Paignton to Plymouth

 Well, I did it. And it was a fantastic experience. Here's the diary I wrote.

Friday 24 May

Day 0: Packing, fretting and missing connections

I spent a final half-hour or so at home, making anxious last-minute decisions about what to pack. I scuttled up and down stairs, fretting that I'd forgotten something. I tentatively picked up my full pack for the first time - good grief it was heavy! But once on properly it felt fine. I weighed it on the bathroom scales at 16.5kg - I had guessed much heavier.

Catching the train at Romsey

Lucas kindly drove me to Romsey station. The train was advertised as being 8, then 9, then 10 minutes late and I got nervous about catching my connection, but this wasn't a problem. However the next leg from Romsey to Exeter got held up at Crewkerne and the connection at Exeter for the Paignton train was reduced from 16 minutes to 1 minute. When the door opened a few of us charged along the platform, up the stairs (a good test with the rucksack) and on to the appointed platform to find that we had missed the train by about a minute. Bugger.

I ate my picnic supper in the waiting room and caught the next train to Paignton. This was possibly the nicest UK railway journey that I'd ever done as much of it was along the coastline around Dawlish and then along the north side of the Teign estuary.

The coastal view from the train

From Paignton station it was a 5-minute walk to the wonderfully-named St Weonards B&B which is simple, clean and a bargain at £40.

Last time I'll see one of these for a while

Saturday 25 May

Day 1: Coastal fractality

I woke up at about 5 and tried to back to sleep but failed. An hour later I got up, showered and had stroll around Paignton seafront. It was full of classic Victoriana - tall hotels, little pleasure gardens and promenades all looking very jolly in the sparkling early morning light. Unbelievably, a cinema complex had been built right on the edge of the prom, ruining the view for a whole section of the seafront properties.

Paignton pier and seafront

Why?

I had ordered a packed breakfast from St W at 7am. It was a bit underwhelming. The bacon butty was nice and the banana went down well, but the sweet yogurt was awful and there was a bottle of water - why? I left the water untouched in the room, heaved my pack on, dropped off the keys and set off.

South of Paignton there were some beautiful coves. There were lots of wetsuited swimmers around with colourful floats bobbing behind them. The terrain was benign and the sunshine was scintillating. 

But after about an hour of walking I nearly came to grief. My left foot slipped downhill on dewy grass and my right leg folded beneath me as I sank awkwardly to the ground, propelled by the extra weight. I lay on the grass for a moment wondering whether this was going to be ignominious curtains for my trip on the first morning. Tentatively, setting off knee (the right one, which has always bit a bit tender) was not terribly pleased, but thankfully nothing bad seemed to have happened.

Taken moments before slipping

The first stop was Brixham, which was looking lovely. On the outskirts I passed a water station - Brixham had been in the news for its sewage-contaminated water. The chaps serving the water were cheerful as I drank a full litre and then refilled with another. I stopped for a very pleasant coffee on the seafront reading a newspaper (adding both volume and weight to my pack, but hey) and then carried on south.

Water and coffee in Brixham

Berry Head was beautiful. I did a little detour into the Napoleonic fort to take a last look at Paignton before heading on a to a long, long section of comparative wilderness. The hills became more pronounced and my km pace reduced from about 12 to about 15 minutes. There was a lot of hand-on-thigh action (as it were) and very cautious steep ascents and descents on fearsome steps and sections of rocky path. I stopped a couple of times for food, water and a map check.

View of Paignton from Berry Head

Various views around Scabbacombe Head

Mew Rocks, visible for miles along the trail

The forecast was for the sun to turn to rain in the afternoon. By about 1pm the skies of blue were giving way to haze and light cloud. I was very glad to round a headland and see Slapton Sands in the far distance, and in front of it the mouth of the Dart estuary. Nevertheless, it took ages to get to Kingsbridge on a section of highly fractal and topographically challenging path. I was weary by the time I arrived in Kingsbridge where I chatted at the ferry dock with a lady who had walked the whole of the SWC path.

Approaching the Dart estuary

Hello Dartmouth

There was a bit of a wait for the ferry, and the temperature had dropped. Across the water in Dartmouth I bought a bag of apples and some cereal bars and then had a very welcome pasty and coffee before setting off and totally failing the navigation test. The coastal path signs, which had been so reliable until this point, let me down and it seemed like ages later when I finally got out into open land. There were a few sharp hills but nothing on the scale of the previous section. I t was spitting with rain as I left Dartmouth but my raincoat came off again as the weather offered a reprieve.

