the dramas – 13 Aug, 2018
Day 10 Land’s End to John O’Groats – Stoke to Westacott Farm
Distance: 26km
Cumulative distance: 250km
I was a little slow away this morning, I ended up chatting to a few folk at the campsite this morning. I ate my porridge for brekky in the little information hut where I’d dined with Martin last night and got chatting to a couple of ladies who were heading south on the coast path. They quizzed me a bit about the day yesterday and mentioned a particular cliff area that had been fenced off with a blue rope due to fears of a land slide or erosion or some other impending destructive force that was soon to feed the sea. I’d skipped over a blue rope yesterday and taken on the supposedly cursed cliff without thinking twice about it, so that explained why there’d been a rope there at least. I also spoke to a fella heading south on the Coast Path who was camping like I had been, and we traded knowledge of different campsites we’d been at. It sounded like there wasn’t much doing throughout Devon for the next little bit.
Anyhow, the first challenge was to hit Hartland Point, the northern corner of this vast stretch of coastline which had begun just south of Bude. From there it would reef on the handbrake and start heading from west to east once more, allowing me to start chipping away at the Bristol Channel. It was the usual fare once I backtracked back down to the coastline, I counted four or five ups and downs before the point came into view. At the last of these I spied Martin and Archie, and swiftly caught up to the pair who were headed for the point. We checked it out and Martin pointed out the lighthouse beneath. I figured this was as close as I would get to the Isle of Lundy too which was kind of cool. We said our goodbyes, and I pointed myself west walking across fields and then through forest, en route to the beautiful little village of Clovelly.
I’d actually been here before with Sam, and was glad the path went through it. It’s an old, steep town which stretches down to the water and in times past donkeys were used to carry goods from the top of town to the bottom. The donkeys remain, but only for touristy purposes. One thing I particularly admire about this place is they don’t allow cars in town, so anyone who decides to drive here has to pay their eight or nine quid or whatever it is to park their car before entering on foot. I also read a couple of years ago that the place is entirely owned by a family, and everyone who lives there is a resident who effectively works for the town. I guess that prevents the rich folk from London buying up holiday homes which stand vacant for 11 months of the year. Anyway, it’s quite a nice town. When Sam and I came here before we strolled (struggled is probably more accurate, it’s very steep) all the way down to the water. About halfway down we heard some choral noises emanating from below, and soon stumbled across the Barnacle Buoys – about five or six middle aged blokes bellowing out sea shanties while drinking their pints. They were superb and I bought their CD which is still one of my favourites. Sam then went and jumped off the pier in his boardies to round off a cracking afternoon, but I digress. The Barnacle Buoys weren’t here on this Monday morning and I had no intention of descending all the way down, so I picked a pub and took full advantage of their two meals for the price of one lunch offer.
The next five miles or so I’d walked before on my last visit to Clovelly, so I put my head down and tried to power through them. That’s the only stretch of the Coast Path I’d done prior to this little adventure. It’s nice walking, across little streams and through forest and occasional farmland, and at one point you get a superb view back to Clovelly which shows the village perched above the Celtic Sea.
Unfortunately, the familiarity with the path evaporated when I reached Buck’s Mills, and that’s when the problems began. The path seemed to turn right, away from the coast, and take you up the hill to the top of Buck’s Mills. From that vantage point there were a couple of public footpath signs, and as it turned out, I elected to follow the wrong one. My trail was a ‘footpath’ in name only. In reality it was an old stream bed which ran narrowly and directly uphill through a forest of overgrown blackberries and spider webs which had been established since well before the two World Wars. No humans had been through this for a long time. The mud was heavy and the fallen tree branches very obstructive, but it was the blackberry branches which were the real killer. They were kind of like blackberry branches which had indulged in the 1980s Chinese swimming performance enhancing drugs program. Every 30 seconds or so I’d bend down low and tear into a bramble, poking my head through the other side only to feel my tent or my sleeping mat being yanked back having been caught on a blackberry thorn. Thorn isn’t quite accurate, they were more like daggers. So I struggled for about a kilometre or so, eventually emerging at a farmer’s driveway which took me up to the A39. What a reward. I took a squiz at my map just to confirm I’d been walking away from the coast, and after half a mile of weaving down the main road and in and out of traffic, I ducked off at a much friendlier looking footpath and set out to rediscover the Coast Path. I found a lady who gave me instructions on where I needed to go and eventually rejoined, about a mile further along from Buck’s Mills having spent an unnecessary hour skirmishing with the world’s largest collection of blackberry thorns.
