The hills turned flat and I set off into Braunton to find breakfast. And what a full Monty this was.

The marshes to the seaward side of Braunton were unremarkable but the main riverside path up to Barnstaple was picturesque, with old, grounded hulks being the des res of the day.

But some were too far gone to be convertible.

The weather was overcast and drizzly on occasions but not wet enough to whip out my waterproofs. There were gaps of blue appearing between the dark, restless clouds and the rucksack is heavy enough to keep me warm most of the time I’m walking.

Inland from the coastal path were marshes, where I managed to see six lesser-spotted birdwatchers in one group.

Barnstaple appeared closer and I knew I was making good time.

Its rugby ground stand confirmed what I’d been told countless times when I was in management.

Crossing the bridge over the river Taw the path turns right and runs down the far side opposite the bank that I’d walked up, then sweeps round a headland to join the estuary of the river Torridge. Before it does there are miles of marsh and beaches. Some with the Devon flag flying proudly.

Six miles out from Barnstaple is the village of Instow, where a ferry transports you over the river to Appledore at high tide. This is a legitimate Coast Path route, like many ferries that I’ll come across, but the tide is low, so that’s added six miles to my journey. Thanks a bunch you dirty tide! That’s cost me!

So I headed up river to the old bridge into Bideford. Hard walking in the chill wind, however warm the photos look.

Arriving in Bideford just in time for the last bus to my campsite I managed to grab a samosa and a sandwich. It was an early pitch, after a 30 minute walk to the site from the bus stop. Worming my way down into my sleeping bag I scoffed my scran and slept well.

Thanks Ian.

Night night.

Let’s hear the moans of an old gimmer.

It was a bit cold last night so I didn’t sleep well.

What’s new you ill-equipped old fart?

Then the walk today was up and down and long.

It’s the South West Coast Path you pillock. Walk round the Serpentine if you want short and flat!

And it’s cold again tonight and a bit windy.

What’s new you ill-equipped old fart?

The campsite was close to the Path so I packed up, dropped down and started walking. There you go. Well, there I was gone.

What can you write that doesn’t feel like a repeat of previous publications?

What’s new you ill-equipped old fart?

OK. I think this is only going one way now. You and I my dear reader have just walked half a mile from the campsite, and the lighthouse at Bull Point has emerged from the cliffs.

As has my first sight of a seal colony.

The day is cool, not cold. Slightly breezy but not windy. Spitting but not raining. Round Morte Point the size of Woolacombe bay spread out in front of me.

Approaching the village it became more lovely.

I celebrated with a pasty and a hot chocolate for breakfast. Well, brunch actually because I had a cold tin of beans for breakfast.

Taking a higher track across the cliffs, rather than the dunes or the beach, I made good time to the far end.

The next view back was Croyde Bay. The hills are becoming smaller for a while.

Round towards Saunton the length of the cliffs past Westward Ho! and out towards Hartland Point was intimidating. But that is the remaining westerly impediment to heading southerly to Cornwall. I couldn’t get it on a single photo and it was distant so not too impressive. Unlike the Union Jack flying over Saunton Sands.

I stuck to the Coast Path heading inland towards Braunton and the gorse was coming into bloom. Even without a full bloom the smell was wonderful.

Then on the path and on road to my next campsite.

Sixty miles done, 551 to go.

Night night.

I’ll blog as usual tonight but someone on the path just asked me for details of the donation site. Here it is! Thank you.

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

The night under my tarp was very difficult. I’ve coped better at minus 18c under the tarp in the Highlands. Well I haven’t because I nearly cried all night and had to build a fire that had no effect. I just mentioned it to generate kudos.

It was cold last neet though. I’ve slipt into my Yorkshire dialect. Last neet I slept fitfully and struggled to get out of bed this morning. When I did the tarp was soaked with dew and my condensed breath. So I stuffed it in my rucksack and went for a full English in Combe Martin! Boy was it good. So was the morning.

I set off after the FE (full English) at 10 am hundred etc etc. Looking back the Great Hangman is just to the right of the photo below and its junior apprentice, the Little Hangman, is to its left.

The day warmed up and my muscles weren’t too bad despite yesterday’s exertions. Today is a grueller too.

