Walking to Stand Still

Good night’s sleep under Wilson at Mount Folly Farm and the owner, John, woke me up at 9.30 this morning driving past and shouting out if I was ok. I got up and had breakfast on the front – which consists of one building. This is another shot looking down from the site.

I walked back towards the bay that I’d not been able to cross the previous day and then retraced my steps to Bigbury on sea. This region is on the cusp between the bright red sandstone of Devon and the grey slate of south East Cornwall. Here you can see it in successive cliffs, the closest and furthest being slate and the middle distance cliff having the red hue of the sandstone.

I came back east to beyond the campsite to check out the ferry across the River Avon but couldn’t find the ferry point. I wandered upstream looking for a place to ford across at low tide tomorrow lunchtime but it was too deep even though it was not particularly wide. However it does swell with the tide and this is the river where the swans were crossing the road on last night’s blog.

I found the ferry point and the sign said it ran from April to 20th September, last Saturday. Bugger!

I climbed the river cliff up to the farm campsite and had a shower. No idea what to do tomorrow as the walking option was to walk all the way round the estuary (again!) and lose the best part of another day.

John the farm owner drove past and I told him the problem. Even at the lowest tide the sand is so soft in the estuary that you sink in trying to cross and won’t get very far, particularly with a pack. John said that ‘Frank’ would wake me up tomorrow and give me a lift to the other side of the estuary. Frank isn’t well and would welcome the activity. How kind can people down here get?

I’m glad I’ve not been pushing on today, my hip hurts as does my back and my legs were very weak this morning. I needed this relative rest without having to carry the rucksack. Everything happens for a purpose.

What is it about rock pools that holds such a fascination whether we’re three or sixty three? Not that I’m sixty three yet – if that’s where your uncharitable thoughts were wandering. I’m only just sixty Fathead.

I don’t want this to be a blog where I just do nature photos and cack-on about how beautiful everything is, but…….. Cop this tiny butterfly.

Neither do I want to be crapping on all the time about the weather but I didn’t wear a T shirt today. I haven’t got any long trousers or a jacket, just one long sleeved cotton shirt and my waterproof top, plus shorts and T shirts. The weather so far has respected this absence and been glorious every day for more than three weeks. I’ve just taken this photo – cop this for late September!

But it’s getting dark earlier and cooler at night so it’s only a question of time before the turn. I’ll wait for Frank and then soon I’ll be close enough to our mate Ziva in Totnes, where I can stay there and get buses out to cover the sections of the path round her way for a few days. Without a heavy rucksack! How fantastic will that be? I need to make up time.
Thanks for reading this blog. Your interest keeps me going.