I’d picked out a campsite which was back inland, and decided I would walk the Coast Path until I was directly in line with it and then turn right and point straight towards it, crossing whatever was between it and me. Nothing could be as bad as that wretched stream bed. I passed Peppercombe Bothy after a few ups and downs through the dark, dense forest and briefly considered stopping there for the night before deciding to press on. A mile or two further along as I was climbing up another cliff I arrived at a point in the path where a driveway ducked off to the right, pointing roughly in the direction of my campsite. I looked at the gate and saw a couple of ominous signs, one saying GUARD DOGS, and another depicting a dog posing arrogantly and foaming at the mouth. ‘Come at me’ I thought as I struggled over the fence and started powering down the driveway. Eventually the driveway ended and a couple of beautiful homes came into sight, crisscrossed by immaculate pebble driveways. There were no cars in the drive and on external inspection no one appeared to be at home, so I ignored the distant sound of a barking dog and a lawn mower and decided to power on before I had to front any rabid canines. As I proceeded, the dog’s barking grew louder alongside the engine sound and soon enough I had company, a fella on a quad bike (let’s just call him Pablo) and a cranky looking German shepherd eyeing me off suspiciously.
‘How did you get in here?’ Pablo asked.
‘I came from the Coast Path,’ I replied with a massive grin on my face before pointing ahead of me and saying ‘Can I get to the road up there?’
Pablo said yes, then told me I was on private property and that I shouldn’t be there. I told him I’d quickly whisk myself away to the road and would soon be off his hands and that seemed enough to satisfy him and his hound. The quad bike took off again, with the German shepherd in tow and I continued along. I passed a perfectly manicured tennis court with a couple of billionaires (presumably) hitting the ball back and forth then stumbled across about a billion pheasants. I instantly tweaked that this was some rich bugger’s estate, and these birds were probably just there for shooting purposes when he and his mates were ever in the mood to don their Peter Moody hats, polish up their rifles and go and poach a bit of innocent, helpless game. I strode past the poor pheasants and heard that familiar whirring noise again over my left shoulder. Instead of looking behind me, I kept walking as quick as I could to try and escape the clutches of Pablo, his dog and this shiny estate. As I rounded a bend in the driveway a huge gate came into view, separating me from the road I was aiming for, and blocking any hopes I had of exiting this place. At this point, Pablo pulled up alongside me and told me I couldn’t get out that way.
‘How do I get out then mate?’ I asked, having already decided I’d rather tackle this 20 foot metal monster than backtrack all the way to the Coast Path.
Pablo pointed to another driveway over to the left which led to a different road and suggested I head down there and exit through the much more regulation farm gate. He left me to my own devices again and I hastily took myself up to the alternative gate, only to discover it had been covered in some kind of metal meshing adding a few feet to its top, and blocking off the gap underneath. Left and right were blackberries and there was no other access to the road. The only way through was underneath so I took my pack off, bent the meshing upwards and shoved it through the gap before crawling under it army style and resuming my walk. A couple of km up the road I found the campsite and the owners were only happy to accommodate me at short notice. What a day! I found my spot and set up my tent, before whipping out my sleeping mat and started blowing it up. I soon realised the damn thing wasn’t inflating, so I turned it over and saw a two inch gash, no doubt left by one of those vindictive blackberry thorns earlier in the day. Ahhh bollocks.
