The South West Coast Path – Day 43

July 4, 1995: Bigbury-On-Sea to Salcombe

Looking back at Burgh Island

Looking back at Burgh Island

Skies were again very clear as we arose for the last day of our walk on Tuesday, July 4. A wiser man would have packed it in long before this if he too had worked up the blisters and the soreness that afflicted both of my feet. But I was determined to see it through and I felt certain that I had one last day – although a strenuous one – in me. So I spent several minutes taping heels and toes and reported for breakfast at 8:30. Interesting how even a gourmet cook had nothing to add to the famous English breakfast; indeed Martin did the serving today and let someone else have the run of the kitchen. “Are you frying fish?” I heard him hiss at an underling, “Then turn the fan on!” Once again we needed to reach a ferry crossing at at a specific time so at precisely 9:30 we left the Henley and headed steeply uphill to reach Mount Folly Farm – where the coast path at last leaves the B3392.

We descended the Cockleridge on a footpath and as we reached the flat sandy scrub-filled riverside headland there was some ambiguity about which path to take to the water’s edge. Eventually we were walking on the sandy beach of the Avon and our eyes were squinting at the opposite side for some sign of the boatman, who begins operating at 10:00 – our precise time of arrival. This time I had my whistle in my map case and I was getting ready to prepare a blast when we were spotted by the ferryman, who set off in a skiff for our shore from the boathouse across the river in Bantham. He chose a landing spot slightly to the north of where we were standing so we headed for a new rendezvous point and were soon aboard for the short, motorized crossing of another beautiful river. Harold complimented the boatman on the design of his craft and was rewarded by the proud boast, “Making these boats is what I do to pass the time in winter.”

We climbed up the slipway and turned seaward to wind our way through a long parking lot and then we turned east again to ascend the first of the day’s six black arrows. This was not a difficult ascent and by the time we had reached Butter Cove we were on a mostly level route that soon brought us abreast the huge Thurlestone golf course. Some of the tees were very close to the path itself and once I paused so that a linksman could concentrate on his shot. There were many trippers (and their dogs) about now and one could easily grow hoarse saying good morning to each of them. The weather was cloudy bright but there was a cooling breeze and I disdained any more sun blocker – figuring this was my last best chance for a tan. My feet were quite painful and on the gravelly paths and tarmac roads that we followed for the next hour they took quite a pounding.

We turned away from the beach at Warren Point and headed inland to the golf course’s clubhouse, where we turned north to pass the huge Links Court Hotel. A long wooden footbridge spanned a creek that separated South Milton from Thurlestone beaches and some little girls had fallen in love here with a family of swans – the parents floating majestically below us with their grey cygnets in tow. We wound our way among hotels in the next stretch. I had to warn Tosh against any premature snacking because I expected another early lunch. After we had climbed over Great Ledge we could see down into Outer Hope. A steep descent brought us down into this tourist-filled seaside hamlet and directly in front of us was the Hope & Anchor Inn – which I proposed as our lunch spot. Tosh went off to buy snacks and postcards in a thatched kiosk and Harold waited for her while I sat in the cool of the lounge bar – drinking half a lager. I had my last scampi and chips, Harold a game pie and chips, and Tosh some bouillabaisse which still left her hungry – so she had a treacle tart as well. The Lees denounced the food here but I was quite satisfied, though it did take a long time in arriving. A guy at the bar drank pint after pint of Bass and lost all his change in the fruit machine and a blonde rep came by only to be told by the chef that this wasn’t the best time for a conference. Tosh had been collecting weeds, or so it seemed, but I don’t know if this sad bouquet was still with her when we packed up again at 1:15. We still had eight miles to go.

As we passed on tarmac paths from Outer Hope to Inner Hope we walked beneath the Cottage Hotel, which Harold recognized as the spot that he and Tosh had reached at the end of their coast path walk from Salcombe to Hope some years earlier (they knew, without my having to tell them, that they were not entitled to count the next eight miles in their totals – since these were already accounted for). We soon reached Inner Hope and made our way up into the wooded hillside that contains the path out to Bolt Tail. Soon we were back on open grass and struggling uphill to gain a view of the sea again. We turned left and continued to climb quite steeply, arriving at the chasm of Redrot Cove.

