This morning we drove to South Haven Point where the ferry comes over from Sandbanks, which Farmer John was taking at 8.20 to come over to meet us.

Together we drove back to Swanage, ready and primed like coiled springs, for the final day’s walk. Gregg’s bacon rolls and hot drinks were the order of the day, before setting off for our 7 mile hike. No Flo you don’t have to come with us. Don’t look so unhappy!

John at 80 and me, a mere stripling at 70, cut a dash. Along the beach and up the cliffs towards Old Harry Rocks.

We did this together 11 years ago and we have promised to do it again in 10 years time when we are 90 and 80 respectively. Although this may be all that is left of me by then.

Two comrades in arms who have both lost good friends to Prostate Cancer.

Old Harry joined us round the next corner.

John was great company, talking to me about the history of the Tuckers in East Prawle, the Spanish Armada and how it failed, rescue of shipwrecked sailors at Prawle Point, Cauliflower growing and all manner of interesting things.

I loved this dance through John’s memory, swirling around subjects and drifting into the distant past. Summers gone by as a lad. The value of friendships that grew and went separate ways.

He had brought us a carrier bag on the ferry. Inside were four cauliflowers. John’s own.

All dances must end. The last beach was for naturists. Hundreds of them. We strode respectfully along the shoreline. Surprisingly I’m not going to write anything at which people from younger generations may find offence. Although they find offence at the most innocent things. Needless to say this is the place where the big knobs hang out together.

Childish. Ridiculously childish.

The day was moving on. This is looking back at the last beach. Walking along it John and I talked of the friends we have lost to Prostate Cancer, and some who have survived. The emotion we felt thinking about them.

Then we were there. At the end of a long trail from Minehead.

Che met us at the final point.

I get the feeling that we will meet again in 2035!

Thanks for reading this blog. I hope it has entertained you. Thank you for your kind donations. Until the next time. And I’ll end, fittingly, with a photograph of my mate Chip when we were climbing in Spain and he was happy and excited. We might meet again if there is something after this. If there isn’t then thank you for the fun we had. A privilege and a pleasure my love.

To give to Prostate Cancer UK please click on the link.

https://www.justgiving.com/fundraising/blade-goes-west-again-60145

Night night.

My sister and I packed up the tent and gear into the van and took off for Kingston, where Che would drop me off, then repitch at our final campsite in Swanage. We passed a breakfast van where we had coffee and a bacon and egg sandwich. Because I was doing a charity walk the lad gave me a second sandwich for free. No wonder I’m putting on weight.

I was dropped at Kingston and the view looking back to Corfe Castle and Poole beyond was a belter.

I was clear of the MOD land, although the sound of machine gun fire in the distance signalled that manoeuvres had restarted. Heading due south I came back to the South West Coast Path via a path across farmland which dropped down a very steep hill.

And then it climbed back up the other side. This is looking back across the MOD land.

This memorial was built to honour and remember all those Royal Marines who were killed between 1945 and 1990. It means a lot to me. My cousin was a Royal Marine and wasn’t killed in action but was killed by Prostate Cancer. Let’s hope that through research we can eventually stop this killer illness.

Sadly the sound of the machine guns and tanks echoed clearly along the coast, indicating that we still haven’t found a just and lasting peace. And these brave lads will have to continue their service to protect our country.

After a very deep drop, and a 240 step climb back up, I came to St Aldhelm’s chapel.

St Aldhelm lived around these parts in the 600s AD.

Moving on the coast never failed to disappoint. It was stunning.

Eventually turning towards Swanage just after the Anvil Point Lighthouse.

Swanage is a decent place. Our campsite was a decent site. This walk was a lovely walk, particularly after the MOD debacle of the previous day. And the sun shone warm upon our faces.

Night night.

Che had made tomatoes stuffed with spicy mayonnaise and prawns on a green salad the night before and it was divine.

Colin left for home this morning. Sad to see him go. He’s the most enthusiastic bloke I know.

I set out for Kimmeridge, some 9 miles away, and immediately the path threw itself uphill. It was overcast but still warm and I got a sweat on underneath my day sack. It’s uncomfortable when you stop, take your day sack off and then have to put it back on a cold, wet tee shirt.

Goodbye Portland Bill!

The cliffs fell away straight away, without any access to the sea, so there was no scope for walking along the shoreline.

The coast path rollercoasted. And was tattooed by the path, white on green. The pitches were steep and by Durdle Door I was ready to stop and catch upon my blogs.

