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.

Farmer John Tucker, my walking pal from 11 years ago, turned up at our tent. Several times. He was excited to renew our friendship and to plan a further final stretch of the coast path together.

It was great to see the old lad. At 80 he outstripped me by ten years.

That morning we bade farewell to David and Chantal, after a wonderful walk with them both. Flo was sorry to see them go and so were me and Debs. They’re great company. Bye bye my lovelies.

I helped Che take down the tent, pack the van and then we drove over to Treacle Valley Camping, just north of Torquay.

It was a welcome rest day for me and the site was a peach. Nestled into a south facing bowl with the sun drifting slowly to our right. Lovely place, another great meal cooked by my sister and a good night’s sleep. Then back into the fray.

Che drove me back to Torcross, where I’d ended up two days ago with the Killers. I had a full English in a great, period cafe there. This area is where the villagers were moved out in 1944 and the Yanks moved in.

They were preparing for D Day and carried out landing exercises off the beach. They were unaware that there were two German U Boats out in the bay, which swooped and created mayhem. At the end of the day 639 young American lads were dead. Poor little buggers. It makes me cry sometimes when I read the memorial stones. Can’t help it. Not manly I know.

This tank, which had sunk out in the bay, was dragged back to land in the 1980s.

However much (at the time of writing) the stupidity and arrogance of Trump and his acolyte idiots Vance and Musk get up our noses. However much the role of Britain and its Commonwealth, who stood alone against Germany and fascism for nearly two years, gets relegated by these people. However much the American refusal to fight Nazism, injustice and mass extermination brasses us off, until Germany pushed them off the fence by declaring war on the US. However much they overemphasise their own role in winning the Second World War. We should never forget the sacrifice of the lives of their lads. Brave, young lads.

The coast path runs along Slapton Sands by the side of the biggest freshwater lagoon in South Devon.

Then the coast produces gentle beauty again.

It was harder to keep going without company. The first time I’ve felt this. I’m old, but I’m also putting on weight. Breakfasts, beer and Che’s dinners and I’m acquiring more than I’m divesting.

Simple inland views like this are gorgeous.

Then Dartmouth, with its famous naval college, appeared.

And my own street revealed itself.

On my way to the ferry across the Dart.

It’s a great estuary and I liked it.

Then I had to get my head down and cover some ground to meet Che in Brixham.

Where it was Pirate weekend. Bloody hell. Everybody was dressed as a pirate. The place was pumping! Brilliant bouncing folk bands and a brilliant vibe. Hooray!

Che met me on the quay, drove me to the tent and fed me. She’s atoning for juvenile delinquency! Selling my albums and nicking my clothes. She’s approaching break evenpoint.

Night night.

Che drove us to Salcombe, whilst David and Chantal drove behind, leaving their car at Kingsbridge. We picked them up and at Salcombe we nipped out of the van and made our way down to the quay. How great is walking? Really great. Long distance, difficult walking gives you a buzz. All exercise does I guess.

We walked down to the quay and took the ferry across the Kingsbridge estuary. We were straight into good walking territory.

It’s difficult to describe the joy of walking this path. It’s not just exercise or spiritual cleansing or reconnection with Mother Earth or appreciation of historical settlements or owt else potty. It’s you and the air around you. Cool, warm, windy or calm. That’s what counts. And sunshine. Obviously sunshine you gormless pillock. What about the views? Well, obviously the views you turkey. The comradeship with your fellow walking Killer matey boy and girl? Well, that goes without saying daft lad.

We needed to make it to Torcross by 17.47, to get a bus back to Kingsbridge to pick up the car and then pick up a Nepali takeaway that the Kilby’s were treating us to, then get to a 13th Century pub for an evening of merriment. Where do we go now, where do we go?

We really gave it some welly round the headland and down to Beesands and somewhere else and on to Torcross. We were lucky that the tide wasn’t too far in and we were able to leg it along the beach before we got trapped.

Look at this old pillock earlier in the day. Doesn’t know what he’s doing, where he’s going, what he’s eating. What a prat.

We caught the bus to Kingsbridge, got our brilliant Nepalese takeaway from Royal Gurkha Spice in Modbury and after eating it we meandered up to a pub that was over 1,000 years old.

Incredible.

Night night.

It’s Salcombe really but it sounds like Sale Con. Inspired by spending time with Chantal, who is a Frenchy, and Killer, who is Frenglish, I’m calling it Sale Con. If you put it in google translate it comes out as Dirty Bastard.

Guffawing erupts before sniggering, which descends into high pitched tittering, which gives way to schoolboy giggling, which finally surrenders to raucous laughter. Salcombe…….aa ha ha ha! Dirty Bastard aa ha ha ha!

Che drove us round to the other side of the Avon estuary from Bigbury. The ferry wasn’t working until 10am. Just 13 miles today on another sunny day. Looking back Bigbury was basking in the light.

What a section this is, but in fairness it’s all amazing, and on our doorstep. Laurie Lee just stepped out of his door near Gloucester one morning and ended up in Andalusia during the civil war. How brilliant is that?

After another headland the look back was like this.

