August 19, 1987: Ilfracombe to Croyde

I took Toby out for his morning walk on Wednesday, August 19, and Dorothy and I then went downstairs for breakfast. From the position of the Lees, huddled over the telephone in the vestibule, I could tell that something was wrong. They had just learned that one of Harold’s brothers had died of a heart attack in California on Monday. At breakfast the Lees said they wanted to continue walking today – the funeral was tomorrow and there was no way Harold could get to Oregon in time. A day’s walking, they reasoned, would take their minds off a loss they obviously felt keenly. So we proceeded through breakfast, the distribution of packed lunches, and the loading of Brian’s van at about 10:00, as planned. Nevertheless this sad news was one more cloud hovering over the final stages of our journey.

Brian drove us to the start of the Torr’s Walk on the west side of Ilfracombe – only a few streets away from the furthest point in yesterday afternoon’s stroll. He then took our picture with my camera, the only shot with all of our party included, and took off for the Lee Bay Hotel with Janet and our packs. We carried only a small shopping bag with Toby’s bowl and a few snacks. I had a canteen strapped to my belt.

The Torr’s Walk was very lovely. The gradients were not too extreme and the route-finding was easy. There was some cloud cover but it was still bright and humid. Rolling hills covered in heather gave us views of the sea on our right, with several of the day’s headlands – including Bull Point – already in view. Brian had estimated forty-five minutes for this walk but I told Janet that it would be closer to an hour and a half, for it was the better part of three miles. Still, we maintained quite a brisk pace without our packs and before long we were making our descent into (another) Lee Bay. There was a hotel off to our left and I was worried that this might be the Lee Bay Hotel, but we persisted on our route all the way to the harbor. It had taken only an hour and fifteen minutes for us to rejoin Janet – who was just concluding a transaction at the Old Mill jewelry shop as we passed its front door.

Our packs were in the forecourt of the Lee Bay Hotel across the street. We had coffee here (I had a Diet Coke) and Dorothy bought a pair of amethyst earrings from the jeweler. We completely forgot to celebrate my 1200th mile – which had coincided with our arrival in Lee Bay. When we were all ready to move off there was a steep bit of road walking to reach the path to Bull Point. At the top of the road the Lees asked a local gardener for the name of an orange lily-like plant that was an ornament in many of the local gardens. “Oh that,” he said, “I’ve just been trying to get rid of them.” With this he tossed a root ball of the plant over his fence for the Lees to take back to London.

Brian had warned Janet about the route to Bull Point, which required three steep ascents. The sun was coming out more strongly now and I found the going quite tiring. Dorothy and I lagged behind the others for the first two of these climbs but I lead the way up the last hill, dodging innumerable daytrippers. At the top I could see the Bull Point Light House, immediately below us, but it was not easy to see the way forward. I took off my pack and Toby and I did some exploring but there were too many low hills immediately before us. We paused for lunch in a spot with a little breeze – needed just here to keep the flies at a safe distance.

I had been debating whether or not to head directly for Morthoe on the lighthouse road, which we had to cross after lunch, but I finally decided to keep to the coast path a little longer. Things were a little more straightforward on the stretch between Bull Point and Morte Point. Janet was trying to bewitch a handsome solo walker who passed us here; this took her mind off the imaginary Royal Marine she was always joking about. We sat down for a rest at a junction of paths, innocently sending some people in the wrong direction because we were sprawled in front of the yellow arrow. Our objective was the village of Morthoe. By making this diversion, which I had learned about in Ward and Mason, I hoped to cut out the long transit of Morte Point and save almost two miles of walking.

The buildings of the village were already hovering above us as we left the coast path. I suggested that Tosh get to a town pub before last orders and get in a round for us but she rather unadventurously gave up the search too soon. There were in fact three pubs and when we came out on the motor road and turned right the first we encountered was the Kingsley. It was 1:30 and we crowded around a corner table for some liquid refreshment. It was very warm and humid and my pint tasted heaven-sent. Toby insisted on running out of the room at every opportunity, dragging his lead. When he wasn’t doing this he was growling at the pub dog.

Shortly after two we completed our transit of the rest of the village, which gradually improved in appearance as we rounded each new corner. Then we began a steep descent against the traffic, with the coast path eventually rejoining us near the bottom of the hill. There were splendid views forward of the wide expanse of Wollacombe Sands, a two-mile stretch of unspoiled sandy beach quite rare in England.

When she is walking Dorothy believes that all vehicles drive too fast and her not being a very trustful pedestrian therefore delayed her descent of our hill considerably. Frequently I had to wait for her at safe spots in the verge. She caught up at a seafood restaurant in Wollacombe. (A truck was delivering snails.) The sun was out brightly and a considerable portion of the English population was taking advantage of this rarity by relaxing on the beach below us. Tosh was grumbling that she didn’t fancy walking on the beach, an event everyone else was looking forward to. She charged ahead as if to get the ordeal over with as soon as possible, with a somewhat embarrassed Harold accompanying me, and Janet – and Dorothy trailing behind. Toby, who was free to romp among all the picnicking sunbathers, sniffed suspiciously at the heels of the donkeys.

As we headed west the crowds thinned considerably. I kept my boots on, trying to find the hardest part of the drying sand some distance from the water. The others all took their boots off and walked at the edge of the sea, a most relaxing method of progress. Toby also had his first experience of the ocean. He had a wonderful time on this stretch, with many other dogs to play with. Tosh had come around a hundred and eighty degrees. She was now enjoying the beach considerably and even approached me to ask if there was time for a swim. I said I thought so, but I wanted to complete most of the walk along the sand so that I could check on the availability of time. When we were within sight of the car park at the Putsborough end of the beach I threw off my pack and slipped on my shorts. It was time for my first swim in English waters ever.

