When we lived in Bristol me and Maggie (aka the wife) used to say ‘Or royt moy caaark’ in exaggerated Bristolian accents. In fact we still do it because Bristol was a key part of our lives, meeting lifelong friends like the noisy bastard neighbour Bavs. It means, are you alright my friend. Bristol was a friendly community in the 70s and early 80s. We loved it.

I woke at 6.30 and the noise of rain on my hut roof drove me back to sleep. This process repeated itself at 8.30, 10.15, 11.20 and 12.35. My sleeping bag was warmer than the alternative.

At 1pm I couldn’t wait any longer and packed my gear. It had been so wet I couldn’t get out for a pee so I’d been peeing in my plastic drinking mug, usually the home of my teeth at night, and chucking it out of the opening. My teeth were resting, uncleaned and undisturbed in my mouth.

The hens and goats were sad to see me go.

Bye bye sanctuary.

I waterproofed up, no photos today I’m afraid, and set off along the road through the village. After a couple of miles another farm shop came along and the breakfast here was as good as the one near Boscastle. The tea was the best I’ve had for years. Loose tea captured in a strainer. A wow taste. I didn’t want to leave.

But I had to. The coast temporarily appeared to my right during a break in the low cloud.

And then it was head down and aim for Rock. Avoid the cars, keep alert, keep safe. I don’t like this. I want the coast path back and I’ll get it tomorrow. Needs must.

At 7pm I arrived at the site. Hungry and wet. Derek, the site manager, was a star. He found a dryish piece of land for my tarp and saw that I was knackered. He asked if I was charity walking. I told him the story of Chip and I was so exhausted I burst into tears.

He invited me to join him and his missus for dinner. Did I like pasta and chorizo??? Is the Pope Catholic? I pitched the tarp and whilst I did it he brought me four cans of Malaga lager. Before I got over to Derek and Jo’s place another bloke from the site came over and asked me if I was walking for charity. He gave me £10 and said that it would pay for my ferry and some food tomorrow. A lady in a caravan invited me over for coffee in the morning.

It was an expensive site. More than I expected, but the managers and residents were decent, kind, generous and nice. It touched me deeply.

So did the pasta.

It turned out that Derek and Jo spend winter in their camper van within a couple of miles of Rincon de la Victoria, one of our faves in Andalusia. Small world.

I slept well. The rain had abated and I was aiming for Newquay tomorrow.

Night night.

It was a wet and cold night. I slept fitfully again but not too bad. I just underestimated the weather when I chose my clothing. But I followed my wife’s advice and put my underpants on my head to keep my baldy pate a bit warmer. Sorry, ‘the wife’s advice’.

First destination Boscastle and for the first few miles the weather was fair but very windy. The coast path runs close to the cliff edge and these are the highest cliffs in Cornwall. Having slipped headfirst off one once I decided to follow paths just inland from the cliff edge. With my rucksack even just the wind could blow my rucksack round and loosen my footing.

You could smell a storm a’coming. The wind worsened, the sky darkened and rain was on its way. I found a farm shop near Boscastle and had breakfast in the warmth.

There were no campsites for the night anywhere near the coast path. They were either not open or closed permanently. Covid had saved them but this weather was killing them. It was a long way through to Tintagel on the coast path and then up on to the moors where there were two or three campsites. In this weather I didn’t want to wild camp.

Before I finished my last baked bean the rain started proper. I decided to walk on tracks and minor roads away from the coast, get up on to the top of the moors, whilst I still felt up to it, and walk along a ridge to Delabole, short for Dead-and-alive-bloody-hole. But at least it had a campsite.

By taking this route I could travel faster up a long climb out of Boscastle. The track looked like this before the rain. Once it started I packed everything in the rucksack, donned waterproofs before leaving the sanctuary of the farm shop and waddled purposefully but slowly uphill.

Also by taking this route I could carry on tomorrow to Rock, where there was a campsite just before the ferry to Padstow where I would rejoin the coast path.