We were making good time, and the weather has been unbelievable. A bacon sandwich helps to keep the legs working, so we did it, and carried on.

This is what used to be July weather. And the beauty was that it was beginning to get craggier.

I’m very brave. I’m not allowed to divulge my (imagined) special forces experience but I am incredibly brave.

Walking through a herd of Highland cattle scares me, so do noises, people, other animals, anything unusual and falling asleep. Cities, roads, nettles, confined spaces, open spaces. In fact it’s difficult to find a space that doesn’t frighten me. In fact I’m not brave at all. This lad made me keech myself, but we all kept walking and they ignored us.

We reached the end of a ridge and dropped down a steep slope. Whatever goes down on the South West Coast Path must go up.

Around the bend was the path to Salecon. Hooraaay!!

Through woods and by beaches.

We rocked up to the bus stop to get us back to Kingsbridge so Che could pick us up.

One of the crap phrases emerging from the 20th century was ‘rocked up’. Nevertheless I shall use it if I please and if it pleases me. Rocked up, rocked up, rocked up.

The estuary beyond Salecon was lovely.

We caught the bus to Kingsbridge, Che picked us up and drove us back to the campsite, where we cooked 2 kgs of mussels in white wine and double cream, followed by peri peri barbecued chicken. How lovely was that. VERY!!

The night was dark and delightful.

Night night.

Our challenge was to get back to Wembury, and Che sorted that by coaching us out in her motor. It was a short walk to get to the ferry across the estuary to Noss Mayo. From Noss Mayo we needed to leg it quickly for nearly four hours to reach the Erme estuary so that we could wade across the river before it became flooded by the incoming tide.

David and Chantal are fit and it was me holding them back, but I don’t want to try to go beyond my steady pace as I’m sure I’d damage something. But just keep going steadily and I can cover decent distances. Particularly when the path climbs and falls a lot.

We made the ferry crossing in decent time.

On the other side there were some rock oysters clinging to the lowest rocks and I managed to dislodge two. Salty, creamy and fresh. They are really difficult to loosen from the rocks, more obstinate than limpets. I then freed another one later so Chantal, David and myself each had a taste.

The coast was getting more and more stunning.

As we rounded the corner we could see our challenge. The Erme estuary was just below the horizon in the centre of the photo. The island off Bigbury on Sea which we were aiming for today is on the horizon to the right of this photo in the haze.

The walk up and down the cliffs was taxing again and we were beginning to feel it. It took us nearly four hours to make it into the estuary and the tide was still well and truly out.

The sand leading down to the river was squidgy in places, like quicksand. And in the water there were banks of sand which gave way to squidgy bits and deeper bits and bits that felt alright. We took our boots and socks off and waded across where we thought it was shallowest.

It was a bit chilly but certainly not unpleasant, although it was a great shame that Chantal didn’t stumble over here and, in the process of throwing her phone over to dry land, dive head first into the drink, getting washed downstream and out to sea, where she had to be rescued by the RNLI, justifying mine and David’s fundraising efforts for them last year. That would have been a laugh wouldn’t it. Rhetorical question.

After the lower limb exposure to the cold water our legs were burning and full of energy. Wonderful testament to the power of cold water dips.

We dried off and rebooted, found the Coast Path and continued. Hooraay!

I like hooraay me. It’s enthusiastic and rousing. Inspiring too, like the Coast Path in this area of South Devon. How beautiful it is.

There are so many coves, beaches and headlands with nobody on them. A wonderful land. Much, much more than green and pleasant.

After more serious ups and downs we made it to Challaborough, which I’d walked to and from the previous evening so we were continuous to Bigbury on Sea. Sixteen miles today, which is not shabby for this type of topography.

Che, being the usual hero, drove round to join us at the pub on the holiday development there, where we had a good meal, a few drinks and watched European Cup football. Then she drove us home. What a great way to end a great day.

Night night.

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.

And after all.

Today was my first day walking with the Kilbys. Yesterday me and Senor Kilby went out into the Channel on a fishing boat. Caught some reyt fish, pollock bashing.

And we had them for tea last night. I filleted eight of them so there was enough to save for tomorrow. Che will be making a curry. Tonight’s barbecued fish was beautifully fresh and tasty. Tasty. Very, very tasty.

Che took me and Mr and Mrs Killer to Polruan this morning in her van. We all went over to Fowey on the ferry. It was lovely.

A decent bacon and egg sandwich, back on the ferry and I was connected to where I finished last year. Come on lads and lass. And Mr Kilby explained in detail to his captivated wife the game of paper and scissors. However he forgot the rock.

All together now to trek for Prostate Cancer UK. Hip, hip, hoooray! Goodbye to Che and Flo for a while.

Chantal, aka Mrs Kilby, is very prone to seasickness, however she successfully completed her second ferry crossing without the faintest whiff of vomit. Well done you!

Setting off from Polruan the path climbed up the cliff side until we came to the place where, eight years ago, I fell off the cliff headfirst, fractured my skull and got a Funky Cold Medina.

