Lynmouth to Combe Martin
Having regretted starting out hard the day before, I decided to be kind to myself and get a taxi up the hill to Lynton. This sounds crazy lazy to anyone who hasn’t been to the twin towns. Go there, see the cliff railway, then tell me I’m crazy! I don’t care that it was cheating. This may have been only day three, but it was okay in my book to relinquish the idea of walking every step of the swcp. However, maybe it did set up in my mind the idea that it was okay to cheat later in the path.
With only about 5 kg on my back, I immediately felt lighter, but whenever an economy-of-movement choice, such as the diversion to Crock Point and Crock Pits, came along, I made the easier choice. It was about sustaining energy. At least, that’s what I told myself then.
From Lynton, the first part of the walk is a lovely doddle along the cliffs under Hollerday Hill. Open moor, struck through by raw Devonian rocks (I was reliably told by a local leading her dog on their daily romp through The Warren). The rocks got more and more dramatic the closer I got to The Valley of the Rocks, and the coast path passed between Rugged Jack and Castle Rock.
I’m told there’s a rock formation there called the White Woman, which sounded awfully ghostly to me, but I didn’t see it. What I did see were goats. Lots and lots of goats, with their super-cute kids. Spring had definitely sprung in Devon.
By this time I was used to the rip of the cold wind, so I was rugged up, and was very glad for the fine merino head-wrap I’d purchased to keep off the sun and disguise bad hair days, but which became invaluable for keeping my head warm and the wind out of my ears. (The bad hair day rationale stands too.)
This section of the swcp links with the Tarka Trail, which I’d done a little of back in the summer I spent in Barnstaple over a decade ago. My impression of it then was it was a gentle walk. This section was not gentle. Out of the Valley of the Rocks, the path took me down through pasture land by Lee Abbey, and through some wooded sections of rough coast where country lanes double as foot paths and local drivers rip along at alarming speed. Between urgent leaps into the bushes, I saw a fair bit of wild life. Lots of birds, including grouse and pheasant, fluffy bumblebees, and a mysterious animal that I think may have been a ferret, but it was sleek like an otter, so…I don’t know. It dashed away too fast for me to take a photo (I have since been reliably informed that this was probably a stoat).
This section of woodlands and craggy coast was undulating, with some steep sections, particularly up the lanes, but it was nothing compared to what was to come. All I know was I it felt like an effort, and I needed to take frequent breaks. At one stop, I felt a blister developing on my left heel. I hauled out my first aid kit and tried a strip of Medipore. The tape lasted a few hours – and became known as stage one in the great blister-dressing trial of 2017.
The big story of day three were to two massive down-ups.
The first seemed big. A manageable drop down 180 meters to the beautiful Heddon’s Mouth Cleave – a long glade wooded glade carved over a very, very long time, by the River Heddon. I’d been told that Hunter’s Inn at the top of the river glade was a good place to stop for lunch, but, given that I was trying to conserve energy, I couldn’t do the one km diversion. So, I stopped briefly at the cute little wooden footbridge river crossing for some nuts and water, then started the steep climb to Peter Rock.
Have I told you that I love my walking sticks? I love my sticks. They are indispensable on these steep paths where you really need the four legs of a mountain goat to maintain balance (I’d settle for the balance of an urban goat). On the map, this climb is only about 150 meters at 60 degrees, but it was hard. At least, that’s what I was thinking as I scrambled and huffed my way up, up, up. What I didn’t know was a few kilometres further on was another down-up that dwarfed this one. But, I got to the top. I celebrated. And then I got on with the hike.
Open moorland on Trentishoe Down, led to more open moorland on Holdstone Down. I frequently waved to Wales off in the distance, and the stiff wind continued to blow.
By then I’d learned to read the map in detail and could see that another down-up was coming around the next corner. And this one was mammoth.
From Holdstone Hill, the path leads directly down into Sherrycombe and a stream so tiny it seemed to mock me – a massive combe for this piddle of a stream! Down, down, down rubble and steps, then one step across and I was on the other side and facing Girt Down and the heights of Great Hangman Cairn.
The first section of the climb seemed insurmountable. The path up the first near-vertical fifty meters of the combe was the width of a shoe (not a foot wide). Rubble on rock. Impossible to get a grip, even with the sticks. With a full pack, it would have been impossible. A couple of wobbly moments had me hugging the low, prickly gorse, and earning myself the ‘scaredy-cat’ award. Don’t look down, Pen!
I don’t have any pics because this climb took a lot of concentration, and not a little bit of bravery.
Eventually the path settled into a more-manageable sixty-degree angle, then fifty-degrees, then, eventually, a nice thirty-degree grade to the top of the Great Hangman where I threw a stone onto the cairn and declared myself ‘awesome!’
A few selfies later (of my hand and a rock that I now realize looks like a bit of toast), I tiredly dawdled down and then up the gentle grade to the Little Hangman peak (a measly 218 m), and on to the town of Combe Martin where I was horrified to discover I had booked a B&B half way up a hill. Had I no sense whatsoever when I planned this adventure?! But the lovely Colin greeted me at the door and offered me a choice of rooms (I chose the one up the fewest stairs) and information on the best place in town for a relaxed pint.
Therein would lie the tale of day three on the swcp, but that would do a disservice to my dinner companions who have stayed front and centre in my mind for many a day’s hike since.
At the Dolphin Inn, down on Combe Martin quay-side, I found a pint of Lemonade (energy craving), a fab veggie pizza, and a father/daughter combo who were also hiking the swcp (or, part of it). We got to talking and I soon discovered them to be Luigi the clown and his daughter, the choreographer. A funny pair. We shared commiserations over the difficulty of the path and they gave me a tip which has proven invaluable: soak your feet in cold water after you first take off your boots.
In retrospect, this seems an obvious way to stop the throbbing pain you get when your feet are no longer bound and the blood rushes in. I can definitely vouch for the method, but it’s not always fun. I haven’t always had a bucket of cold water to hand, but a resourceful Pen has always managed to find a cold shower with a detachable head, a cold grassy field, or, more recently, the Atlantic Ocean (desperate measures). But, those are stories for future days.
And therein lies day three.
[Surge stats: 25.17 km, 276 floors, 41686 steps]
PenLoper 