August 17, 1987: Lynton to Hunter’s Inn

Even though we had agreed to a late start on Monday, August 17, everyone appeared for breakfast on time, that is everyone but yours truly – who was walking Toby along a grassless stretch of the East Lyn River – one with too few opportunities for a squatting Schnauzer. This morning it was Tosh’s turn to sulk. I was not entirely convinced that she had consented willingly to a shortened version of today’s walk. Certainly she and Harold were quarreling about something. After breakfast she took her pack and left the Bonnicott on her own, a somewhat embarrassed Harold telling us later that she would meet us at the bottom of the cog railway at 10:30.

The rest of us left our packs at the hotel and strolled about Lynmouth for a few minutes ­– with Dorothy and Janet darting into souvenir shops and grocery stores. Dorothy bought a large bottle of Diet Pepsi for me. It was already quite warm and I kept looking for relief from the sun in the shadows of leathergoods displays and postcard trees. Then we returned to the hotel, crammed our lunches (sandwiches, boiled chicken and hard-boiled eggs) into the packs, paid up, and, with Harold now in tow, retraced our steps past the clotted ice cream store to the foot of the cliff railway. Tosh now had to use the ladies and we missed one car.

The ride, costing twenty pence, was great fun – with the weight of the descending car (plus some water) pulling up the ascending car. Harold asked Tosh to move so that someone else in our car could have a better view – and she snapped that she was here first.

After an ascent of 800 feet we left the cable car and walked around Lynton a bit, taking pictures and making additional purchases of snacks, film, and drinks. This Victorian resort, larger than its sister town downhill, was also full of charming, flower-bedecked houses perched on hillsides. I believe every one of us was delighted with this area and with our choice of the Bonnicott. I bought a can of cola to carry with me as we turned downhill, re-crossed the cables of the railway and began strolling westward on the famous North Walk.

At 11:15 we passed several nice hotels and when the traffic ended we released Toby to scamper over the asphalt surface of this relatively flat, tourist-clogged walkway. There were wonderful views of the sea below, so wonderful that Janet complained of vertigo again. Flies, her old nemesis, were also present on this stretch – a new species with a wider wingspan, a cross between a fly and a bat. Someone had told her that a hat made of bracken fronds would prevent the dive-bombing attacks from which she had suffered on the previous day. Thus both she and Dorothy walked along this stretch of the route as though they were remaking Guadalcanal Diary. This gave the other tourists a new and unexpected sight to write home about.

I found the North Walk to be very lovely indeed: the ferns, the flowers and the sea gradually serving as the introduction to the craggy outposts of the equally famous Valley of the Rocks. We turned away from the sea and into this rocky amphitheater at a corner where Harold stopped to re-hook Toby. A few feet away were the first members of a large flock of wild goats, sprawled in docile fashion on the steep crags above and below the path. Everyone took pictures of these horned beasts and then we moved on into the valley, down its road for a bit, and then along an alternative path that allowed us to escape the traffic and find a nice place for our lunch. We were well-sprawled out along the trail, making it harder for Toby to concentrate his begging and for the rest of us to have a real conversation.

It was quite warm and bright, but there were clouds about as well today and the moisture in the air made for humid going. This we discovered when we packed up and climbed steeply back to the road. Here we turned away from the Valley and entered the precincts of Lee Abbey, a Christian conference center perched on a hillside overlooking beautiful Lee Bay. We had a choice of routes today but when I suggested that the non-road alternative was the longer of the two our group decided to risk the traffic for a quick descent to the bottom of the valley. Here, with Christians singing in their tents on a nearby field, we discovered an inviting teahouse. Although we had been walking only a few minutes since lunch it was necessary for us to pause here too. I sat at my own table in order to gain some shelter from the sky’s glare, eating a mint chocolate chip ice cream cone.

After this stop we had a steep climb up the next hill. I had Toby on lead out in front; the traffic was quite annoying. At the top we began a descent into the valley of Woody Bay, with more hotels perched attractively on the wooded hillsides. At the Woody Bay Hotel itself Tosh attempted to see if they were still serving at the bar (it was 2:45) but they were not. Toby had a drink from a little spring next to the hotel.

More road walking brought us past a parking lot and onto a track for the high-level route to Hunter’s Inn (the lower version being for mountain goats only). Even here we encountered a farm vehicle grinding its way toward Woody Bay, but soon we were well launched on a delightful path that offered great panoramic views of the sea below – a walk with only a few steep rises amid the purple and white heather and yellow gorse. Low-level jets streaked by and little ships chugged by below. There were breezes that gave us our lowest temperatures yet – in all, an easy untroubled progress that delighted everyone. Dorothy, however, continued to protest against the weight of her pack and was slightly embarrassed when first Janet and Tosh and then Tosh and Harold joined hands to carry it between them.