I didn’t think of anything but walking. The next step preoccupied my head. By concentrating on the next step everything else was less relevant. My pack became part of my body and I didn’t notice the weight of it. Pack not body. Six hours after I left the farm shop I walked into Delabole. A local Spar was open so I bought a sandwich.

The campsite was just on the edge of the village and it was wet and empty. Tom lived in a caravan on site and suggested that sleeping in one of his goat sheds would be better than under canvas tonight. Even though the floor was covered in goat and hen shit. He was concerned about the weather forecast.

After my sandwich (cheese, red onion and mayo), I got down in my sleeping bag on top of my mattress on top of my groundsheet, on top of the poo on top of the floor. And slept. Dry and sheltered from the strong wind and incessant rain.

Night night.

I’m a little uncool and a little uncouth, excuse me, if you will. Thanks Loudon. Is there a more romantic lyric than:

Time to go you’re gonna miss her, in the doorway try to kiss her, oh it tastes so good, like you hoped it would.

And he sings it with such youthful passion and pain. The two are inextricably linked, and one is never far away from becoming the other in a heartbeat. Loudon Wainwright knew that and tears your heart in that song. New Paint. I hope I see him before one of us dies.

Breakfast at the Falcon Hotel was great, and I set off fed and rested. There is a canal in Bude and this grand barge, sporting a Cornish flag, was moored there, stretching the ropes in the stiff breeze.

Why do counties have great flags and Yorkshire’s is so crap. See what I mean. Crap.

I would say that there aren’t many buildings which look more Cornish than this one.

The path led over a hill towards Widemouth Bay. Passing close to the historic Storm Tower and another Cornish flag.

Then Widemouth opened up and the doctor said ‘Say aaagh’.

I stopped for some shelter from the wind at a cafe and drank a hot chocolate.

Then striding on again up the first real hill of the day the view back was great. And the sky had cleared, bringing warmth when you’re out of the wind.

There were three large ups and downs, which bit away at my knees. I could feel that I wasn’t as young as I was when I walked this route ten years ago. So what. I’ll do it in 10 years time when I’m 80 and die on it. Maggie will come to identify the body so I’d better make sure that I wear clean underwear each day in 2034. She’d never forgive me if there were …. you know. Stains from the rear exit, if you want me to be specific.

The path veered inland producing beautiful woodland and farmland views.

This was a lesser trodden part of the coast path. And nature had nearly recaptured it.

I was loving this, absolutely loving it. I know I’m comfortable on my own, but when I walk with other people I like that too. However here, in this breeze and sunshine, and with my backpack feeling manageable, and light in my head and heart, at this point in time, in this wonderful part of the world, that had once tried to kill me, I was glad I was born.

I had to find a campsite and there were none by the coast, so I struck inland. There was a campsite at Coxford Meadow, a mile inland from Crackington Haven, my target for the day. Pitching the tarp I headed back down to the coast path at Crackington. This is England circa 1934.

I’ll pass Tintagel tomorrow, all being well. Last visited in June last year with our dearest friends the Carreres, after Juliet and George’s wedding. Magical place, but I haven’t heard the elves since Somerset ten days ago. This isn’t elf country any more. The volume of summer tourism has driven them into the quieter places.

It’s time to leave Crackington Haven and go back to Coxford Meadow for a very early night.

Night night.

I’m a twit. I packed too much stuff. Sorry, STUFF!! I could do with 5kgs less. There’s one piece of camping equipment I could send home, underpants, socks, shirts, a knife……..Hello! Are you falling asleep when I’m talking about me!!!

It peed it down all night and it was windy too. I’m used to the cold in the night now and I cope with less sleep. But today was going to be a long, brutal day and I set my alarm for 6am. Then ignored it when the rain was relentless and the forecast on my phone was for this to continue all morning. I turned over in my sleeping bag and got a bit more sleep.

At 8.20 am I started packing, the rain had lightened, but I had to wipe the tarp and ground sheet with paper towels from the bogs to dry them a bit and get everything properly packed in my rucksack. I usually have an additional walking bag for my iPad, phone and STUFF!! But with the rain this had to go in my rucksack.

