Plymouth to Wembury, Wembury (second blog today)

We’re the famous Sheff United and we’re going to Wembury.

We were moving camp today, round to Farmer John’s place at Mount Folly Farm in Bigbury on Sea, back over the Cornish border into Devon. Farmer John is the man who found me leaning against his farm gate eleven years ago. I was exhausted, hungry and tired. I was nearly finished. He gave me a camping space and reappeared, after I’d strapped my tarpaulin up, with a pig’s trotter. Food rarely comes better tasting or more welcome. Then he joined me at the end of the walk, piped into Poole by a brass band.

I hope he’s ok. Neither of us is young.

Che wrapped up our tent and the Kilby’s wrapped up theirs. Then David drove us to Plymouth and we picked up the Coast Path where I’d left off last Friday. Che wrapped up our stuff and formed the advance party to Bigbury.

Plymouth is a game of four halves. Industrial, residential, Naval and touristical. All the others ended in al so touristic had to as well.

It’s messy in areas and beautiful in others but overall ok is the highest rating I could give it if asked.

This is quite a huge stone rhino, there is another one that I walked past in Puerto Banus, one of Salvador Dali’s creations. Sorry this isn’t clear.

Chantal was excited by the inset post boxes, and this one was a rare example which bore the initials VR. At least 125 years old. Victoria Regina.

Another famous name. How brilliantly was he portrayed by Peter O’Toole. Rhetorical question.

We came round the south eastern headland jutting out into Plymouth Sound. What doesn’t look good when the weather is this kind and the sea is involved. Rhetorical question.

The path then pushes off into the heart of the South Devon coast. And how outrageously beautiful it is,

The journey ended towards Wembury, but it was a good 14 miles yomp and another beautiful day.

After the urban/industrial start through Plymouth the coast was transforming the further east we walked. Becoming lovely.

Wembury was quite a big dormitory of Plymouth, either commuters or second homers. No room for the locals, and it felt dead. There was no bus for two hours, the only pub was shut and Che was a 45 minutes drive away.

She responded by coming straight out, after we had ummed and aahed about calling her for an hour.

She took us back to Plymouth, we collected the Killers’ car and we headed home. They pitched their tents and Che finished cooking her signature dish, chicken in sherry with garlic.

Kismet Hardy.

Night night.