I made a run toward the waves, with the delighted dog at my heels. The water was quite cold, but not too bad. In a few minutes I was up to my neck but Toby remained discretely on the shore. Dorothy was charmed by this strange sight and rushed up to take some pictures. Only Tosh went swimming as well. To my horror and everyone else’s amusement she wore only her underwear – sliding into the waters some distance up the beach where no one else was about. All that was needed were a few palm trees; the beach seemed strangely transported from the tropics.

After fifteen minutes of modest body surfing I came out and slowly got dressed, wearing my trousers over my wet shorts. Everyone else headed up the hill to the parking lot. We waited here a few minutes while some of our party used the loos. The attendant had a large dog on a huge rope. As Toby approached this beast lunged at him several times but when Tosh walked our dog directly in front of this scene the rope snagged the bare legs of the inattendant. She reacted by characteristically finding someone to blame, in this case Tosh. “If that woman had a brain, she’d be dangerous!” To which Dorothy responded, “Perhaps if you had a pistol you could shoot any other dogs.”

We headed up the hill and turned right on the first of a series of narrow roads that would take us across the neck of Baggy Point, again avoiding almost two miles of walking. There was only room for one car on these narrow hedged-in lanes and when two met one of them had to back up. (Pedestrians were at a special disadvantage.) As we reached our village, Croyde, Dorothy noted that blood was congealing on my arm – the result of pressing up against a thorn bush during one of these encounters with a car. It was close to six o’clock. The sun was still shining brightly and we were tired after a ten-mile day.

At the crossroads Harold made some enquiries about the Kittiwell House Hotel. It seemed to take forever for us to reach it, though it was only another five minutes. No one noted the quite lovely little village we were marching through on our way to the posh 16th Century thatched inn that was to be our final destination. I made Janet hop a small wall in front of the inn so that I could get a photo of her at the end of the trip. How well she had done after all. I would never have predicted that she would have walked all but five of the forty-five miles covered on this journey.

We checked in. Janet asked if they had a single with a private bath and was told by a rather snotty hostess that none existed in the hotel. Thereafter the girls in our party took against this woman. Dorothy and I were shown to a charming room in the older wing with antique furniture and a four poster but Harold soon arrived to say that this must be their room for they had been shown to a much more modern room with a private toilet and shower. How kind of the Lees to relinquish this.

Toby, exhausted from his play on the beach, fell asleep almost immediately. Dorothy successfully managed the technology of the shower but when I tried it I could get only cold water. I needed it, however, to get off all the sand. We met the rest of our companions in the lounge for drinks and then had a very nice meal in the dining room. Our waitress was Barbara, a chubette with a voice two octaves too high for her body. Harold and I had lamb chops, Dorothy had chicken and Janet had fish (though Tosh had to take the head off). I ordered a bottle of white wine. We took a very long time deciding on what to choose from the sweet trolly, with Janet and I opting for the Black Forest gateau. In the lounge after dinner we sipped Bailey’s Irish Cream and had coffee, served officiously by our disapproving hostess. At least they had caffeine-free coffee for Janet; most of our other hotels had not been so provisioned.

As soon as we had heard about Harold’s brother I had suggested that we return to London from Croyde – rather than attempting to walk any further toward Barnstaple on the day we were scheduled to return anyway. The Lees needed to be at home to make phone calls and other arrangements. This plan was agreed to and Dorothy made some preliminary enquiries about a taxi; I already knew we had the choice of two morning buses.

So we rose on a sunny Thursday for our return journey. Now Mrs. Tucker, the taxi driver, declined to take five plus dog plus baggage in her cab so Tosh insisted we take the 9:21 bus. This put a considerable strain on breakfast, which had to be gobbled in haste while bills were being paid and packs brought down. Curiously, however, there was a cab driver at the hotel looking for someone who had booked to go to Barnstaple. He agreed, as his fare had deserted him, to take us instead. So we began an easy and swift ride through Saunton and Braunton and Barnstaple traffic and arrived at the railway station almost thirty minutes before the 10:10 for Exeter.

The station was soon full of people. Dogs were everywhere, including Tigger, a wild mischief-making mutt and Roo, a handsome Airedale. (But is there a Winnie the Pooh connection with this place? We had just passed the Edward Bear restaurant also.) When the train came in we rushed aboard to find seats but there was a quarrel about which way the train would go. I sat with my back to the engine while Janet was turned the other way round – but then I knew that the train reversed itself at this point; when it did Janet had to change seats in order to be properly aligned. Once again there was leakage from my canteen.

The ride through Devon was delightful, with many stops in tiny villages on the hour-long journey to Exeter St. Davids. Here we had only a ten-minute wait for the intercity to Paddington. This train was crowded but we all found seats. For a while the Lees were in a car whose air-conditioning had collapsed but they ended up in our car too. I listened to my walkman most of the trip, which ended at about 1:30.

People were reading papers with all the horrid details of the Hungerford massacre: welcome back to civilization. We said goodbye to the Lees at Paddington; they had done very well these last few hours in keeping their spirits up. As for the rest of us, we were very tired and very warm – for London was in the grips of a heat wave. Our novice walker was a novice no longer. I take it as a sign of success that within a few hours of our return Janet, Dorothy, and I were already discussing our next trip on the the South West Coast Path.

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

Day 7: Croyde to Barnstaple

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

Day 6: Hunters Inn to Combe Martin