New Valley Hills

It rained, oh lordy it rained last night. I got soaked coming into Lynton and setting up camp. There was a pub next door with a coal fire I could smell. I couldn’t resist the draw of warmth so headed there for a couple of beers which I made last as long as possible. Somehow dodged the rain back to the tent. The West Lyn River poured all night and the rain pounded my tent. In the morning I put wet shoes on with dry socks; by the time I’d walked to the loo my feet were soaked.

I walked east to the second highest point on the whole path.

Visibility was 30m or less. No point in getting the camera out.

Sometime today I enter Somerset. I trudge on, my soaked clown shoes slapping the water up my legs. Yesterday I’d noticed that the poncho, while good, wasn’t entirely waterproof. I’d been snagged by gorse and low trees many times, maybe it’d been damaged. From the off today I wore my waterproof jacket under the poncho as a second layer of defence. It worked, and as it was cold and windy it helped keep the shivers at bay. Luckily an offshore wind meant I was being blown inland.

Oh you poor chap! Uh, oh hello. With my head down I’d nearly walked into an early morning dog walker. I feel so sorry for you, he said, not because of my bedraggled state but because I was missing the best views in his opinion of the entire path from St.Ives. He was so persuasive I reckon I should return in kinder weather for a couple of days for Combe Martin to Porlock.

The narrow path through the gorse becomes a stream. I start off edging either side but quickly get tired of the slow progress. I resign myself to wetter feet and slap through the water.

As soon as I get off the exposed moorland into woods the rain stops. The woods run for miles, hours of them and are beautiful. The trees shiver in the wind sending first acorns down onto me, then chestnuts. A squirrels paradise!

Once the rain stops other hikers appear. A couple of guys doing it a weekend at a time when they can match diaries; a lone women setting off for a week’s walking down to Barnstaple.

I’d been told yesterday by a friendly couple at a shared cafe table there was a good cafe in Porlock Weir. The Harbour Gallery and Cafe served me hearty fish chowder then date and walnut cake.

I rang my last campsite who’d not responded to email from two days ago. No, we’re closed he said – we have no hard standing and the site is waterlogged. Not even for a backpacker on foot I ask? Oh, you’ll be fine, do come along.

With a spring in my step, and the hint of blue sky and a couple of warming rays from the sun I head to Porlock.

Porlock has three pubs, and this sign

I settle into one pub for a couple of these

The chippy next to the campsite does me chips with steak and ale pie. I go to bed with a full warm stomach.

A friend pings me a message asking how I feel on my penultimate day. I reply loads of emotions running through me. It’s gonna take a while to process.
At the mo I’m relieved, but tinged with envy when passing hikers going the other way just starting out.

Tomorrow is just 9 miles to Minehead. The forecast is for sunshine and no rain, I’ve washed my socks and dried them over the water pipes of the hot water system for showers, and Lisa is driving down to meet me at the finish.

My thoughts turn to friends, in particular Pete Huskins. He hadn’t made it through the Covid pandemic, his mental health wasn’t up to the challenges and he fell through the usual social nets that were unavailable at that time. Last night for the second year a group of his friends got together to remember him on his birthday. As I was walking I couldn’t be there in person though I spent the day recollecting good times with him.

RIP Pete. 24th March 2020. ❤️