April 3, 1989: Instow to Westward Ho!

On April 3, 1989, a grey Monday during the second week of my spring holiday, I took an early morning tube to Paddington. Here I found the Lees, who would be my companions for a third attempt to make some progress on Britian’s longest footpath, the South West Coast Path. It had been just a year since Harold and I had reached Instow at the end of our eighth day of walking on this route. I had begun the previous year’s walk with a severely bruised knee. Now I had no walking stick – but the usual series of minor nagging maladies more than made up for its omission.

For the previous few days I had been fighting a dry cough. Tosh now asked me if I had a sore throat, for she could detect the odor of my cough drop. I said no, for sometimes I have troubles with allergies at this time of year – but undoubtedly a cold was on its way. Only the previous Thursday the three of us had completed the last section of the London Countryway on a glorious warm spring day with all the North Downs rises and falls needed to get our legs back into shape. Unfortunately I had gotten a really good case of crotch rot from the experience and it did not seem fortuitous to begin a four-day expedition with an inflammation of such magnitude. I was even wearing, for this first day, a pair of black bikinis Dorothy had purchased for me last August in Paris – no pair of underwear was less likely to cause irritation because there was so little of it! A more painful malady was a mouth ulcer, a raw patch opposite the salivary glands beneath the lip. Together these ailments made me forget all about the long-standing blister on my left calf. I was the winner of the Janet Lockwood memorial hypochondria sweepstakes for this trip.

Tosh was having sartorial problems; she had lost a glove on the way to Paddington and the Sock Shop didn’t have anything to replace it. I assured her she could get something on route. It had become really colder in the last few days and I was sure that gloves would be a most useful item.

We boarded the 8:10 to Exeter St. Davids and headed off on a two and a half hour journey. The Lees read the papers from cover to cover and began a day of snacking. An elegant lady walker in green corduroy knickerbockers took the fourth seat at our table. She was wearing an Offa’s Dyke pin and so we struck up a conversation. She and her husband were off to do some walking on the coast path near Penzance. She took from her knapsack some thread and her crotchet needles and as we chatted she produced an intricate circle in white.

While Tosh laid claim to a table in the buffet room of Exeter’s station Harold and I waited in line to buy return tickets for Friday. I had not purchased round trip tickets because there would have been no saving this time. We were paying an outrageous price anyway for the privilege of leaving London before 9:30. I had a sticky bun and an orange juice as we waited for the little shuttle to Barnstaple to pull in. Then followed, for the fourth and last time, the hour-long journey to the North Devon coast, a really lovely train ride through springtime scenery of great beauty. The trees were in blossom, the newborn lambs were chasing after their moms, the rivers were full of water, and the grass was an intense green. Best of all, there was frequent sun – with no threat of rain.

We arrived in Barnstaple at 12:12. While the Lees visited the loo I spoke to a taxi driver outside. He would take us down to Instow for a mere £6.00. This seemed far preferable to waiting for a crowded minibus and would guarantee that we would hit Bideford while the pubs were still open. Our driver was very chatty; he had lived in the area since the war and had many tales of the usually happy interaction between the Yanks and the Brits at all the nearby bases. Tosh was amazed at how built up the area was – there didn’t seem to be any empty spaces on the road from Barnstaple Station to Instow quay. We arrived at the latter at 12:25. Here it was that Harold and I had ended our walk last April. Now we strapped our packs on our backs – my first walk with my new Karrimor pack – and we were off by 12:30.

Ferry service from Instow to Appledore had been suspended some years before our expedition (it was revived in 2011) and this meant for us a long walk down to the Bideford bridge and and a return on the opposite side of the Torridge to Appledore. The route down to the bridge follows the line of an old railway; indeed, as we left the Instow road and entered the cindertrack for the first time, we came across a plaque – christened in 1987 by William Waldegrave – commemorating the completion of the last missing link in the coast path. Across the Torridge we could see Appledore and a set of very attractive wooded cliffs. The tide was very low; it almost looked like you could walk across, though I am certain this is not possible.

