Minehead to Porlock
The day started out well. A hearty breakfast, that deserved at least two hours of digestion time, preferably horizontal, and a happy B&B caretaker who remarkably did not laugh on first sight of me and the beast (aka the backpack). Thanks Emma for being a sport and wishing me well on what is obviously a crazy endeavor.
So, I set out.
The quiet Minehead harbour ushered me west along a pebbly shore and a green way that eventually transitioned into bramble and then woodland. Just beyond the fringes of town, however, is a hill. A high, steep hill. You can’t really tell it’s there, until the gradient is underfoot and you find yourself huffing and puffing and looking at the ground a whole lot. Much rearranging of the backpack’s straps, and sorting out of the walking sticks, distracted about five percent of my attention away from the fact that the land just wanted to go up, and up, and up. Thank goodness it was pretty.
Of course, good things come to those who hike – my new maxim.
The hill proved mountable, and the huffing and puffing transitioned into happy sniffing in the face of a brisk cold Exmore breeze. Ponies hardly raised their wild heads as locals and their dogs gambolled on the high moorland. I would have gambolled too, except I had a beast strapped to my back who just wasn’t in the mood.
Meanwhile, the path trailed along hedgerows of yellow-flowering gorse, sectioning wide expanses of rock and heath. Had storm clouds rolled in, I would have been tempted to sing Wuthering Heights by Kate Bush, and run to the nearest iron-age shelter, but the day was wonderfully sunny – a perfect day to roam Exmoor. The only dangers to look out for up there were cow pats and horse flies that were, I swear, the size of Pegasus.
Two hours later I could have done with a pub and a cool refreshing drink, and I was starting to think this place was a bit too big for my comfort. A few sips of water didn’t help the situation since I’d forgotten to rinse out my new hiking water bladder and it tasted horrendous. I persevered through this energy lull another hour or so till I got distracted enough by the gorgeous surrounds. Scrambling down the steep rubble of Hurlstone Combe made me feel like a proper adventurer and, eventually, I decided that I was okay. The beast and I were becoming one. Almost, I fancied, turtle-like.
This happy phase lasted a few k’s till I came to the flats of Porlock Bay. I’m not sure why flat areas are so difficult to walk with a pack. Maybe it’s that you try too hard to walk normally. You know – upright. With a pack on, your upper-body weight needs to be distributed differently. That’s easy when you’re rising or falling, because you need to make adjustments then anyway. But on the flat, your body combats the need to lean a bit. It’s awkward, and it hurts.
Or maybe the pain was just because I was at the end of the first day of this enormous hike.
Either way, me and the beast ended the day in a shedding frame of mind – desperately searching through my belongings for something, anything, to get rid of. Having leaned into the wind on much of the high moorland, I realised that a peaked hat wouldn’t last long in the stiff wind, so that could go. But, it wasn’t exactly heavy. I could get rid of one of the paper-based diaries I’d brought with me. That would help, but it still wasn’t enough. I needed something significant to get rid of. When my mind finally latched onto my warm jumper, I practically leaped for joy. Or, I would have, if the beast wasn’t still strapped to my back. The art of layering, I decided, could see me through.
So then, the object of the day became getting to a post office in time to send off this extra weight. I had just enough attention left to notice the gorgeous views over Porlock Bay, and the ridiculously quaint stone and thatch town of Bossington, approached by way of a perfect Pooh Sticks bridge. I’d have appreciated it more if I wasn’t in such haste to get to a post office – but that’s the nature of obsession.
Two torturous kilometres along salt-swamp flats later, I said an emphatic “Yes!” to first class post and waved goodbye to a kilo of second-level necessities. Farewell white jumper. Farewell SWCP logbook. Farewell peaked cap. I hope I won’t need any of you.
A relaxed pint of ale and a pub dinner of breaded mushrooms and spicy parsnip soup set me up for a well-deserved sleep.
And therein lies day one following the acorn on the South West Coast Path.
Goodnight.
[Surge stats: 17.48 km, 128 floors, 27999 steps]
PenLoper 