I was delighted to see Stoke Fleming village on the horizon. It took quite a while to get there (I was learning not to be fooled by apparent distances) but the slopes were more undulating than horrifying.

As I arrived at SF, the rain reasserted itself, I had spent the day wondering where on earth I was going to spend the night, feeling a bit of trepidation about the wet weather forecast, and I decided to try my luck with a campsite. I enquired at a site called St Leonards which had spaces, and even better an ideal low wall with which to make a lean-to with my tarpaulin. I would have felt a bit of a charlatan to have bailed and gone for a cosy bed on my first night of the trip.

Shelter v1

I had a shower (which was wonderful) and found a busy local pub where I'm writing this while charging my phone and watch. I'll read the paper over a second pint and then try out a bit of home cooking, also known as a rehydrated ready meal. The stone baked pizza menu here looks fabulous, but this is a mini-expedition, not a holiday.

Night 1: Noddy to the rescue

I got back to my campsite in drizzly rain to find a layer of damp over everything. There was a bit of gap between the tarp and the wall and it wasn't looking very clever. I bagged and stashed things as well as I could, and fired up the Trangia to heat some water.

And then a familiar face appeared at the end of the tarp. It was a bloke I'd briefly chatted to when I arrived. He had black stud earrings, cropped grey hair and an improbably deep Midlands voice. Even more improbably, he introduced himself as Noddy. 'I've got a big tarpaulin' he announced. 'Would you like to borrow it to keep you dry?

Together we pinned one edge of his tarp to the stone wall with breeze blocks and the other edge to the ground with tent pegs. It was a vast improvement. It did, however, make it very dark inside, so once the water had boiled I made my up my rehydrated rice and dahl and ate it in the washroom and read there until it was almost dark.  I settled down into my sleeping bag. I got to sleep quite quickly but spent a chunk of the night awake listening in alarm to the blasts of wind and rain hammering down on the tarpaulin, and hoping that a breeze block wouldn't come off and land on me.

Shelter v2. Many thanks Noddy.

Saturday  26 May

Day 2: Wild coast 1, Salcombe 0

I woke up at 5 and the rain and wind had ended. I spent what seemed like ages pfaffing around getting everything packed up, a good portion of it quite damp, and trying out my first pack of vegetable noodles for breakfast. I left at about 6:50, and it promptly started to rain. What lucky timing.

There were a few tasty hills to climb in the first hour or so, I met two hearty guys who were doing a similar trek the other way from Plymouth to Dawlish. Their packs were way smaller than mine. We've got micro-tents, they explained, leaving me very envious and conscious of my heavy load.

Sun, rain and tasty hills

I'd been looking forward to walking the long flat stretch of Slapton Sands, but it felt relentless and the tiny buildings at Torcross never got any bigger. On eventual arrival I had a nice chat with some bloke about the incredibly moving and poignant tank commemorating Operation Tiger, anticipating a coffee and a bite in Torcross or Beesands, the next stop. But at each stop I was 30 minutes ahead of opening time, and I didn't want to add delays to what was going to be a long day. I sopped briefly at Beesands for some munchies (peanuts, cereal bar, apple), refilled my water and carried on.

Excitements on an otherwise relentless Slapton Sands

The next section heading towards Start Point was familiar from previous Endurancelife races. By this point - confounding the weather forecast - the sky was clear and it was warming up. Rounding Start Point, the sea abruptly changed from tranquil to lively. The scenery was terrific.

Heading to Start Point

Lively sea on the south shore

Andy W from work had urged me to stop for a pint at the Pig's Nose Inn in East Prawle, which was set back from the coast. It's the sort of place where Blur sometimes rock up to perform a set, he had told me. Thinking this would work well for lunch, I trudged up, and up, the hill. I was feeling tired, hungry and grumpy. Blur had better be playing, I thought darkly. The whole area around the pub was rammed with a village fete. It was very jolly, but I wasn't in the mood. I bought a giant sausage roll, a pastry and a coffee from the Piglet café. It was excellent and it buoyed me up no end. With renewed vigour, I headed onwards.

The Pig's Nose Inn... another day

The coastline to Salcombe was beautiful, albeit with some very technical rocky sections. I met an old chap who told me that he was on his way to finishing walking the whole of the SWC path a year after losing his wife. As with Dartmouth yesterday, the approach to the estuary was visible for a long time before I arrived. The final sections around the headland were hard-fought - very wiggly and with continual hills.

Approaching the Salcombe estuary

Approaching East Portlemouth, the walker demographic changed from hardy trail folk to to posh beach people. I took a choppy ferry over the water from East Portlemouth and landed in Salcombe.

