April 9, 1988: Hunter’s Inn to Combe Martin

Harold Lee above Ramsay Beach

It was seven-thirty on the morning of Saturday, April 9, 1988. The metal tip of my walking stick tapped its way tentatively through the almost empty halls of the Paddington underground station as I made my way gingerly forward. When I had ascended the steps into the mainline station I could already see Harold Lee waiting for me, reading his copy of The Guardian. We were about to embark on a three-day walk on the SWPCP (as it was then called). It was the middle of my two-week holiday, with Dorothy still at work at her college and Tosh in Australia with one of her choruses.

On this date in the previous year Tosh, Harold and I had been on an Offa’s Dyke Path outing. I remember that, up to the last moment, I had been uncertain whether I could actually make it on that trip, the aftereffects of a bad cold having done me in. It will not be surprising to learn that, once again, I was suffering from a trip-threatening malady on the present occasion. Thirteen days earlier I had taken a sudden fall at the insistence of a misaligned paving stone on Elgin Avenue. I had hurt both knees, especially the right one, which was swollen and bruised for days. In fact I had sustained minor strains in both knees and I wore an ace bandage on the right one a number of times. Sometimes this seemed to get better and at other times it ached. Uphill and downhill didn’t seem to be particularly bothersome and I noticed that things eased up after a bit of walking – so I decided to keep silent about this condition and to take a chance. Two ace bandages were in my blue coat pocket and I relied heavily for support on my stick as I reached Paddington on an extremely chilly April morning.

It was sleeting as we left the station at 7:45. We chatted about school matters and Harold read his paper while I got started on Oliver Sacks’ Awakenings. Perhaps it would have been more fitting for me to have been reading this author’s A Leg To Stand On – for I could have used two good limbs while maneuvering down the twisting aisles in search of BR coffee and some sandwiches for our lunch. After two and a half hours we reached Exeter St. Davids, where we had a forty-minute wait for our connection. Fortunately there was a heated waiting room, which we shared with a pipe-smoking bearded lounger in a felt hat. It had stopped raining but it was very gray and cold.

We got on the little train to Barnstaple and had another enjoyable hour-long ride over the backbone of Devon. I was encouraged by the sight of golfers at Crediton; this tribe must have expected something decent from the weatherman for the afternoon. Brian Cath was waiting for us with his red Combe Lodge van when we pulled in at 11:47. I had arranged for him to drive us to Hunter’s Inn, drop us off there, pick us up in the late afternoon at Combe Martin and then take us back to his hotel in Ilfracombe. In this way Harold and I could make good a gap in our walk of the SWPCP – left when we decided to walk no further than Hunter’s Inn on day three.

We had a nice time chatting with Brian, whose business seemed to have blossomed since last summer. The countryside, even under overcast skies, was wonderfully beautiful. Unfortunately I was getting a bit carsick since there were so many curves and ups and downs and Brian drove very fast and close to the edge of the road. I was much relieved when we arrived at Hunter’s Inn at about 12:30. Brian wanted to pick us up at 5:00 but I argued for 5:30, thinking of the slower pace my knee might require. We said goodbye and Harold and I went into the Inn for some spirits and some peanuts. The place was incredibly crowded even at this time of year and we were lucky to have a place to sit down. At 12:50 we got ready to go and headed down the same road that Yogi’s taxi had negotiated last August.

There was soon a fork in the road and we took the lane on the right, a steep tarmaced track up to Trentishoe village. This was a very slow stretch for us; Harold did some of it walking backwards. After we had done our first half-mile a coast path sign identified a turnoff to the right and gave the distance to Combe Martin as seven and a half miles. This was not altogether good news since Ward and Mason give the total distance from Hunter’s Inn as six and a half! Even so we continued up toward the village for another hundred yards, trying to catch a glimpse of Trentishoe church before returning without success to our turn-off.

We were soon on a rising path over open moorland. Below us were the roofs of Hunter’s Inn and on the other side of Heddon’s Mouth Cleave we could see the line of the descending track that had brought us to the Inn last August. What a contrast in weather! Although there seemed to be no threat of rain there was a fierce icy updraft clawing at us from behind. Harold paused to put on some more layers while I took the first of a number of slides. One of the Hunter’s Inn peacocks was crying for help far below. I wrapped my MSU scarf around my ears, nose, and throat and we continued to the top of the moorland. Soon there were views forward down the indented coastline, scenery as grand as any witnessed last summer. A kilted Scotsman and his wife were also walking this route; we saw them many times this day. I told Harold that today the question about what the Scotsman wears under his kilt could be definitively answered: snowballs.

We found a protected spot and sat down to eat our BR sandwiches. My knee had held up pretty well during the first hour of the walk. It would occasionally bother me but if I pressed on I would suddenly notice that it hadn’t been heard from for some time. I was glad to have the stick; it would have been impossible for me to have forgotten it on this trip. I carried it in my right hand but I did not carry a map case in my left, as usual. Because it was dry I was able to carry the OS map in the pouch of my blue sweatshirt. It was as useful on this trip as any of the guidebooks.