On the flat surface of our path we soon got up a corking speed. It didn’t do to linger here because there was a very chill wind and as we entered our first cutting we were already glad to escape its icy fingers. As we neared a giant bridge I began to wonder how we walkers were meant to cross it. There seemed to be no signs, and no obvious escape from our path onto this roadway. We walked all the way under the bridge searching for an escape route and I was just about to retrace my steps when I suddenly realized something quite important. This bridge was not the Bideford bridge I wanted but an entirely new motorway bridge which invited drivers to bypass Bideford altogether. Our cabbie had mentioned such a bridge but it was so new that it appeared on none of my maps, not even OS sheet 180.

Not too far south of us I could see the real Bideford bridge, a much more ancient and modest structure. We continued forward for just a few more minutes, at last encountering a few cyclists and locals out with their dogs – a year ago we had been besieged by non-walkers. Among the twisting curves of the old railway embankments we lost sight of Bideford and its bridge, screened by the cottages of East-The-Water, and I snuck down an alleyway one block before it was necessary in order to make the sharp turn to the right needed to cross the bridge.

Facing us on Quay Street was an ancient pub and a chemist. We ordered lagers and food in the pub and I went next door to try my luck at the chemists; they were closed for lunch. In the loo of the pub I checked on the status of my rash. Tosh had a ploughman’s, served with hamburger rolls instead of bread, Harold had a steak and kidney pie served with peas left over by the Yanks, and I had a cheeseburger featuring a piece of microwaved meat that had the consistency of rubber. Still, we were all happy to have arrived in time for this refreshing feast. The sun was still shining bravely in the blue skies and, as it was now well past 2:00, the chemist was open.

I left the Lees to finish their coffee and reported first to a quite pretty junior clerk who greeted my request for something for mouth ulcers with a mixture of incredulity and distaste; a leper would have found a more sympathetic listener. When I disdained something to suck she had to call in her senior, who, in turn, had to get advice from still another official. Eventually I was showered with preparations meant to be applied directly to the sore parts. I chose a small bottle of Anbasol and purchased some more first aid cream for the nether regions.

Outside I took a photo and dosed my gums with Anbesol while Harold and I waited for Tosh to return from a glove buying expedition. This took some time and it was so chilly in the wind that we hid behind a bus shelter. At last she appeared with a set of oversized mittens and we were able to head north, passing a statue of Charles Kingsley, a city park, a soccer pitch, and a marina. I had to stop and put my blue coat on. I had been able to make do with my new UCLA sweatshirt to this point, but it was now just too cold. Here too I packed away my Tiger cap for the trip. The winds were too strong for it; I relied on my sweater hood most of the time.

I was a bit concerned about route-finding because none of my guidebooks has much to say about this new stretch – and many, written before the new sections were added, gave up at Saunton and resumed at Westward Ho!–  or even later. But the fingers posts and acorns were well-represented on the journey north, their first job being to get us behind some building works near the motor bridge and across the property of the council offices.

Soon we were in quite lovely surroundings – the posh docks of the Cleave, the blossoming heights of the wooded hills. All of this was a great and welcome bonus after miles on the flat. The tide was now in and the Torridge had reached its full breadth; no longer did it seem possible to get to the opposite bank easily. After a little road walking a lane lead back to the river at a house called “Grandma’s.” Feeling like the big bad wolf I tried to take a picture of this kitsch but grandma was sitting in a car on the road and I felt a bit inhibited. I had another minor problem: a piece of cheeseburger rubber, having already defeated Tosh’s toothpick, clung stubbornly between two teeth and nothing my fingers or tongue could do at the time seemed able to dislodge it.

The path swept inland as we crossed several small valleys. None of the gradients were too steep and the views were quite lovely. However, because of the absence of any decent guidebook, I really couldn’t have given a name to many of the places we visited. Another inland diversion took place. On a road I paused to take off my coat. Then we crossed a marshy field and climbed a hill. There were warnings that the path had been breached, necessitating a diversion. We could see the break in the path as we topped a hill opposite beautiful Tapely Park across the water. Our immediate problem was to thread our way along a muddy track outside the perimeter fence of a giant hangar. When we reached the road a curious Tosh approached the entry guard to find out the name of this establishment –which seemed to be a secret. “Appledore Shipbuilders,” was his response. “And what do you make here?” she continued. “Boats.”

I was happy to hear the name Appledore. We now had to continue on road, passing more maritime activity on our right and dodging the dust cloud raised by a street sweeper cleaning the entrance to a factory. Appledore seemed very attractive with its weathered houses in pastel colors and its view of the estuary. Tosh asked a passerby if there was any place to buy some gin. This was located in a pedestrian precinct nearby. I had to put my coat back on here. We made a stop in some loos at the front. The large brass button that Dorothy had just sown on my brown cords popped off at this time. I made do with a safety pin for the rest of the trip.