After two miles or so we reached the chasm of Heddon’s Cleave, with the Heddon River hiding in trees at the bottom of a slope of scree. The path headed inland here, above the river – making a gradual descent back into woodland. There was little reason to rush, though the Lees were streaking ahead of us in the distance. I had been aiming for a 5:30 arrival but it was not 5:00 yet. “I bet Tosh has to use the loo,” I explained to Dorothy. This proved to be the case, for we were now approaching Hunter’s Inn, the large rural hotel that we had chosen to substitute as the day’s terminus. At tea, which we had on tables out in front of the inn, I offered to return with Tosh the next day in order to complete the missing six and a half miles into Combe Martin – but she no longer seemed to be interested. We had completed six and a half miles to Hunter’s Inn on this day.

First Harold and then Tosh had to spend some time on the phone summoning a taxi for us. Yogi of Combe Martin finally agreed to come get us, that is he would send his mother to make two trips. While we were waiting for her we finished our tea, strolled about amid the resident population of peacocks and had a look at the gardens in the rear. Mallards were diving in the pond, their fuzzy bums visible above the waterline. Janet had read about Hunter’s Inn in her copy of Birnbaum. She was even able to predict the peacocks.

Yogi’s mom (who turned out to be our age – or worse, younger) arrived to take Janet, Dorothy and me to Combe Martin. I sat up front with the dog. This gave me the best view and also the burden of conversation – England versus America, with me taking up the cause of England and Yogi’s mom waxing rhapsodic over the pleasures of caravanning in Las Vegas. The woman took the narrow, twisting roads at a terrific speed and with only one hand. The other she used to talk into her intercom. It started to rain and she ordered someone to get the laundry off the line and Yogi himself to pick up the Lees at Hunter’s Inn. They had by this time crept under the shelter of the hotel’s eaves to escape the downpour – but the staff took pity on them and opened the bar five minutes early.

Our route took us along the high street of Combe Martin, a ribbon village some two miles long. It was soon clear that this arrangement, with the highway as everyone’s front view, did not encourage the aesthetic sensitivities of the villagers for there was little to charm the eye here. Even the Pack o’ Cards, a curious structure with four floors and fifty-two windows, needed a coat of paint.

Things did not improve when we arrived at the Saffron House Hotel, a ride costing only four pounds and two upset stomachs. The ugly yellow edifice above us also lacked any charm and the host, though civil, showed little interest in our party beyond making sure that we would all be ready for dinner at 7:00 and that we would all eat pork chops. Janet had a fairly nice double but Dorothy and I had a very spartan bedroom with a set of extraneous bunk beds and a cheap shower whose controls were outside the cubicle. Worse, there was no toilet, a condition that incensed my wife and for which I announced I was nevertheless not to be punished.

The Lees arrived shortly after I had completed my struggle with the shower and I leaned out the window to bring them up to date on dinner plans. We met in the lounge for drinks and then we were summoned to a communal dining hall with tables covered in yellow oilcloth. At the other two tables were families with kids. It was quite noisy and unrestful and Dorothy was mightily annoyed. A family with three kids struggled to keep up the civilities of dining with the grown-ups. To help the younger members of the family the father belted his little boys on the head at regular intervals. The food was okay, quite dry and unimaginative, with the life subtracted from the veggies. Janet disdained her chop but did better with the jam sponge roly-poly.

Dorothy and Tosh began an argument. The subject, as I recall, was vacationing with kids. Dorothy belonged to the children should be seen but not heard school while Tosh was a battle-scarred veteran of togetherness. How to get mom some relief from the home environment while keeping the kiddies occupied (and out of the hair of other guests) proved a conundrum beyond the grasp of these warring ladies. Tosh undoubtedly resented being instructed by someone whose knowledge of the problem was essentially theoretical.

The problem was that Tosh would not desist. Even after dinner, when we had repaired to the lounge a second time, she kept raising the issue over and over. Finally Dorothy said, “Tosh, you obviously feel the need to quarrel with someone tonight, but I won’t permit it to be me.” Tosh’s mouth fell open at this and she offered a few final observations on the subject, then lapsed into silence. In this cheerful mood we all left the hotel for a stroll down the rest of the high street of Combe Martin.

I mailed a postcard to the Vincents. At the little harbor a succession of shops offered wares for the tourist. Toby had a good sniff at a number of other dogs but he was not interested in the rocks of the beach. Janet and Dorothy bought a hot, vinegar-soaked bag of chips. Eating them made us thirsty but the Royal Marine pub wouldn’t let us come in with the dog – so we trudged back to the hotel (the Lees somewhat removed from the rest of us). Dorothy and I led Toby along an ill-lit back alley in search of a likely doo doo spot – but he wasn’t having any of it.

When we reached the hotel Harold emerged from the shadows to suggest that we continue up to the Pack o’ Cards. In the garden behind this large establishment we had drinks at a wet table. I had some sweet scrumpy, but I have never liked any alcoholized apple drink. Spirits seemed somewhat improved as we returned to the hotel at 10:30. I took a sleeping pill and screwed wax into my ears against the rush of traffic on the road below.

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

Day 6: Hunters Inn to Combe Martin

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

Day 4: Combe Martin to Ilfacombe