On Holdstone Down – with Great Hangman in the distance

We pressed on steadily, with some minor ups and downs, as we made progress westward above Elwill Bay. The road to Combe Martin came into view on our left; once we were within a few hundred yards. But the coast path, extremely well-marked on this trip, followed the edge of the escarpment along the sides of walls – over the tops of which we could look in on the antics of the newly-born lambs. Eventually we crossed a field and began to climb toward the road. Several people had parked at this dramatic viewpoint in order to exercise their dogs. After just a minute or so on the road itself we turned off on a wide track on Holdstone Down. Here I petted an Alsatian – out for a run with his master. “Bracing, isn’t it?” the latter said. In fact it was during this period that the sun actually began to make an occasional visit and the wind began to die down.

We circled the Down and headed inland. I was anxiously looking for a way down to the bottom of the dreaded Sherrycombe. This proved to be a very steep vertical path plummeting for the bottom without the switchbacks I had to cut myself. On a stile leading to the beck someone had placed an ominous sheep’s skull. We paused here to rest a bit before beginning a very steep stretch that Brian had been warning us about on the morning’s drive. Actually only Harold sat; I was afraid the knee would stiffen up so I just leaned against the bridge.

Then it was time to head up. “Our motto is slow but steady,” I told Harold. After a few initial zig-zags the path straightened out to a steep steady but straight line ascending Great Hangman from the southeast. The angle was worse at the outset and we paused several time to let the rage in our chests die away. The higher we went the easier the gradient got and before long one could see the cairn at the top of Great Hangman in the distance.

There were wonderful views forward to Combe Martin from the top of Great Hangman. I noted to Harold that it was quite unusual for a Countyside Commission path to actually take in a summit. We continued downhill, with the sea again on our right and Little Hangman ahead of us. There was a little rise needed to reach the base of this hill but our path plunged down again without an ascent. We crossed paths with another walker who asked, “Is it much farther?” “Depends on where you want to go,” I replied evasively. When we found out he was only climbing Little Hangman we assured him he was almost there. He was delighted to hear our accents and asked if Harold were from Canada. When he heard we were both from California he wanted to know what we were doing here. The usual palaver about America being a paradise (well, both Dallas and Dynasty were still on the Beeb) followed, and it was hard to convince him that we were quite happy to be here. “Californians hunger for green,” was about the best I could do. Curiously, the last time there was such a conversation on the relative merits of the two countries was also on the outskirts of Combe Martin ­– but last August it was Yogi’s mother who had wanted to defend America.

Above Wild Pear Beach

I was glad I had told Brian 5:30. Not only were we walking another mile and a half (even here Brian says that the local markings always err on the crow’s side) but we were able to maintain a leisurely pace on the descent past Wild Pear Beach and over Lester Point. It had been a most exhilarating day of walking. A fork in the track for once offered no sign. I chose the right-hand path and we were soon overlooking Combe Martin harbor. From here I could see three parking lots, not just the one I knew about from last summer. This meant that I wasn’t quite certain which one we had promised to meet Brian in, but I was sure we would find one another. We cut across some grassy parkland and entered the streets of the village; it was 5:15. I tried to phone Dorothy and we tried to find an open pub; no success in either undertaking. I bought a postcard and a candy bar at a shop that was just shutting down. We waited for Brian in the parking lot where we had waited for Tosh last summer. It was again low tide; gulls with pink webbed feet were looking in the rocks for food.

Brian came whizzing down the hill and headed for another parking lot. We decided to go look for him there – it was still well before 5:30 but he had spotted us and returned. We waited while he put petrol in the tank and we were off, covering much of the same route as our day four walk to Ilfracombe. We had over an hour before dinner and each of us had en suite bathrooms this time at Combe Lodge. I took a hot shower and rubbed Deep Heat on my knee – it had held up much better than expected. I phoned Dorothy – who said it had snowed in London that morning.

In Brian’s bar I had a gin and tonic. For dinner we had chicken chasseur and three veg. Brian had again done the cooking, which was quite tasty. Harold spilled some of his white wine on the tablecloth but Brian told him not to worry. I was worried, however – I was convinced that I had swallowed a small chicken bone! I ate several more pieces of Brian’s home baked rolls to force it down the gullet and, nervously, my chocolate sponge cake. Nothing untoward seemed to be happening to me, although for several hours I expected to explode or feel some sharp pain later on in the digestive track. Part of the problem, I later discovered, was the very tight neck of my black pullover pinching my throat.

I wrote a card to Janet and Harold added a word. While the Caths were sitting down to their tea Harold and I decided to take a stroll to the nearest post box. It was extremely cold outside and we couldn’t take more than five minutes of it. It was still dusk. We had some Baileys as nightcaps, Harold apologizing for spilling some of his on the back of a chair. With Brian we discussed the youth hostels of today – he was horrified to learn of the many modern trends I had encountered. He gave us some interesting tips on tomorrow’s excursion and after an hour we went up to bed. I had trouble getting to sleep – the Sacks book was very interesting – and eventually took a pill.

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

Day 7: Croyde to Barnstaple

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

Day 4: Combe Martin to Ilfracombe