Irsha Street, with its slipways and cottages, was quite charming. We followed it as the route bent to the west. For a while there was a path to follow, then more boatyards, then a large field with bovines of indeterminate sex, then some road walking. I almost took my coat off for we seemed to be walking into a warming sun, but I could see the road leading out onto the exposed headland of the Northam Burrows and thought better of it. I was ahead of the Lees here. A weary Tosh, who a moment before had wanted to stop for coffee in Appledore, now wanted me to point out our hotel in Westward Ho! She never believed me when I said I couldn’t do it. Indeed, I headed away from this objective entirely to walk to the tip of the headland.

There were some horses grazing on the edge of the golf course and I tried to take a photo as I moved among them but they were too skittish. We followed the grassy verge of a motor road for quite some time, escaping it to take a path up to the famous pebble ridge that accompanied the oceanside all the way to our village. We were still two miles from our destination. The sun was now fighting it out with clouds in the western sky but there was a lovely early evening light to accompany our first sight of the surf. We rarely walked on the rough pebbles themselves, usually choosing the dune tops or even the edge of the golf course as we headed south.

Ahead we could see Westward Ho! and at last we came out at the end of a dirt road entrance to Northam Burrows Park. In a little lagoon protected by the ridge a car sat rusting. Here also tide had washed over a stretch of road. Harold and I walked slowly toward the town while Tosh, who had paused to read a sign about the Burrows, caught up. It was close to 6:30. We stopped several people to get directions to our hotel. It was still some distance ahead, but at least this would be an advantage for tomorrow.

Westward Ho! looked like a ghost town. Many of its shops and most of its amusement arcades were closed for the winter. We noted the location of the Spar market for the next day and climbed up to the imposing heights of our hotel. Harold at last found the entrance, through a lovely glass atrium, in the rear, and our landlord came out to greet us. We had made it through day one.

We were shown to rooms on the first floor. Our host demonstrated the use of the shower, one of those curious delicate ascot arrangements favored by provincial landlords, and from it I was able to get a tepid spray. My abrasion problems had not worsened, I was glad to see, and after getting into my tan trousers, my blue turtleneck, and my tracksuit sweat shirt, I went out on the landing to call London. The machine ate my coins and our host opened up the box and gave me my money back. I was more successful the second time and had a nice chat with Dorothy.

I found Harold in the hotel’s little pub; it had a nice fire and I snuggled down next to it with a gin and tonic. Tosh was upstairs watching the news. It was explained that the hotel had once been the private home of a famous golfing family –the local golf course being the oldest links in England. Golfing holidays were still a specialty, and there was a hole-in-one trophy belonging to our hostess hanging on the wall. I leafed through another coast path guidebook on the bar counter as we heard the first of several accounts of the painstaking work needed to redecorate the hotel. Our host specialized in reciting how many square meters of wallpaper he had hung, and how many window he had re-sashed. Unfortunately there was still a breeze blowing through the dining room window next to which I sat at dinner. I was quite chilled.

The Lees had some local fish while I settled for a very salty ham and pineapple. We were the only diners and our landlord hovered at our side, seemingly desperate for some new victims to bore. He was on to rewiring now, and carpeting came up with the dessert. It was dark outside expect for distant beacons and the twinkle of lights, near and far; it would have been a lovely place to linger had it not been for the rush of air at my elbow. When I found a moment to escape I crept back to the fire in the bar.

The Lees joined me eventually, and our hostess came in too. They all chatted while I buried my nose in the guidebook. Our host was now signing the praises of Rotary International and his politics were making a good Tory right turn. “The RAC and AA don’t quite agree with my informality, Harold. But from the moment my guests arrive I insist on greeting everyone by their first names.” Unfortunately he had been given Tosh’s real first name and he never could master the Willa Cather pronunciation of Antonia. I’m sure no one has called her than it years anyway.

We went to bed to quite early. I read some of The Great Gatsby lesson for the following Monday, listened to tapes on my walkman, and took a sleeping pill. I had to get up once in the middle of the night, but, fortunately, I had my own toilet.

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

Day 10: Westward Ho! To Clovelly