Unless I’m mistaken this is a Cuckoo Pint. I haven’t seen one like this for years.

Passing along the coast, and then slightly inland to cross streams and rivers, brings amazing diversity of stunning sights.

Devon does history too. Watermouth Castle is quite impressive.

There are lovely, small, deserted beaches and bays along the way.

And the first view of Ilfracombe is another stunner. And the second, from a hilltop, is too.

For some bizarre reason there is a 20 metres statue of a pregnant woman holding a sword, made by Damien Hirst, and on loan to Ilfracombe harbour for 20 years.

It took a long time to climb up the cliffs along the coast beyond Ilfracombe. I’m cutting the day a bit short as it’s too big a target I set myself and I’m feeling it muscularly today.

Lee Bay was another cracker, and the Path dropped all the way down to the beach. Kicking up the other side I cut across footpaths through the hills leading up to Mortehoe.

This is a great bank of bells. Blue, White and some kind of pinky purple.

It was a good move to get up to Mortehoe, I could pitch the tarp before it got too cold and I’ll get back down to the Path tomorrow to continue my journey.

The sun decided to illuminate the sea around Lundy. This is a beautiful coast.

Night night.

The hotel was just right for me, in need of some refurbishment so I didn’t feel out of place. Built in 1806 and still maintaining some Georgian quality so I felt a bit spoilt. For 30 quid you can’t complain!

Sleep good, breakfast good, weather on waking amazing. Crisp and clear. I needed to join up with the Coast Path as I’d left it last night to go to the campsite, before common sense prevailed and I went to the hotel which was found by my beautiful wife. After breakfast I left my rucksack in my room and jogged down to Lynmouth.

I saw a statue of me in the side of the track.

The tide was slipping out into the Bristol Channel.

I crossed my route from yesterday, to give continuity, and started to climb the winding Coast Path up to Lynton. The Path wends its way across the steepest railway in the world several times before it reaches Lynton.

I collected my kit and checked out of the hotel, heading along the cliff top on a tarmac track.

The first amazing destination en route is the Valley of Rocks. In local legend it is reputed to have been created by the devil himself. It certainly has many wild goats roaming around, which look pretty diabolical.

The route began to drop down to the sea and up to the top of hills. Today was going to be a higher elevation, in total of the ups, than the whole of Ben Nevis from sea level to the summit. In beautiful weather, with beautiful views looking forward and back.

I was loving this walk. My baldy bonce was covered in sun tan lotion, my shoulders, even my poorly one, were handling the cutting weight of the rucksack and my body felt fit. Not that I am particularly but I keep going when I start.

Cutting inland there were mountain streams and waterfalls where I could fill my water bottle.

Floating seaward the views just got better around every corner. I’m awestruck by the beauty of coastal Somerset and Devon. I crossed the Devon border in Lynton. Look at this. With Lundy Island visible out westward in the distance on the second photo.

Wordsworth and Byron were inspired here. Coleridge wrote the Rime of the Ancient Mariner and Kubla Khan here. Some bloke wrote Lorna Doone here. It’s historic and beautiful and I love it. So there!

After four hours of walking, climbing and descending I looked back at the scar of the Path on the last hill.

And there would be several more as the path cut down the side of steep valleys descending from Exmoor, and back up the other side.

Crossing this hillside revealed more coast, with the Great Hangman being the furthest hill to the right of the photo.

This is the highest point that the path reaches on its 600 mile journey, at a modest 1,079 feet (341 metres). But it was still 4 miles away.

Eventually after a lot of disciplined marching I got closer to the Hangman.

And looking inland Exmoor was beginning to melt into lower level pastureland.

It was a long drop down and rise up to the Hangman. Usually the other way round as Adolph Eichmann can testify. Well, actually he can’t because he was hung after he testified. Served him right. Nasty get.

I was beginning to tire when I saw a cairn that I recognised. I’m there!

Down all the way to Combe Martin. Yaaay! Where I pitched me tarp and had some scran before the sun went down.

Night night.

It might be good to be able to tell your friends and family (with a swagger and a serious face) that you’re going to be sleeping under a tarp. The swagger disintegrates when you do it on a cold and very windy night. I slept badly, between the teeth (no I hadn’t got them in), between the gum chattering shivers.

