April 11, 1988: Barnstaple to Instow

Harold clears the Penhill viaduct

One of the great advantages of the motel environment, with its large caste of traveling salesmen, is an early breakfast hour. As Harold and I wanted to return to London in mid-afternoon it was particularly useful that breakfast was served from 7:00. We had agreed to meet at 7:30, and I found Harold already surrounded by the stains of spilled coffee when I arrived in the dining room. We had a delicious breakfast; Harold ordered porridge and filled me in, as only a Northern California boy can, on how to make a prune. We paid our bills; at the desk the clerk testily told me that she was unable to charge me for my phone call to London because there was no record of it. I did not argue the point. It was a lovely though hazy and sunny Monday morning, April 11, 1988, when we left the motel about 8:30.

We quickly retraced our steps back to yesterday’s turn-off point and then continued on into town, fighting against the morning traffic and Barnstaple’s work force on its way to the office. This is the only time in your life when it is possible to wear a pack on your back and still feel decadent. It was still quite cold and I didn’t have my gloves or my coat handy. As we reached the bus station I went inside to confirm afternoon bus times from Instow back to Barnstaple. We crossed the bridge over the Taw and, opposite the Chicken George take-away, we fought our way through a construction site to confirm afternoon train times as well.

At the train station we could actually see the beginning of the cinder track that permits walkers and cyclists safe passage down to Bideford. After Harold had used the platform loo we thus began another long stretch on this over-civilized form of walking. There were very few strollers about today. Bicyclists began to overtake us after a few minutes but the chief addition to the scene today were the many practicing jets circling overhead, making passes over home base at Chivenor, and screaming heavenwards again. These sounds dominated most of the morning and began to become wearying after a while – as fascinating as it was to watch some of the aerial maneuvering at close quarters.

Harold had no trouble hearing the jets but bicycles almost always overtook him by surprise. He told me that he was suffering from hearing loss in both ears; I told him that I had something of the opposite problem – hearing so acute that I had trouble screening out irrelevant sound. (This, however, is a blessing when there is talking in the back row – a teacher ought not to complain too loudly.) Harold was in a talkative mood today and spoke a good deal about his academic past and his publishing plans today. As we passed a ripe farmstead with that curious olive brine smell he identified the source as silage, the fermenting grain that is used as cattle feed.

We continued on a straightaway for two miles. I was using the OS map frequently – not to find my route, which was obvious, but to identify the many features on both sides of the estuary. It gradually became warmer and clearer and it was easy to see that we would have plenty of time for our walk today. Our feet were beginning to heat up so I suggested a rest at the next convenient spot. This proved to be above our track on a road viaduct out to Penhill Point, where we could sit in a dry patch facing the sun, our backs against the abutment. We ate some apples.

As we emerged from a deep cutting we passed a house cum junkyard with two old Humbers in its collection of abandoned cars. We passed an abattoir (no sign of life) and walked over a bridge above a deep inlet. Then there began another very long stretch of straightaway, with little shade or variation. I can only imagine how hot this stretch must be in August. On our right there was the Saltpill Duck Pond. After we had passed this we left our track for a few minutes and walked a few feet down a track belonging to Lower Yelland farm. Here we found a dry spot for the first installment of lunch – yesterday’s tuna sandwiches and salad provided by the Cath’s at Combe Lodge.

The Taw from the power station

After our break we approached a CGEB power station. Coast Path walkers were here given the opportunity of leaving the cinder track for a path around the power station on the Taw side. We had plenty of time so we headed off into the gorse and took a leisurely detour past fences, pylons, ducts, piers, and all the other industrial apparatus. In fact our path never rejoined the cinder track. After the power station it continued to hug the coastline, dipping down to the Instow Sands several times. We grew tired of its wavering line through the dunes and took to the beach twice.

I had been assuming for some time that the dunes on the opposite bank were the Northam Burrows on the other side of the Torridge. I now discovered that we were still opposite Crow Point, the southernmost extension of the Braunton Burrows. Eventually we drew directly opposite the meeting place of the Taw and the Torridge and there were now clear views of Appledore on the opposite side and a bridge to the south. It was nearing 12:30 and we decided, after a quite interesting seven and a half miles of walking, to go into the Wayfarer’s pub for our pints before finding a bus back to Barnstaple.

I was quite warm and I even stripped down to my t-shirt. In the loo mirror I could see just how much sun I had picked up over the last two days. A food rep was trying to sell the proprietors on a new kind of chip and a lady from the church was trying to flog calendars. We were in the pub for about thirty minutes. Then we packed up and walked a little more of the way down Instow’s beach-side parade, reaching the Quay. Here, in summer, a ferry evidently made its way to Appledore. I had chosen this spot as our terminus because it made possible a good half-day walk to Westward Ho! on any return journey.

Instow Quay and Appledore

The quay was also the spot for a bus stop. We waited five minutes or so but when the little hoppa arrived there was only one seat. I let Harold take it, giving him my cane and leaving my pack at the end of the aisle. After a few stops I got a seat too but the bus was very crowded and there were often standing passengers who had to climb over a Golden Retriever just to find a place to put their feet. To make matters worse as we got closer to Barnstaple the bus was caught up in a huge tailback and I began to be concerned about making our 2:26 train. I started to ask the local passengers how long it would take us to walk to the train station. They said ten minutes but assured me that as soon as we cleared the roundabout it would be smooth sailing downhill. I was not convinced of this and, as there were still twenty minutes to go, I asked the driver to let us off. I preferred to be master of my own fate in this situation; the inching progress of the bus was making me extremely anxious.

Harold had some problems unstiffening at short notice but we were soon past the roundabout and making corking progress down the hill into Barnstaple. I told him that I had been on this hill only once before, 18 years earlier when I had been driving my own orange VW squareback – and that I well-remembered it had been similarly painful to get through Barnstaple then! We could see where we had to go and I began to relax. At the viaduct over our cinder track we descended to the old rail bed one last time and retraced our steps to the station. Perhaps we would have been okay if we had stayed on the bus; we certainly beat it down the hill.

We had only a short wait before our train pulled in. In our carriage we had a nervous smoker – not allowed to smoke – who had got on the Barnstaple train thinking it was going to Peignton. On his way to Madrid was a pipe-smoking retiree (perhaps from BR itself?) who wanted to know why we didn’t leave on the dot. The answer: the driver was in the loo. Another hour-long Devon journey, always delightful, brought us into Exeter St. Davids, where we had a ten-minute wait before picking up the Intercity for Paddington. There were plenty of seats. We ate the last of our tuna fish sandwiches and some crisps and Harold got us some coffee, spilling a good deal on the way back from the buffet bar. I read more of Sacks and the journey went quite quickly – putting us into Paddington at 6:00.

That night I gave Dorothy an account of the trip as we dined at Tandoori Nights. She was jealous of my tan. Harold never knew that I had been suffering from knee problems at the outset of what turned out to be an excellent outing.

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

Day 9: Instow to Westward Ho!