But another couple of lurching hump backed hills had to be climbed before I could reach somewhere with a beer, available plug for the recharger and Wi-Fi. Which was the Lulworth Cove Inn.

I was tired after the previous day’s 18 miles of ridge climbing and marching. The challenging cliff path this morning meant that I needed half an afternoon resting. And dear Che came to pick me up.

Well, that’s what she should do. She’s my sister and has a siblingly obligation to ferry me about like Little Lord Fauntleroy. Let’s have a vote on this matter. All in favour say Aye. Aye. The Ayes have it.

After a decent night’s kip Che took me up to Lulworth Cove, where I walked from the village, round the tumbling cliffs surrounding it and over the back to the sea.

And then I was screwed. There is a massive MOD firing range just past Lulworth and it was closed off to the public. The gates on the fence were locked, red flags flew and the sound of machine gun fire bounced down the coast. The fence extended way out over the cliffs so I couldn’t climb round, as I had in Cape Wrath years ago when there were NATO manoeuvres and I swung round over the cliffs there. But then I was a young lad of 62 with a crazy dream.

I rang the number printed on the warning signs and the bloke who answered said I couldn’t get across for the next four days due to extensive tank manoeuvres. I had to retrace my steps for a mile or so and cut inland, past some cracking wild ponies.

The fencing went on and on. All paths were cut off like this one so I had to cut way inland to West Lulworth and follow the road around the MOD land, for 12 miles.

By this time the machine guns and heavy artillery fire were extremely loud coming down the valley behind the coastal cliffs, and it was filling with smoke.

Then even the roads were closed so I had to go further inland again. The saving grace was that I got a decent view of Corfe Castle as I passed by.

From here it was a quick two mile March to Kingston and I was at The Scott Arms, where Che picked me up. We got some fish and chips and an early night. And lived to fight again tomorrow!

Night night.

Thank you, thank you, thank you, thank you.

Chip’s family have told me that he would be proud of what I’m doing. I’m proud of everyone who has donated on my Just Giving page. Thanks to you, and including Gift Aid, the total donated to Prostate Cancer UK is over

£4,000.

Hooraaaaaayy!!!!

If anyone wishes to donate to this worthy cause then click on this link.

https://www.justgiving.com/fundraising/blade-goes-west-again-60145

Please. XXX

Pretty please.

I’m not far off having walked 600 miles and good friends have been here to support me. David Kilby and his missus Chantal, Colin Burgin, my sister Chedeborah and the crazy woman Sandra Lyons, who completed her leg with guts. Well, she left a lot of her guts on the path as fresh air and exercise took its toll on the old lass!

But today Matthew I will be walking with Colin over a variant of the South West Coast Path, which teams up with the Dorset Ridgeway. This route is 18 miles of walking through ancient history. Starting at West Bexington. Come on Col. Get off your arse there’s walking to be done!

On another beautiful day.

Halfway up the hill the realisation dawned on us that we wouldn’t find anywhere providing food or drink until Osmington Mills. And nowhere here was open. We passed The Manor House, whose sign said it was open for food after noon. I popped into the garden and asked someone who appeared to be in charge if they could provide breakfasts for two non-residents. Umm aah yes! Life saver.

What a breakfast! Thanks Col!

Then we’re on our way again, burdened by bacon, beans, black pudding and baps. Boom boom!

Just about the entire Jurassic coast in this photograph.

Our first historic encounter. Summat reyt old.

Then walking the ridge line south eastwards we passed numerous tumuli, the resting places of Bronze Age and Iron Age leaders. Important people interred on the highest land in the whole of Dorset.

This is Colin looking forward to a yomp.

The small plateau here is surrounded by a defensive ditch and split between ordinary folk and a smaller place for the chief. 3,000 years ago. Chesil beach, top right, containing a long lagoon and leading to Portland Bill in the distance. Those Ancient Britons knew how to pitch a room with a view.

There were so many more tumuli, this ridge was clearly a sacred site. The path narrowed on occasions and we were stung harshly by nasty nettles.

Our next target was the Hardy Memorial Tower. Contrary to what springs to mind about this part of the world the tower is a memorial to Thomas Hardy the Vice-Admiral who conducted the British fleet against the French and Spanish in the Napoleonic wars. Not Thomas Hardy of Far from the Maddening Cloud fame. The Tower was on the highest point of the ridge.

And the view from the top was breathtaking.

We started down the last 10 miles of ridge towards the sea east of Weymouth. The weather was continuing dry, breezy and warm. Perfect.

