Noss Mayo – Bigbury-on-Sea
Having pondered it a little bit, I’m going to claim this as my most adventurous day on the swcp. It’s not every day you have to wade through feet-deep seaweeď and ford a freezing cold river.
I knew it was going to be a super long day, and, still lurgyfied, I was running a fever, nautious, coughing uncontrolably, and my energy levels were swimming with the bottom-feeder fishes, but if I waited a day the advancing tide would make it too late the ford at the Erme River and still get to any form of accommodation. Figuring it was now or never, I made it ‘now’.
This was my view when I woke up. So pretty and green.
Noss Mayo isn’t technically on the swcp, but it wasn’t a hardship to walk along the town’s tidal quay…
…and the sweet autumnal trail…
…to the slipway where the summer ferry crosses from the Wembury side of the Yealm.
Eventually the official path was underfoot. This first stretch is terrifically easy because it follows an old carriage drive that steadily rises around the Gara Point headland, all the way to Stoke, where I crossed paths with a retired gentleman who relished telling me all about his adventures climbing and hiking in the Alps and spending months mapping the rivers and fjords and mountains of northern Norway where he was embraced by the local Sami people. We agreed that having ample supply of pubs at the end of each day’s hike beat hard rations, hands down.
Check out these amazing rocks. Seeing shale like this tells me I’m back in Devon for sure.
And these rocks remind me of roaring winter waves. So fierce!
The cattle in the area looked happy, but…
…I’m not sure if I’d want to drink from this water trough.
Eventually the path lead down through The Grove…
…to Meadowsfoot beach, where this curious building is perched above the seaweed strewn sands…
…that slipped and squelched beneath my feet. This experience definitely crossed the line between deliciously disgusting to just plain disgusting. Not even my poor sticks could help me out here. It’s a minor miracle that I didn’t topple over.
Meadowsfoot is the prelude to Erme Mouth where I’d have to wait for the window of an hour either side of low tide to wade across. Then I’d still have three hours hike to Bigbury.
Low tide was due at 1609 and it was going on 1445, so I stripped off shoes, socks, and trousers, and secured all electronics in my little waterproof stuff-sack – no need to tempt fate – and away I went across the wide mudflats.
I wasn’t all that worried about feeling the cold – a few minutes walk would have my blood re-warmed – but healthy feet are so important to a hiker. They’d so far got me all the way around North Devon and Cornwall with nothing but hot spots and a few blisters to concern me. This mudflat, though, had hidden dangers – sharp rocks and shells could easily pierce sock-soft skin, and with numb feet I wouldn’t know till it was far too late.
Yes! Feet intact! Phew! You can all rest easy now.
By this time, I’d pretty much used up all my energy reserves, but I had little choice but to push on, up and over broad, rolling pastures, offering lovely views to the east. Once Burgh Island (situated just off the coast from Bigbury-on-Sea) came into view, I had my eye on the prize, but it took horrendously long to get there. First The Beacon, then Hoist Point, then Toby’s Point. All that got me up those deceptively steep pastures was willpower and the knowledge that I had a bed waiting for me at the other end.
With the light gradually fading, I pushed to go as fast as loperly possible, but nothing could distract from the amazing scenery. I love the silvery sheen of late afternoon light on this stream.
On one necessary short break I played a scintilating game called ‘guess how many sheep’. Feel free to play.
Eventually, the weirdly metronomic Challaborough Bay Holiday Park (rows and rows of dentist-office-green units) came into view and I knew I was almost home free. Such a relief!
Bigbury was a measley fifteen minute walk uphill from Challaborough, leaving my last challenge for the day finding my B&B with no Google maps and no phone connection. The only human I saw as I walked through town dashed inside and shut their door at my approach. Stressing ever so slightly as the sky quickly turned pink then purple then orange then red, I finally found the B&B and dropped The Beast joyfully.
When told the only pub in town was across the sand bar on Burgh Island (made famous by Agatha Christie who wrote one of her novels there), I admitted defeat – there was no way I was stepping one foot further. Gracious hosts, Kim and Tony, took pity in my suffering and offered a mug of Lemsip flu, a huge bowl of spaghetti bolognese, and a can of Carling lager – not the most obvious combination. I practically inhaled it all before soaking in a deep, hot bath, and burrowing under the covers for a well-deserved sleep. Bliss.
Stats: 36668 steps; 160 floors; 25.45 km
PenLoper 