Looking forward from Bolt Tail

Looking forward from Bolt Tail

Here Tosh chose to follow an inland route over the next hilltop while Harold and I followed a narrow footpath along the coastal cliff, that is she chose a safer uphill route in preference to the lower level cliffside dance with death – a passage made even more exhilarating today by a fierce wind blowing in our faces. We were reunited for our second black arrow up to Bolberry Down. Once again there were many people and their dogs about and some of them paused to ask us for directions back to Inner Hope (there is a shortcut). There followed a long stretch of level walking on top of the down, with more and more people underfoot as we neared a series of masts, a parking lot and a café – which the Lees probably wanted to visit for coffee and ice cream but which I disdained because I knew we still had much progress to make if we wanted to be in Salcombe at 7:00.

So we pressed on along West Cliff and Cathole Cliff as dramatic views of Hazel Tor came into view on our left. I found the Lees resting on some sunny crags overlooking Soar Mill Cove and we had some water (I was drinking a lot). The descent was very steep and there were some ambiguities about which route to take to the bottom (and where there might be any privacy for a pee). The ascent up the opposite slope was very steep and once accomplished there was another descent down to another stream (though not as steep as the guidebook indicated). We climbed the craggy summit opposite and, while Tosh rested, Harold and I snuck off into the underbrush for our well-deserved pees. There were so many people about it wasn’t easy to find any privacy and I actually dropped to my knees behind some bushes in order to escape attention.

Skies were becoming greyer and we had soon seen the last of any direct sun. Harold was certain we would get caught up in a squall as we continued forward on the Warren but fortunately this didn’t happen. There were other problems. The trail was overgrown in weeds and progress forward was very tough for people wearing shorts. Also, my stomach was rumbling in protest over all the alien food. My pace was slowing and each new step was a trial for me now – and the Lees were into their attack mode (“I get anxious when we get near the end,” Tosh said). Consequently I did most of this afternoon’s walking on my own and only saw my “companions” when they paused for a rest (I got almost none) or when they needed some advice on how to continue. This pattern was particularly annoying because I now had to take my pack off anytime I wanted any water.

As we drew near Bolt Head I paused to take a photograph (use of the camera also put me behind the others). “I thought I heard heavy breathing,” I said as I finished my shot just as a fat Staffordshire Bull Terrier waddled past me. We climbed onto Bolt Head and wound around a bit looking for the right path. When the descent into Starehole Bay began I lost sight of the Lees altogether and had to pick my way painfully down a path alone, catching up with them at last at a dramatic viewpoint – with the Salcombe estuary in sight at last. By this time I wasn’t speaking to them, but I doubt that they knew this. I drank a small carton of apple and blackcurrant juice and agreed with a nod that we could continue forward to the bottom of the bay.

Salcombe Estuary

Salcombe Estuary

On the opposite side our last black arrow lead us steeply up a rocky face, with iron rails to keep us from falling overboard as we rounded Sharp Tor and reached more level ground in wooded territory. Once again the Lees disappeared altogether as I plodded painfully forward, heading north at last toward our ultimate goal in Salcombe itself. Just as I neared South Sands Bay I saw Tosh waiting for me. Harold had gone ahead to scout out a loo and a place to have tea and he soon emerged around a corner to advise us that he had selected the Bolt Head Hotel.

“Are you sure you want us in here?” Tosh asked the suave barman. But this polished young man was most welcoming and we were soon seated in the plush interior – with a coffee table laden with olives, gherkins, crackers and onions in front of us.  Given the state of my stomach I was not tempted by any of this and drank only a Diet Coke. We all took our disreputable selves to the gleaming toilets and Tosh left behind forever her red Arsenal cap in the ladies loo. We bought some cigars to smoke in celebration later that evening but I soon told Tosh that there was no way I could smoke a cigar tonight.

As we sipped our drinks I discovered that the Lees were under a slight misapprehension. They had assumed, because we had reached civilization, that the walk was over. There was no reason for them not to call our former colleague Don Jesse for a lift from this point, but for me there was still a mile and a half of road walking to reach the ferry point – which would be the starting place for the next walk – and there was no way, having come this close, that I could omit this stretch of the official coast path. They were quite apologetic about the mix-up and agreed to walk as well so at 6:30 we left the hotel to press forward one last time.