The day broke cloudy and cold. I packed and picked up the Coast Path where I left off. A 9.35am start isn’t too bad and within an hour I’d walked to Porlock Weir across the salt marshes. Sporting a petrified forest.

And looking back along the grey pebble bank, the sea is to the left and the salt marsh to the right. At very high tides the bank gets breached and the salt marsh floods.

A lone tree stands amid the pebbles, defiantly growing gnarled and wizened. But still with a heart of oak. Thanks Richard.

The fence, which used to stand on the top of a small range of cliffs, has seen its base washed away, as it still swings defiant of gravity.

After a bacon sandwich and a coffee in Porlock Weir I started the ascent. This path goes up and up, then down and up. But not insignificant heights. Today I’ll climb well over half the height of Ben Nevis. This is an old toll cottage, stopping carriages in the old days and charging for the right to use the roads passing through the arches.

It had been cold since setting off, and I had my waterproof top and jumper on – maximum heat layers! It was still cold, until I got under the canopy of trees on the coastal hillside which sheltered the path from the wind. The woodland is set on a very steep hill and is very dense, too dense to walk through. But I heard someone walking above me. I couldn’t see them. And then I heard a deep toned flute. It was impossible for a person to be there. I’d like to think that it was an elven flute. Please be the elves.

Certainly, the children have seen them, in quiet places where the moss grows green. Thanks Robin.

The path was festooned with ancient building works.

Including the smallest complete parish church in England, Culbone church. Miles from nowhere. Thanks Cat.

Just down the path is an idolatrous image of the Virgin Mary that can only have been placed there by a Catholic person. Should I inform Thomas Cranmer so that he can inform the King?

I had a thirst, walking mile after mile on a rough undulating path with a heavy rucksack. So I took advantage of the Exmoor streams to top up my water bottle. Sweet tasting water.

Until I came across a dead deer, which might leak horrible things into the water ecosystem. Oh God what have I done? I may become ill!

Some bugger sawed its horns off.

All of a sudden it got cold again and started raining. I got my rain gear back on and rain-covered the rucksack.

I wasn’t too preoccupied with the weather to ignore the beauty of wild primroses!

I was getting tired now, and there was a long way to go. Mercifully the weather improved quickly and dramatically.

I had been walking for nearly six hours before I got my first view of Lynmouth and Lynton, almost indistinguishable in the late afternoon sun.

It spurs you on when you see the final destination.

There aren’t many people walking the path at the moment. The weather has been really cold and wet and windy for months, so that’s probably put folk off. A shame because these pleasures are unique in time and space.

Then the path dropped down dramatically to Lynmouth, a small village nestling at the end of a steep gorge which drops down from the top of Exmoor. To its detriment.

In mid-August 1952 there was a massive storm over Exmoor, delivering 9 inches of rain in 24 hours. The gorge down to Lynmouth was blocked by uprooted trees, forming a huge dam which eventually burst. A massive wave, carrying trees and boulders, swamped down the gorge, destroying homes and businesses in its path. Thirty four people died, hundreds were homeless and dozens of cars were swept out to sea.

Prophetically on this sign Exmoor met the sea, catastrophically.

I made it to the campsite, which was up the gorge which had led to the Lynmouth tragedy. By which time the sun had gone in again and the wind was bitter. There was no signal, due to the depth of the gorge, so I went into the pub next door which had Wi-Fi, and got a message from Maggie. She’d found a hotel in Lynton with a room for £30. I ate in the pub and legged it up the hill to Lynton to claim my room. No chattering gums. No sleepless in seattle.

Hooray!

On the path to Lynton I got a great, late evening view of the hills I had yomped over.

For those friends who aren’t familiar with the South West Coast Path this is the UK and Republic of Ireland, with the South West marked by a crayon.

Honing in on the South West, this is the route of the Coast Path. If you look up north to Minehead then that is where I started. To get round to the end, which is down bottom right and just out of picture, will take 52 days walking, but I’m stopping at Plymouth on the 23 May, and then restarting on around the 8 July.

The Path is famous for its undulation, rising up nearly four times the height of Mount Everest, so it’s not an easy walk. However it doesn’t have to be finished in any timescale. Some people do segments over many years. I talked to a man yesterday who was going the other way round to me and finishing in Minehead. He had taken 26 years! When you work you can’t give it too much time each year. But he did it!