Now, I don't mean to be rude about Salcombe. But I will anyway. It's the very archetype of London-on-Sea. Particularly in the summer. And even more particularly on a sunny bank holiday weekend. It was densely thronged with

(a) entitled youth sporting Jack Will-type apparel

(b) loud adults in shades and flip flops

(c) the red-trouser class of older folk

I had hoped to scarper straight out of town, but this being the last settlement I'd see for a while, I needed to buy some food, fill up with water and find a bog. Of which meant going in the wrong direction right through all the holiday crowd, do what I needed to do and then head back out again, out of town, past North Beach, then South Beach and the... thank goodness. The light was specular and the landscape spectacular. And it was quiet. What a contrast.

Escape from Salcombe

I was determined to find a campsite for the night, and figured that my best option was to push on a fair way to Bolberry. I was getting very weary and footsore by the time I arrived at Bolberry Down and hobbled down the final steep road to a campsite in the village where I was offered a plot at the Carageen campsite. I didn't have enough signal to respond to an 'are you OK?' message from Mrs S, but eventually I managed to get through.

Night 2: Mark has easily eaten John's roll

After the previous night's experience I was hoping I might be able to nab a sheltered spot. But no. I was directed to Top Field, which was hugely exposed to the brisk west wind. I managed to rig up the tarp to offer some protection when a bloke called John wandered over, introduced himself and invited me to join his gang for beer and leftover barbeque.

The campsite and the view

Another act of unsolicited generosity from strangers. I had a good chat with John, Ollie and Torie and their daughters, but by this stage I was shivering with cold and made a grateful departure. I tried to have a shower, but the 20p coin system wouldn't work for me and I abandoned the idea, returning to my bivvi where I struggled to untwist my bedding and get comfortable. The wind flapped the bivvi nosily, but it didn't keep me awake for long.

Monday 27 May

Day 3: Hungry like the wolf

I was awake before 5. I'd had a fitful night in the flapping wind, but mercifully it had been dry and there was minimal dew. I put on multiple layers against the chill, packed up and went to the kitchen where I microwaved veg noodles, scoffed some other bits and bobs and set on my way back up the slope to Bolberry Down and the cliff.

Early doors

Much of the coastal vista here was familiar from previous trips, not least our stay in Hope Cove a few weeks ago. I walked past the Hill Fort and Hope, where the tide was very high and there was some terrific wave splashing over a coastal wall into the road. I was quite thrilling scuttling past in between waves. I passed a few other lovely beaches before approaching Bentham at about ten to nine. The first ferry across the estuary was at ten, so I had an enforced wait.

Hope Cove, Bentham and Bigbury

Ferry dock at Bentham

This wasn't so bad, except that the bench was out of the sun and it was still chilly. I ate some snacks, and then I ate some more, and I realised that I was famished. A cheerful taxi driver took three of us across the river to the Bigbury side. I still felt in need of further energy, and I knew this could be my last food and drink opportunity for a while so I stopped at the excellent beach café for a wrap, a toasted teacake and a coffee. It was delicious. Energised, I headed off.

There was some wonderful wild coastline on the next stretch with challenging hills. One steep downhill I realised that one of my toenails, which I'd forgotten to cut before the trip, was slicing into another toe. It was agony. I had to perform some emergency toenail surgery with my penknife... instant relief.

There's something very exciting about approaching a coastal headland and anticipating the views around the corner. I had this feeling as I neared the Erme estuary. A false bend, then another one, and then a glorious view. It wasn't far from this point to the the fabled foot crossing which, the written advice warned, could only be attempted within an hour of low tide. It was now nearly one and low water - a spring - was at three.

Erme estuary

Another wait. I gladly took my boots and socks off and enjoyed being on the sandy beach. At about 1:50 I reckoned it was worth attempting the crossing. With a boot in each hand, I walked over a large stretch of rippled sand and approached the Erme river.

Basic hydrological knowledge told me not to cross at a narrow section. I moved along the river until it was suitably wide, and therefore shallow, and stepped in, initially ankle deep. As I approached the outer bend of the meander the water was up to my knees and then my thighs, now whooshing past. It was quite a job staying upright, but the exciting moment quickly passed as I climbed out on the other side and attempted to dry my feet and get my socks back on without too much sand in them.

Onwards! I was determined to get to Newton Ferrers by the evening where I was confident that I'd find somewhere to stay - a campsite or a bed if necessary. The weather forecast wasn't great. The first section was quite hilly and technical. I finished all my water and felt a wee bit vulnerable but there was nothing I could do but press on. After a spell of light rain the sun came out and I had to stop to put my hat on.

