June 22, 1996: Salcombe to Hallsands
Gammon Head
I met Tosh and Harold at Paddington at 11:15 on Friday, June 21, 1996. The occasion was the inauguration of our tenth expedition on the South West Coast Path, an outing that, if successful, would leave only two more sequels.
Harold had delayed making our reservations and the outcome was that our three seats were waiting for us in a smoking compartment. We settled in to be toasted in tobacco fumes – our other seatmate being a teacher from a school in Richmond who tapped away at her laptop until her departure at Westbury. With four practice walks behind us recently there was not too much school gossip for Harold to endure and the time went quickly. There were a few drops falling outside but it didn’t concern us for once because I had decided that there would be no chance for any walking on our departure day, unlike so many others in which we had managed a few miles even on the first day of the trip. We had compiled an admirable quantity of refuse from our snacking by the time we arrived in Totnes but BR (or one of its many Tory-built successors) was not about to accommodate our desire for a trash bin, and the junk is probably still moldering in Don Jesse’s car – where we left it.
Don met us in a paint-stained smock at 2:30. His partner, the quilt-making Ray, was with him this time. Ray had recently made some bed coverings for the Lees, but I had never met the chap – sometime male nurse, sometime hairdresser, sometime antique dealer. He was clutching a Clarisse Cliff teacup that the two had just purchased in some rural swap meet. Don had added another economic sub-specialty to his retirement since last year – he and the Welshman were collecting pieces of quite undistinguished English glass from the fifties, driving it to Germany, and flogging it for huge profits at some market stall.
As usual, Don kept up a constant stream of chatter, pausing only once when he had to back up on the lane into Salcombe – having encountered one of his speaking neighbors (many of his neighbors don’t speak, evidently, to the odd couple) driving up in the opposite direction. We were shown to our old rooms. Here I discovered three copies of a poetry textbook that Tosh needed for her ninth graders and a bottle of shampoo that I had left in the upstairs bathroom a year ago July 4th. A number of changes had been made to the back garden (where the herons had eaten the last of the goldfish) and the Lees had to know the name of each plant. I slowly zoned out; I was tired after my last four days of work (book ordering), concluded only the day before.
After the garden lesson the Lees and I took a stroll down into town, soon finding the riverside paths and a number of charming vistas. We poked into a number of stores and checked out ferry times and shopping sites for the next day. I had a pistachio ice cream cone and Harold chose maple nut. At Findings we had a rest and Harold and I even managed to nod off a bit. Then at 6:00 we went down to Bottom House and had a tour of the Jesse backyard, also about to undergo conversion, and then the five of us headed for the Fortesque. Just as it had been a pleasure to walk through the streets of Salcombe without aching feet so the absence of a burbling stomach this year made it much easier to widen my dinner choices. I had the golden fish platter and chips, and a lemon tart for dessert. Ray began to talk about his encounters with the spirit world and I zoned out a second time. He had used his sewing skills to mend Tosh’s knapsack and we picked this up on the way up the hill after passing some boys who were fishing for crabs from the docks of the estuary. There was still light in the sky when we retired, poised to begin our first day of walking on the morning of Saturday, June 22.
Don had left us some fresh bread for breakfast. I sliced this up and had mine with raspberry jam and Flora while Tosh doled out the last of his Nescafe. At 9:00 I locked up and hid the keys in the garden as we walked around to the top of Coronation Road. At the bottom Don accompanied us into town, where we stopped for bacon and tomato baps at the Upper Crust Bakery and soft drinks at a shop across the street. Harold disappeared into a chemist while I waited patiently at the entrance to the ferry slip.
The ferryman appeared from around a corner on the Salcombe side and we climbed aboard. No sooner had we shoved off then another passenger rushed down the steps and we re-docked. Far from being an old salt, our captain wanted to know from us what kind of sea creature was bobbing up to the surface near the dock. Everyone had a guess, including Don, who was still waiting to wave goodbye. The consensus was “squid,” though the distressed animal seemed to be missing some limbs. “Is it edible?” the ferryman asked, making several unsuccessful attempts to land the animal with his pole. With that he turned toward the East Portlemouth shore of the estuary and we were off. It was 9:35 when we began our climb up the Alma steps at the outset of a sixty-mile journey.
The view north from Prawle Point
It was a warm and sunny day, but there were breezes about and much of the first mile, along a tarmac road to Mill Bay (one that united a series of posh houses with the rest of the world) was in shade. I chose the lower level route around Limebury Point; it was fairly easy, wooded in places and replete with the great variety of blooming wildflowers that were a delightful aspect of this entire trip. When it became evident that we would soon lose our woodland cover I paused to put on my shorts (I never wore long pants on the trail again) and to dose myself with sun blocker. I also attached a handkerchief to the back of my white UCLA cap as a further strategy in warding off the effects of sun on the back of the neck. This seemed a necessary precaution since the sun was almost always at our backs on a trip in which we walked from south to the north most of the time.