So will I.

Night night.

This is the Somerset coast. It’s not Cornwall, the Caribbean or Corsica. Just Somerset. But it is the corner of the UK that is punching way beyond its level of popularity. It is beautiful, historic, inspirational and uplifting.

My view from the breakfast lounge, after a jolly good night’s sleep.

A great full English, with cereals, toast, marmalade and a pot of tea, followed by a 9.30 departure. But not before I’d walked around the harbour. Seven years working in the docks and it stays in my bloodstream.

The cannons are facing the wrong way, towards the shore, but the message is clear. Britons never, never, never shall be slaves.

Except to alcohol, tobacco, US foreign policy, television, baked beans, social media, self-righteousness, influencers, fear of failure, capitalism and the silencing of free speech.

I set off on the SWCP.

The path meandered down the coast and then cut up into the hills, at the same time as the overly laden rucksack cut into my shoulders. The coast slipped slowly, and painfully, away.

And up on top, 860 feet high, the moor was delightful.

Until it started to peak, and reveal the beauty of the vale of Porlock.

I took my time. It was only an 8 mile walk today, just getting acclimatised to the rucksack and undulation and pain. But the beauty of this part of the world is worth every ache.

The path dropped down steeply.

At the bottom the cattle were wading in a lagoon.

Another couple of miles and I was close to my campsite, looking back at the hills which I had walked over.

And up the lane, flanked by bluebells, whitebells and flowering wild garlic.

The campsite is lovely, and my tarp is pitched.

It looks quite structured from outside!

I’m getting scran from the local Spar for dinner and another early night. Eight miles done and 603 to go.

Night night.

And can David be in there too please?

Well my dear, yes he can, if he takes the 08.11train from Leeds to Taunton and then the 12.39 bus from Taunton to be in Minehead at 13.54.

Maggie saw me off this morning with an Uber to the station. A cold morning, particularly cold for a loser who shaves his head.

The train was on time, and I kept the same seat all the way, despite buying four tickets for the legs from Leeds to Chesterfield to Burton to Bristol to Taunton. Saving over £40.

I was sat next to Maxine, a very smart business woman who was proper, polite and pleasant. She subsequently donated to my justgiving page. There are still nice people in this world.

I was sat opposite Trevor who, coincidentally, was the Treasurer of the Cornwall Prostate Support Association. He had contracted the illness and his Association was linked to/ part of Prostate Cancer UK. This world is getting smaller.

I was too early in Minehead to check in to my room, so I walked to the front and took some photos.

I then had a pint in the Quay Inn, and Collette, the owner, whose dad died of prostate cancer, sponsored me. What a star! Thank you very much.

I’m going to check in now, and start my trek tomorrow. Thanks for reading this. And thanks to all the lovely people who I met today. I know it should be whom,

but it doesn’t feel right.

Night night.

We loafed this morning and got out of bed for a 9.45 am hundred hours start. Another cloudless day, crisp and clear but by the time we emerged it was tee shirt temperature. We made for the station to check the time of trains tomorrow morning, as we expected to return to Tarragona tonight. Unfortunately the timings meant we would have to get up at 5am to be sure to make it to Barcelona in time for our flight to Amsterdam and a transfer to Leeds.

So the new plan was to walk up to Reus, our final destination this trip, and take a train to Barcelona this afternoon. A pity really because Tarragona was a lovely place, unless you were seeking out the poorer quarters, where the ragged people go. Thanks Paul.

And the Roman archeology is fabulous. This is the coliseum, nearly 2,000 years old.

Great place.

What a town! And a great bacon and egg breakfast with coffee and freshly squeezed orange juice on Main Street. We reluctantly departed.

The land is absolutely parched. Just dry riverbeds. This doesn’t augur well for the land that feeds Europe.

We decided to take the quickest, most direct route we could. Motorway walking.

When the hard shoulder disappeared and the area behind the crash barriers was unnavigable we decided to force a temporary gap in the fencing and escape to the other side before any coppers showed up. At times we ended up back on the motorway. At one point two motorways crossed and the only way we could carry on was to scale the fence under a bridge and emerge on a central reservation. But we made very good time. It was a fast alternative.