Looking back the Tower was still standing, scratching the sky.

Over to the west, to our right, Portland Bill was bathing in the sun.

In front of us the ridge rose again for one last time.

Only to drop down to Osmington, from where we could see the white (grey) horse and rider.

And within 15 minutes we were marching past our tents, and on to The Smugglers Rest next to the beach at Osmington Mills. Seven hours and 18 miles since we set off. A great day!

Night night.

We were moving campsites today. Colin had his tent and car and Che had our tent and car. So we had two tents and two cars. If Colin didn’t have a car but had two tents, how many cars and tents would we have?

🚙 + ⛺️ + ⛺️ + ⛺️

Che was packing the van and me and Colin took off and decided to drive down the coast and get a bus back to Seatown. We parked the car and ran to the bus stop, hoping the bus was late. Colin realised that he’d left his walking poles in the car and dashed back for them. I couldn’t see if the bus was coming or not as the bus stop was on a blind bend. So I crossed the road to get a clear view, just as the bus came belting round the corner and ignored my waving.

We walked back to the car and drove it back to Seatown. Never mind. Rather than taking the cliff path we walked on the beach, which was pebbly and quite muscle draining.

But the pebbles got bigger and bigger until we ended up clambering over boulders. We couldn’t climb up the cliffs and it was too far to rewind our steps, so we carried on clambering, for an hour and a half.

There was some cracking iron pyrite though and any future fossil finding jaunt would be centred on this relatively inaccessible location.

Eventually the boulders gave way to pebbles again and we walked in to West Bay, the coastal suburb of Bridport. With great views inland.

Coffee, scones, fried fish and lemonade. We know how to live.

Then off along the beach again.

It was a couple more hours before the cliffs shrank away and we were walking on the impressive swathe of Chesil Beach.

Looking at the timetable we realised we were cutting it very tight for the next bus, which would arrive two hours before the one after. So we legged it up the hill from West Bexington. A couple in a car stopped and gave us a lift up to the bus stop. Hooray!

Eventually we made it back to the car and on to our new campsite the far side of Weymouth. For mussels in white wine and cream sauce again. Hooray!

Night night.

We were spirited to the seafront in Lyme in Che’s ex-Britgas blue van, and had breakfast. It’s good doing that and then running on carbs and fat all day. It keeps you in shape.

This lad played in goal for the Blades. He was in the 1902 FA Cup winning team. He once ate 11 breakfasts, which were served out and intended for the whole team, when the others were out just finishing off training. Didn’t do him any harm.

He also got brassed off in a Sheffield Derby when Wednesday fans were giving him some stick. He broke the cross bar of the goal he was keeping and then waded into the pig fans. He laid some of them out. Hero! William ‘Fatty’ Foulke.

We set off after our decent breakfast and made it down to the coast where there was a statue of the great Fossilologist, Mary Anning. She was born in the 1700s and was a star of the fossil world.

We were hooked. The tide was favourable (going out) and we dropped down to the seashore. There were quite a few people who were obviously experienced fossil hunters, and whilst we were only mere trekkers we got an itch. There was an ammonite print on this rock. That did us.

Where do we find fossils? We asked one old dear and she told us to look for iron pyrite. We didn’t know what it was or what it looked like but we gave it a go.

Then after finding bugger all we asked another woman, who explained where we needed to look, what it looked like, how old it was and what it was. Brilliant! She also gave us some fossils that she’d found. Bloody hell. We’re going to get rich!

We worked our way down the shingle. Still not knowing what iron pyrite looked like.

So we went back to the old lass who had given us the fossils, and she showed us what an iron pyrite environment looked like. We were really hooked now!

We spent a few hours working through iron pyrite areas, with great success! Hooray!!!

Ammonites and Belemnites. We’re loaded!

Time passed us by. Our target of West Bay went out of the window, and we revised our terminus to Seatown. Reluctantly we carried on and passed by Charmouth. Needing to make more time, so that we could climb Golden Cap before dark, we set off along the beach/shingle again.

It was a rugged ride along the shoreline and we knew that we were running out of opportunities to get up the cliffs before the tide cut us off. Luckily I was carrying an ancient copy of the Exmouth to Poole book of the SW Coast Path series. An extract of the Ordnance Survey map indicated we might be able to get up this gully and on to the Coast Path up Golden Cap, the highest point on the south coast of England.