Unfortunately there was a very steep climb out of South Sands (Ward and Mason seemed to believe that there is no need for black arrows in towns) and much of this had to be accomplished against heavy traffic on narrow roads with the added insult of joggers racing past. Then the whole scene had to be repeated at North Sands. When we had climbed out of this bay I noticed that the coast road had been closed to cars but that pedestrian access to Salcombe town center was still possible. The Lees had again disappeared. At one point there was a detour through some lovely Salcombe gardens as the route neared the riverfront. I was searching for the ferry point (it was located near the Ferry Inn) and trying to spot the Lees. When I caught up with them Harold went off to phone Don for directions and we had to continue our walk through shopping streets, around pubs and along back streets while Don came downhill to greet us. He was wearing a woman’s hat  – as an advertisement for a jumble sale – and he began to tell us immediately about his struggles to make ends meet in the years since he had left the English Department at ASL.

We passed his home (Bottom House) on Coronation Road and he ran in to get the keys to his van and to another house (“Findings”) that he had bought as a b&b investment some years ago. Thus we covered that last hundred yards of our journey in style, me sitting in an armchair and Harold aboard a stool in the back of Don Jesse’s van. He pulled up opposite his garage and brought us in the back way, though a lovely garden with fountain, and into the kitchen of a quite tastefully furnished (that is, only at the midpoint on the clutter scale) three-story house. In the dining room he served us crisps and chilled white wine and we began to unwind. We had walked thirteen miles today. It was 7:20. Don continued with another favorite topic, his warfare with his Bottom House neighbor, who had built a portion of his house onto Don’s property several years ago.

He showed us to our rooms and I went upstairs to take a shower and sit in the loo. I felt a little better, though walking was still painful, even in my Reeboks. At 8:15 we walked down the hill to Bottom House, which was even more cluttered than Findings (the antithesis to minimalism) and Don drove us into town again. We ate at the Fortesque Inn. Harold and Don ate steak sandwiches and Tosh and I switched to the mildest fare on the menu, a pasta carbonara. I limped about in the drizzle looking for a working phone but failed. The town was full of young people, sitting at outdoor pubs supping ale and inhaling cigarettes. Later Don stopped the van for a minute so I could call Dorothy. At home the Lees stayed out in the garden as I climbed up to bed, exhausted by the day’s efforts. I had to move a ticking clock to another room and roll up the carpet so I could close my door and I was certain I would never find some of the contents of my pack in the cramped room – but none of this prevented me from falling very rapidly into a deep sleep.

It was a good thing that I had asked Harold to wake me up because I was still sound asleep at 8:00 the next morning and we had to hustle to get packed by 8:45. Coffee and a muffin were waiting for me in the dining room and soon Don arrived to drive us to Totnes station. When Tosh had told him that we were departing at 10:00 he had wanted to leave plenty of time for the 17 mile journey in case they were doing any harvesting on the country roads, but we whizzed through the Devon countryside and approached our goal by 9:30. On a very early walk I had told my companions that our train left at 5:00 (instead of 5:10) because I couldn’t quite remember the hour and I didn’t want them to slow their pace and miss it. Tosh had ever after held this deception against me. Now, when she examined the tickets and discovered that we weren’t due to depart until 10:40, I remarked, “Okay, Tosh, now we’re even.” She nodded in the affirmative, even though I didn’t have to explain the context of my remark.

The extra time gave us the opportunity for a stroll through interesting Totnes (they even had a supine supplicant here whose job consisted in lying on the paving stones so that they wouldn’t float away – an increasingly popular urban pastime). We stopped in a bakery (after Don had made us walk to the top of the hill in order to visit a closed teashop) and here we had coffee and Danish. I was truly footsore and every step was a pain.

When we got to the station Don went off to get Tosh some newspapers and then he waved goodbye to us as we pulled away on time. He had been an excellent host. We read the papers and finished all the food and drink in our packs as we sped back to London, arriving there at 2:00. I immediately got a taxi home and had unpacked by the time Dorothy returned from the bank.

Over the next few days I spent a lot of time lying down and as little time as possible on foot. The blisters were the least of my problems. The balls of the heel on both feet were bruised and sore and it took some time for me to recover. Still, I was very happy to have survived this challenge and to have completed the ninth of our walks on the coast path. There were only three more to go now – and I was soon at work planning trip ten.

(By this time, as well, I had at last developed a theory to explain my unusual foot problems. I had begun this walk  – from Looe – on a hot day and I had been wearing, instead of my usual white sport socks, a pair of very thick ski socks – more appropriate for crossing glaciers than sandy beaches; I had baked my own feet.)

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

Day 44: Salcombe to Hallsands