It was actually a Cerebral Haematoma but if you sing along to Tone Loc’s song you can put that in, in place of Funky Cold Medina. It scans the same. Sounds the same. Looks the same. I’ll put it down as ‘probably the same’.

That’s why I found, you don’t play around with Cerebral Haematoma.

Someone, no doubt touched by my tragic fall and heroic recovery, has now installed a rope to ensure that folk don’t do a Tom Daley on to the rocks below.

I looked around over the drop and I couldn’t see any blood. Although it was a few years since I shed it. But it fell on an area of smooth rocks and the prophet Ezekiel uses the image of blood on a smooth rock to illustrate the consequences of shedding innocent blood. The smooth rock symbolizes that the blood will not be covered up or forgiven, but rather will remain as a stain. 

David Smith you weirdo, move on. OK, but in exchange you must listen to Richard Cheese singing Creep. A touch of class.

So we moved on towards Lantic Bay (in the background).

And suddenly we were much closer.

The weather couldn’t be better. Sunny but still a breeze. The views were just fabulous. In the kind of way that when you see it in bright sunlight the colours change, maybe become more blue, and the image appears to be inside your head rather than out in front. But it doesn’t work when it’s not warm.

And beyond Lantic Bay the path rode up and down the cliffs.

Ordinary coastal views become magical when the colour and smell of the gorse drifts over your path, the sea is calm and you’re feeling at one with the world. But not the Universe because that really is too big to comprehend and it’s too scary to think about. So is infinity and the end of time.

So let’s just get our heads back to the gentle beauty of the south Cornwall coast. Where a path along the middle of a small rocky headland leads, like a ski jump, to a stunning blue sea.

This walk is only 8 miles, including our wandering in Fowey, but it is a steep, repeated rise and fall.

We are not alone.

All things must pass.

Eventually this most beautiful of walks stumbled into town, just like a sacred cow. And the town was Polperro. The end of today’s walk.

The Three Pilchards is a pub built into the cliff, with stone steps at the back through a tunnel that leads to an open air upper bar, perched on the cliff side. And you can climb higher with your food and drink if you really want.

We did.

Then Che picked us up, took us back to the campsite, fed and watered us further with pollock curry and white wine and tucked us up in bed. She sprinkled stardust in our eyes and whispered, go to sleep everything is alright.

I closed my eyes and drifted away.

Night night.

I’m writing you now just to see if you’re better. Thank you mister. Is New York cold?

Che dropped me off this morning at a place called Downderry. From here I will walk to Plymouth, about 18 miles. It was overcast and I was feeling ok about walking. The tide was out and the sand was exposed, so I walked along it as far as I could.

Then it all ended and I had to get back up to the Coast Path.

There was a bit of a rock climb and then a rope up a steep track.

And over the top after a while was Portwrinkle, with a golf club that did breakfast butties. Heavenly. Then on, over the golf course and back down to the beach before the tide reclaimed its land.

It was a dodgy little path that ended up at the top of a cliff with a fractious climb down to the sand below. I was glad to get down.

The tide was coming in now at a fair lick and there were not too many exit routes. I sped up my pace and loved scooting across the sand.

Eventually the sea was filtering through gaps in the sand and cutting off my exit. After a few clambers over rocks and on to the last beach I knew I had to leg it. I raced the tide right up to Rame Head, and then slipped inland. A great run.

The cloud came down and I got my head down and headed for the nearest village, Cawsand.

Then the cloud cleared again and I ended up on a ridge leading out from Cawsand towards a ferry to Plymouth.

Then a quick dash to the station, a train to Looe, a nip across the road and the Kilby’s arrived in the pub I was sat in just ten minutes later.

A good day topped with fish and chips takeaway to our tents and a relatively early night.

I covered 18 miles today. It was great.

Night night.

Well, I started walking yesterday and stopped today. Because the weather forecast was great and I wanted to take my sister to Lantic Bay. It is quite special and relatively inaccessible. But not really inaccessible. In my head I sometimes think that words that I know well don’t sound right and, in extreme examples, might not exist at all. Inaccessible is floating around as a possible. It just doesn’t feel wordy at the moment.

And then it passes and they take their place in my brain again, as if they had never been questioned. My brain is not inaccessible.

I owed my sis for petrol and various things she had bought and brought. So I bought two live lobsters and a kilo of mussels for a barbecue lunch at Lantic Bay. The tide was too far in for us to pick mussels off the cliffs, as I have done a few times down there. So I bought them, and paid off my debt to Che.

She drove us to the National Trust car park on the back of the cliffs and we trekked over to Lantic Bay with a shedload of scran and cooking items.

Then there was a steep drop down to the beach. Such a wonderful place.

We set up camp against the cliffs on the east end of the beach and collected some driftwood. Then we sparked up the barbecue and topped it up with our collected wood.

What a meal!

A veritable feast. Then we relaxed and wandered a bit on the beach.

A lovely day. And I’ve had a shower when we got back and I smell ok.

Hoooooraay!

Tomorrow is an early start. I’m hoping to walk from Downderry to the far side of Plymouth. Nearly 20 miles. We’ll see.

Night night.