In the end it got too busy and we sneaked under the fence where there was a slight culvert. In to farmland where the local lads were harvesting parsley and vegetables.

We found a stretch where there were tunnels under the railway and two motorways, all intersecting. Luckily we chose the right tunnel. They can be a bit disorientating when they meander.

After another couple of miles we arrived at the entrance to Reus airport. For me this was the completion of an eight year trek across Spain from south to north. It has taken me 5 sections and 1,300 miles of wandering through mountains and following coastlines. It’s been rather delightful.

With Gary, we’ve covered 480 miles together, from the south of France down to Tarragona and inland, across the Ebro valley, to Zaragoza.

What will you do now? I’m a-goin’ back out ‘fore the rain starts a-fallin’
I’ll walk to the depths of the deepest black forest
Where the people are many and their hands are all empty
Where the pellets of poison are flooding their waters
Where the home in the valley meets the damp dirty prison
And the executioner’s face is always well hidden
Where hunger is ugly, where souls are forgotten
Where black is the color, where none is the number
And I’ll tell it and think it and speak it and breathe it
And reflect it from the mountain so all souls can see it
Then I’ll stand on the ocean until I start sinkin’
But I’ll know my song well before I start singin’.

Oh! OK.

Last word to Gaz.

We managed to find a restaurant that rang a taxi for us, which took us to the station, where we took a train to Barcelona, where we found a reasonably priced hotel. And the most incredible restaurant at a bargain price (in Barcelona!) which served up the best Asian cuisine either of us had ever etten!

Home to our sweethearts tomorrow.

Night night.

Thanks John (and Paul).

We had another great day’s walking today. Long and hard and it’s just the way it changes like the shoreline and the sea. But let’s not talk of love and chains.

We got up late, again. We didn’t set off until 9.45 am hundred hours. We’re not children of the morning. The morning was lovely.

After a long dap along the coast we found a place to eat bacon and eggs, with two coffees and two fresh orange juices each. How pleasant it is!

We strode with purpose and …… something else. Not sure what, but certainly with purpose. Maybe toilet roll. We had that in case of emergency. Yes, that’s it. We strode with purpose and toilet roll.

The Costa Dorada was beautiful.

After a while it dawned upon us that we were falling well behind our Tarragona target And pragmatism was necessary to save the day. And I’ve got tons of that. So has Gary.

We sat down, looked at the map, and decided to cut away from the coast to follow a direct road towards Tarragona. We would cut off down to the coast where the road joined a motorway, and then pick up the GR92 to finish the last 7 miles along coast path. In that way we would restrict the day’s walk to 19 miles.

The road walk didn’t merit any photos, but when we cut back down to the coast, through a pine forest, we saw some stunning vistas.

In the far distance we could see our destination. Tarragona!

The route through the woods wasn’t easy to follow. Even if it had been it would still have been a struggle, due to the fallen trees and other detritus covering the path. But in the late afternoon sun the woods were awesome. Then we arrived at the last beach, and managed to cover the two miles along it in 30 minutes. Looking back was right good.

By this time we were tired. Very tired. We’re not young, fit lads. But we keep going. Our advantage is that we’re tough and from Yorkshire.

We made it into the outskirts of Tarragona, but couldn’t make it further. The sun had set, it was getting colder and we were exhausted. Nowt wrong with that. Exhaustion is a virtue. Well… no it isn’t. It’s a state, or a condition. Whereas virtues are matters showing a high moral standard.

We pulled in to the first hotel we saw. The bar was open and Joe was the guy in charge. We loved him.

He said the hotel was closed, but his bar was open, so we took advantage. He recommended the Hostal next door, rang the owner and got her to come down to check us in. It was a Hostal cum restaurant cum supermarket. The owner, Beatrice, was lovely and had a daughter at boarding school in Bath. She took a shine to us and gave us a suite. How kind. We had a decent meal, between the aisles.

I had a bit of a tumble, a few days ago. Nothing worth recording at the time but the bruising is wearing off. The effects of treks.

It’s on my upper thigh for those watching in black and white.

Gary’s asleep now.

But if he wasn’t, then I’m sure he would join me in saying:

Night night.