We were lucky. We found a rope dangling down the gully and were able to pull ourselves up on it. The problem is at the top, where the gorse is too thick to push your way through, and too spiky. But we found an old path leading away from the top of the rope, which was difficult to negotiate as you need to crawl through vegetation tunnels on occasions. It obviously hadn’t been used for a long time, and eventually we arrived at a wooden stile which told folk coming the other way that the path had been closed permanently for safety reasons. We made it.

After half an hour climbing we made it up Golden Cap. Great views backward…..

And forward. And nestling in the bottom of the next valley was Seatown.

Che picked us up, together with our fossil haul.

Great day.

Night night.

Now today was going to be a long slog but a spectacular one. Sid to Beer to Seaton to Lyme. 17 miles and maybe more. But we were well prepared for it. Che dropped us on the High Street and we found a cafe that provided a superb breakfast. I had bacon, egg and black pudding on two islands of bubble and squeak. Croissants? Cop this you Frenchies!

Sorry Francis. There’s nothing wrong with Croissants but this English breakfast was fandabidosi. Sorry Chantal.

The people working in the cafe were funny. The discussion with customers drifted into a historic landscape of Dick Emery type humour. Nobody was offended and everybody laughed. But those days are gone.

Walking out of Sidmouth was good.

We made half decent time, but it had been a long car journey and we got up a bit late and we had a rip roaring breakfast. So we were behind time. We made some of it up by dropping down and cutting along the beach. Then we found a path that cut up into the cliffs.

This was more tiring than tiring. But we finally ended up at Beer where we were able to have a quick snack.

And then on to Seaton. I felt buggered. I thought that Colin was ready for further action but I was knacked. It was decision time. To pull the plug or put our feet on the gas? Where are utilities when you need them?

We decided to climb up the first cliff and see how we felt. It was horribly steep and took us up through a golf course.

The decision would be irrevocable as the next section of walk to Lyme Regis would take between three and a half and four hours according to the warning sign. There were no exits or paths to the sea or inland. It is the undercliff path, that runs for 7 miles through collapsed cliffs. It is highly challenging, particularly if you set off at 16.00 hundred hours.

We decided to go a bit further before deciding.

Then we were into it. Seven miles of really weird but interesting walk. Occasionally we saw sea cliffs inland of us.

Occasionally we saw views seaward.

But most of the time it was marching over small drops and climbs under a cover of jungle. Occasionally lightened by birdsong but largely silent and oppressive. It was slowly darkening and we saw no-one else on the track after the first half hour.

Up and down in still, warm air we knew we were being observed by someone or something the whole way through. We punched it and got out of the other side after three hours. Down to the bowling club with the Cob behind it. Quintessentially English. Makes older people like me proud of what we were and what some of us still are. British!

We legged it along the front. I sent a quick greeting to our friend Linda, whose ashes grace the hillside leading down to the sea. God bless darling matey.

Che picked us up from a pub and we went back to a really good chilli con carne. With Tempranillo and a good night’s sleep after 18 miles of slog.

Night night.

Colin joined us last night. We met him on the first half of the walk last year in Cornwall where he proved to be very good company, and he was a welcome addition on this leg.

Che dropped us back at Exmouth on yet another beautiful, sunny day. Colin comes from dahn saaarf, is pretty fit and loves long distance walking. He’s Taurean, doesn’t have sugar in his coffee and still plays five a side footy at the age of…………summat 7.

We started a ritual of finding places that do excellent breakfasts, and Exmouth never fails to disappoint on this front. It is half an hour well invested, fuelling up for a big calorie burn off.

Looking back across the Exe the green hills of Devon gave a clue to the origin of the County flag.

Another mile and we were looking back towards Exmouth along a belting beach.

And then looking forward to another beach just before Budleigh Salterton.

Breathe the fresh air. Scratch the screen and you will sniff the aromatic smells of nature. The gorse, the pine and the sea.

Did anyone scratch their screen? Haw haw you gullible monkey!

We were aiming to cover 13 miles today, but it is up and down so it will feel much longer. Straight away the cliffs began to develop.

With both of us appreciating the different rock structures in this area, verging on the Jurassic. It’s bizarre the way the weather has been so good for us all the way from Fowey, and no sign of it deteriorating. Hooray!! The weather and the views are a formidable combination. That’s all I have to say.

Eh?

We fell into a rhythm, with Colin managing to hold back to allow the old lad to set the pace. And we soon made it to Budleigh Salterton, which was a decent looking town/village with the required Edwardian feel to the front.

