a view over the harbor.

John had no objection to our bringing Toby downstairs when we returned to the lounge for more drinks after dinner. There were only two other guests at the hotel, Sunday being a slow night. We had a conference about the morrow. There seemed little likelihood that we could add a mile to today’s distance and get to Combe Martin in one piece. There was the additional problem that an early start would leave no time for us to see any of the local sights. So we decided to try to walk just half of the route, to Hunter’s Inn, and to get a cab to Combe Martin from there. I argued that, as I was responsible for all the other walking arrangements, someone else could work out the details of this alternative. Harold agreed to do this and John called the Inn and reported that our cab idea would work. We ordered some packed lunches again and agreed that we could have something of a lazy morning.  Janet and I took the dog out for his last walk and even had time to peek into a gift shop on the way home. We were all ready for a well-earned rest.

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

Day 3: Lynton to Hunters Inn