In an hour we had walked beneath the Gara Rock Hotel, but fortunately the Lees did not set up a clamor for mid-morning coffee, which would have necessitated a steep uphill climb. That took place soon enough as we climbed up Deckler’s Cliffs and began our run at the “Porcine Highway” – across a small headland called the Pig’s Nose, opposite an island called the Ham Stone and up the crest of a ridge called Gammon Head. There were lots of walkers about, mostly trippers, but also a few genuine long-distance folk like ourselves. Occasionally we would encounter some visitors who were clearly out of their depth. As I mounted the spine of Prawle Point, assisted by a few steps, I met an elderly couple coming down. “Dual carriageway,” I said, leaving the steps to the old folks while I took a parallel path. “These must have been made for giants,” she complained. I climbed a stile and took a left turn but the Lees missed the finger post pointing them in a northerly direction and were headed straight for the lookout station when I used my whistle to get them to stop. It was noon by now and they were complaining of hunger pangs (for that matter Tosh never ceased snacking). We began looking for a place to sprawl in the grass but another party of ill-prepared trippers (wanting to know if it got any easier ahead) were about to challenge us for the spot.
We moved a little father north, out of earshot of their chatter, and just beyond a lawn mower that was assaulting the grass of some coastguard cottages, and found a new spot behind some back gardens. I took off boots and socks and let my feet cool in the grass. Following successful experiments with some of our recent conditioning walks I was wearing no tape today and was happy to see that my feet were holding up quite well. I had to put a sweater over my bare legs to keep the sun off and I lathered up a second time with sun block. Harold had a quiet pee inside someone’s garden gate and we were ready to resume our walk.
I now noticed a blonde young woman floundering around in our meadow, dropping a piece of paper and making slow progress in a northerly direction. This was Enis, a Dutch girl we were to encounter a number of times on this trip. We followed her blonde hair and yellow bedroll for much of the rest of the afternoon; she always seemed to be a third of a mile or so in front of us. Sometimes she lead us astray and at other times I was able to profit form her mistakes.
I sat down in some shade above Woodcombe Sand but Tosh complained that there was hay in a nearby wheelbarrow and that this might exacerbate Harold’s hay fever. She also convinced herself that there would be an ice cream van waiting for us at Lannacombe Bay – but this was a vain hope. We were now on the grassy track to Mattiscombe Beach, led by three elderly churchgoers arguing over Biblical prophecy. It took a while to get around them. A final black arrow took us up to the crest of Start Point, where there were wonderful views in both directions – back the whole distance we had covered this day and forward in a preview of many of the sites we would visit in days to come. We had a final rest here. The sun was not so warm any more and there was a stirring breeze. I let my bare toes cool in the air stream.
Hallsands and the coast
A Labrador with a huge Elizabethan collar was bumping into everyone in his eagerness to greet newcomers as we climbed a coastguard road and began our descent to Hallsands. We could see the ruins of the village destroyed by the sea in the early part of the century and also the newer structures up top. A smooth descent speeded our arrival to this, our resting place. We passed Enis, having tea in the garden of another establishment, Trouts, but we had to continue on to the beach, where, at 4:35 the rickety Hallsands Hotel stood at the top of a long flight of stairs. One more black arrow. Next door a crane had been lowering boulders over the side – to shore up the foundations. At breakfast the next day a lad told us that at high tides the sea spray comes down the chimney.
Don had told us a good deal about the history of this establishment, whose proprietors had included three lesbian ladies (“Les Girls”), who had all died within a few months of one another. The present owners, who had saved the hotel from bankruptcy, were the Lights. We were shown to our rooms by Mrs. Light and the Lees chose the room with the twin beds and the setting sun (it was also the fire exit so Tosh, who has a morbid fear of fire, could sleep easy). I had a nice room facing north, with a good view of the first hill we would have to climb in the morning.
We met for drinks in the pub and then retired to have showers and get cleaned up. I had survived my first day without tape – what a contrast to a year ago when I had already worked up all sorts of foot problems on the hot route to Crafthole. At dinner I had fish and chips and a huge portion of strawberry ice cream. Mrs. Light had a friend who was raising money for a school in the Gambia and she and Tosh, who has similar interests, had a long natter about this. To raise money among the Devon gentry the woman had decided to hold a twenty-four horseback ride. One of the pub-goers suggested she go as Lady Godiva if she really wanted sponsors, and I suggested (to the Lees only) that perhaps a 24-hour fox hunt would have even more local appeal. And, looking at the lady’s girth, I added mischievously, “When it’s all over someone else can set up a charitable trust to benefit her horse.”
The bar scene was fun to observe. There were lots of fascinating old pictures about and someone even came in to ask if his pint wasn’t supposed to be clearer than this. The ladies were off watching the Spain-England football match (we were in European Cup season), a match that produced occasional anguished screams from the lounge. The game went to a penalty shoot-out before the home side won. We had a final drink and went up to bed, sleeping well after a very successful opening ten and a half mile day.
To continue with the next stage of our walk you need: