the roads – 19 aug, 2018
Day 15 Land’s End to John O’Groats – Holcombe to Stawell
Distance: 25km
Cumulative distance: 372km
I slept pretty well last night which was good. I’d picked up a new book in Minehead called a Casual Vacancy, by JK Rowling. It’s already very good, but it’s a big sucker which means more weight which is a bit of a trade off. If anything it’ll motivate me to finish it off sooner. It’s amazing how much I think about the weight of things nowadays, given something as seemingly insignificant as a book now becomes a noticeable addition after a few miles of walking. As I’ve said before, when I bought all of my gear for this trip I tried to go as lightweight as possible. The tent and sleeping bag are only a scratch over 2kg between them. My new sleeping mat is a little heavier than my Thermarest was but the difference is virtually nothing. Switching hiking boots has made a massive difference, and allows me now to carry a little bit extra food if I need it, or perhaps some extra clothes. I actually bought a new pair of shorts in Minehead at a charity shop so that I could wash my boardies at the laundromat and still walk around town without impinging on the public nudity laws, and I think I actually prefer these because they fit around my waist a lot better. They don’t have any pockets though. In any event I might end up turfing the boardies. I’m carrying a waterproof jacket, and waterproof pants which are both bulky and a little bit heavy. I also have a sleeping bag inner which I’m using at a pillow while the weather is still warm enough, and a long sleeve thermal singlet which I change into each night after I have a shower. I have three shirts which I walk in, two of which I’ll use for that purpose between washes, leaving one behind to wear at night time in the tent or if I go somewhere for a feed. It means I’ll often wear the same sweaty, horrible shirt several days in a row but I figure a new shirt will just get sweaty and horrible after a few hours of walking anyway, so I might as well just wear the smelly, dirty one instead of soiling a freshy. I carry a pair of thongs which I wear at night time to air my feet out (one of the best bits of kit I have). I also have three pairs of socks, one thick hiking pair, one thinner hiking pair (thank you Claire!) and one pair of normal black socks. As with the shirts, I try to keep one pair somewhat clean between washes as a back up in case the other two get soaking wet. I hike in a pair of thin strides that Patti gave me, and they’re perfect because they aren’t too hot, they dry quickly and they’re super lightweight.
Other bits of kit include my two saucepans, inside which I store a little LED torch, a pocket knife, Mel’s head torch that she lent me (proving to be another MVP), and a compass. I have my food bag, a durable, plastic knife, fork and spoon, a little Coleman cooking stove and a gas canister which attaches to it. I have my Land’s End to John O’Groats guide book, a diary, a few pens, a little crossword book and I’m allowed to carry one other book on top of these for reading purposes (I really should have sorted myself out with a kindle, but you live and learn). Other miscellaneous items include a couple of metal water bottles, a little flexible water bottle (thanks again Patti), a big dry bag in case the heavens open, another plastic bag for dirty laundry and such, and a little thing of toiletries. And that’s about it, everything I need to get me from one side of Britain to another condensed in and around my little 42 litre pack.
I hauled this thing up and onto my back again this morning, feeling a sharp pain go through my lower right leg. This was starting to become a little bit of a concern, it had really blown up in the last 24 hours to the point that it looked like the skin was beginning to stretch. I walked down to Holcombe and past the pub the farmer had suggested last night, then through Dorington and Nether Stowey which were both fairly sleepy little towns for a Sunday morning. I’d tried chatting to Mum and Dad on the phone, but the reception cut out a couple of minutes in and cut that little endeavour short. I’d been hoping to chat with Lisa and Matt who’d been there for dinner, but that never materialised unfortunately. I’d picked out a path to Bridgwater where I needed to cross the River Parrett (another one of those rivers cutting inland and proving to be an obstacle), but every time I tried to take a public footpath I ended up getting lost on a farm. At one point I just aimed straight at the road and kept jumping fences and gates until I’d escaped. Further along the road a car stop and a particularly attractive young lady with a nose ring offered to drive me wherever I was going. I stayed strong and told her I’d keep walking, so she gave me a peach instead. I politely declined her offer of broccoli, and I must say it was one of the best peaches I’d ever eaten. I powered on as she beeped her horn at me on the way past, and came to Cannington which was a nice enough town with a little garden lined with plaques of poetry, one of which was For The Fallen which I’d seen on the cliffs however long ago. I tried once more to off road it to Bridgwater but found myself surrounded by crops again and had to find my way out. I eventually came upon the town, and discovered pretty quickly it was one the uglier side of the spectrum – and there’s not too many places over here you can say that about. I stopped at a random café looking for a drink and found somewhere I could charge my phone. I soon realised I’d stumbled into the Portuguese quarter of Bridgwater and as I was standing up at the counter placing my order, a local strolled in and shook everyone’s hand, including mine, as if we were all old pals hanging out in Lisbon. What a nice place I thought, a bit of an oasis in an unsightly desert.
I left town via the A39 which was as unpleasant as it sounds, crossed the M5 over a bridge (the first actual motorway I think I’d seen) then turned right and headed down to Chedzoy which had a nice old church. This is a historic little quarter of Somerset – apparently between Chedzoy and Westonzoyland, they fought the last all-English battle on the Somerset Levels. If you don’t count Lee Bowyer and Kieron Dyer I suppose. I crossed a canal, went through Stawell and found my campsite for the night run by Jackie and Glyn. On arrival I collapsed into one of their fields absolutely spent, and on seeing my plight Glyn went and fetched me a couple of ice packs for my leg. He also told me he’d make up a nice bowl of porridge for me in the morning.
I think it’s called the Hideaway this place. It’s well equipped in terms of facilities, and as you’ve probably already worked out, the owners are lovely!