And an amazing wetland nestling inland for a mile or two, making a brilliant haven for wildlife. We couldn’t cross it down by the coast, even though it narrows to a few yards. It was too deep to wade. So we walked up the valley and crossed the various creeks on bridges, getting amazing real life wildlife episodes along the way.

Two moorhens were training their two or three day chicks to swim in a strong current. We were entranced. Lots of species of water birds were flogging about, as well as big grey mullet working their way through the brackish water looking for food. A great place.

But time was calling and we climbed back up the cliffs and took a detour to the very top, where the ancient Britons had established a hilltop fort with a view. With Sidmouth in the middle distance.

This was a great walk. So much variety and beauty, and entering Sidmouth around the path lodged at the bottom of the cliffs. Just great.

We had done enough today and stopped at Sidmouth. Wonderful day and a big walking day tomorrow. Che picked us up, fed us and tucked us up. Well not tucked us up per se but I didn’t know how to conclude that sentence.

Night night.

Che dropped me at the spot where she picked me up yesterday. The coast path is quite up and down in the first part of this section and I like it. This isn’t the ‘like’ that appears in my love affair with South Devon from Wembury to Dartmouth, St Ives to Penzance and Fowey to Looe. But it’s a decent like.

Anywhere that intersperses national and county flags deserves a like.

Even here the switch to sandstone cliffs has started, as has the aftermath of terrible trembling and tumbling. Alliteration city Arizona.

Breakfast in a box was provided by a cafe only accessible via the coastal path, hanging above a small beach. It was great.

Looking further up, the coast was really good.

And I passed the most prolific fig tree I’ve ever seen!

It’s not a bad coast at all, although my preference is behind and ahead of me. And the cliff route round to Teignmouth is good, with this view looking across the Exe estuary towards Lyme Regis and Chesil Beach, but a few days away yet.

The ferry across to Teignmouth bounced in the breeze and wet us all. Twenty four people huddled like refugees in the small boat across the narrow bay.

When the real refugees bounce twenty miles across the English Channel they must be terrified, soaked, hungry and hypothermic. Poor little buggers. And then scumbags meet them at the shore and shout and scream at them. The inhumanity of this situation does upset me. But it angers me as well. From the beauty of the British coastline my mind wanders to ugly things. Now it’s wandering back.

Mais souviens toi.

Dawlish was the next port of call, with a massive railway running along and above the beach. Providing a flat section of the path.

The path becomes a pavement and I was able to race round to the Exmouth ferry. Horror of horrors, it was cash only, six quid and I only had two. There were no cash points. The lads let me on. Cheers my dears.

And Che was waiting on the other side to take me to a new campsite in Uplyme. What a gem of a sis.

I’m lucky. Very lucky.

Night night.

Che drove me down to Brixham and there was a slight morning after feel to the town. However, the stalls and music stages and temporary bars were being erected.

It was wonderful to walk down the quay and to continue round the coast, clocking the remains of last night’s pirates’ parties. Anagram city Arizona.

Looking back, Brixham looked great in the sun. The pirates were in there somewhere! Resting before today’s shenanigans.

Up the English Riviera from Brixham the path meanders into little coves and it is pleasant.

I like the wild seasides and the places that have a whiff of Edwardian Britain about them.

This is lovely. The grey blue sea slightly rippling. The rocks jutting bottom left. The stunning blue of the sky. A thin strand backed by beach huts perfectly centred in the photo. The sandstone soil with green either side. I love this photo.

Rounding the bay the hoot of a steam train took me back to my childhood. Sometimes the trains hooted like this coming past our house in Heeley, just over the train tracks from the end of Bramall Lane. The steam was filled with soot. There were no cars, or the occasional car. Along Heeley Bottom the trams trundled down their tracks. Daft kids put halfpennies on the rails and the next tram bent them at right angles. But there wasn’t a shop that wouldn’t accept them. I look back to that early phase of my childhood with emotion and sadness, but they were happy and very simple times. Sad at the good things we’ve lost from those days in the fifties. Emphysema, smog, polio, rubble, pipe smoking, caning schoolchildren and outside toilets.

The coast was nice but beyond this Paignton and Torquay weren’t my cup of tea. Give me Brixham on Pirate Day any time.

Che picked me up at Babbacombe, just north of Torquay, and took me back to the campsite after we picked up a gorgeous and spicy Chinese takeaway. Our expenditure is jointly funded onto a card that buys everything related to the two of us. Petrol, campsites, provisions etc etc etc. If we’re flush on it then we can afford a Chinese. We’re flush.

Night night etc etc etc.