At some point the coastal trail changed from gorsey, brackeny footpath to a wider made track that had been built - but not recently used - for vehicles. The slopes were gentler and the pace quicker but it wasn't particularly absorbing or interesting. My feet were really starting to ache and I was longing to stop.

Rewilded fencepost

Eventually I rounded a headland and headed east into the Yealm estuary, which was wonderfully blue. dotted with moored yachts and ringed with verdant forest. I followed the path gently downhill, eventually arriving in Noss Mayo on the south side of the Yealm, facing Newton Ferrers. I stopped at a pub for a pint and a water refill and to ask about accommodation options. The landlord shook is head. 'Your only option is Yealmpton, six miles away', he told me. 

First view of the Yealm

Night 3: Seeking sanctuary

Yikes. I stared at the map and thought about my options. I initially started heading uphill to find a local farm and set up camp, but I then reflected that with rain on the way I would be setting myself up for a damp, lonely, windswept night. I turned around and walked around the top of the estuary to Newton Ferrers on the other side, which turned out not to be a town, but a sleepy village. The campsite shown on my map was gone, and the locals looked blank when I asked about accommodation. I looked around me, looking for inspiration. I saw a church. Could the graveyard be my sanctuary?

I found a cosy corner, sheltered by a horse chestnut tree and a very unobtrusive spot. Up went the tarp, which I had to adjust a couple of times to reduce exposure to the persistent light rain. It did the job. The church was locked, but the porch was open and I left a tenner rolled up in the lock, which felt like the right thing to do. I cooked up a dehydrated chilli con carne - really not bad - and ate it with gusto on a bench. It was now 8 o'clock - too early to call it a night. I left my pack inside the tarp and headed off to The Dolphins, NF's only pub. It was warm and welcoming and I enjoyed the chance to read for an hour or so before heading back for the graveyard shift.

Cosy corner

Tuesday 28 May

Day 4: Final ferries and fivers

I managed to sleep - on and off - till about 7am. Throughout the night I'd been aware of of sporadic bursts of drips falling from the tree, but luckily it was barely raining as I slithered out of my (slightly damp) sleeping bag, packed up and made my last noodle breakfast. I'd checked out NF's only cafe the night before, which was just around the corner. To get onto the Wembury peninsular I needed to catch a ferry, but this didn't start till ten, so I spent an hour in the cafe enjoying a delicious second breakfast.

I was at the ferry dock in good time. I was lucky, as it was a one-man operation, and the bloke said he was only going to work for a short stint in this drizzly weather, and please could I tear down the notice advertising the 10-4 service? He wanted cash payment, and luckily I had a fiver.

Damp!

Bailing the ferry

From here it was relatively easy going to Plymouth, with just a few hills. I met a couple of folk who were planning circular expeditions, making use of the ferry. I warned them of the changed plans. The rain had just about stopped, but the the air was heavy with moisture and the views were muted. I met a couple of National Trust blokes cutting back the path vegetation and thanked them for what they do. I've been so impressed by the way the coastal path is maintained.

Views around Wembury

Cracking tale of Great Mewstone rock

Fine chaps keeping the path walkable

There were plenty of steps around Staddon Point as I entered Plymouth Sound. City views opened up and I had a bit of a job finding the ferry dock at Mount Batten. My last crossing took me across the Cattewater, stopping briefly at a four-rigger sailing ship to pick up a bunch of friendly Swedish teenagers who had just returned from Florida and Bermuda. 

On the ferry, heading for the four-rigger

Hello Plymouth

Walking through busy Plymouth was a bit of a culture shock. I walked from the historic wharf area through a bleak shopping precinct boarded up for regeneration where I gave my last fiver to a grateful but forlorn-looking youth in an underpass, who told me that the council had confiscated his tent. I caught the train to Exeter - again, via the wonderful Dawlish coastal section - but had to wait a couple of hours in Exeter as a fatality on the line had messed up all the services heading towards London and my split ticket meant I couldn't take an alternative route.

I arrived at Romsey station about 8pm. I hobbled along the platform to be met by Sue, having developed a really rather nasty blister under the ball of my left foot, feeling really rather feral in sunburnt, unwashed and unshaven state.

It had been an absolute blast and a real privilege to spend a few days immersed in spectacular landscapes. I had spent much of it alone but never lonely, and my encounters with strangers had been full of kindness and generosity. A successful and memorable mini-expedition!