I had a pasty from two days ago in my rucksack. Perfect breakfast, again.

It was a mile walk to the coast path and then I turned left. The rain had almost stopped.

The distance today from the campsite was over 16 miles, climbing up and down ten steep valleys, equivalent to more than Ben Nevis. What a lovely comparator Ben Nevis is. It’s huge unall.

The sandstone of some of the coast gives off a nice pink cloud into the sea when it’s slightly rough.

It was still cold but dry, and I felt reasonably ok with the distance, but I knew the climbing would be tough. The view from the path is so stunning. Cop this!

Down the coast was a hut which belonged to Ronald Duncan, a playwright and poet in the last century. He worked here, and it’s open to folk walking along the path. What an inspirational view.

The hut is at a fair height above the sea, and the climb up the other side was harsh, but a great view looking back, with the hut, just below the skyline.

I’d covered a couple of downs and ups by now, but then they started to get serious. I was struggling and the day was moving on. I was tired, accumulating over the last few days, and cold nights. And I began to wonder if camping was good for tonight. I’d done 7 nights consecutive under the tarp, so I asked Maggie to look for a hotel in Bude! Northern softie!!

The views were amazing, even in the cloudy conditions, and the valleys usually ended up in waterfalls to the sea.

Then I crossed the Devon/ Cornwall border. No passport required.

I have to admit I was really struggling physically with these uphill climbs. This photo looks nice but the path drops 400 feet and climbs up the other side. Ten times.

The sun came out late afternoon and looking back was fab.

Rounding a corner I could see as far as Tintagel, at the end of the dark cliff just to the left of centre. I’m travelling now, decent distances given the ups and downs.

By the sixth valley drop I came across an early warning radar station. Whilst I did climb up and walk past it I didn’t do the dirty Commie stunt of taking photos. The filthy animals!

The gorse was now at its most superlative scent and I can smell for the first time in ages. Adorable! And I could just see Bude in the distance. After another horrifically steep drop and climb.

It took me 10 hours of continuous hiking up and down to get here. Maggie came up trumps. I present you, the Falcon Hotel, Bude.

I’m loving it being here in a warm room with decent scran I bought at the Coop. I’m ready for bed. Sleep well my darlings. Particularly Maggie, Georgie, Juliet, Antonia and Katherine. You are all, in my thoughts when one foot is stepping in front of the other. Adam and George, I’ll think about you next week.

Night night.

If you ignore pain in your legs or feet when you’re walking then you’re an idiot. If you don’t ignore it you’re a big, raving, barmpot idiot. It’s only pain. Bert Trautmann played most of the 1956 FA Cup Final in goal for Man City with a broken neck.

It’s a dilemma. Bert got away with it but I have to remember that I’ve got another 4 weeks walking this part of my walk.

I got up at 8.30 am, packed and headed for the campsite shop. It works on an honesty system. I bought a coffee, made it with their kit and ate a pasty with it that I’d bought in Clovelly yesterday.

Eating at this rate I’ll be a 600 pounder. Not that there’s owt wrong with that. It’s aspirational. If you’re an 800 pounder.

To get to the coast path I had two options. Cut back to Clovelly and walk along the cliffs, or cut westwards to Stoke, where I would camp, make better time on tarmac and get the tarp up before forecast rain.

Four main considerations were leading to the tarmac route westward:

1. I’d done one of those steps yesterday on the boulders where your knee goes backwards on itself and it hurts. And it hurts today. My left shoulder, which is the one I brock, hurts. But so did Bert’s neck.

2. Over the next two days I’ve got the most difficult part of the path. Folk coming the other way have described it as brutal and punishing. I know it is.

3. The rucksack weighs 16 kgs.

4. I’m a day behind.

Westward so I don’t damage myself! I’m already a day behind so I need to keep a pace when I can. I’ve already meandered more miles than the coast path.

After less than two hours tarmac walking I covered the four miles to Hartland and carried on westward. Past St Nectan’s well. I hope his head isn’t flogging about somewhere on the campsite. Without his head St Nectan certainly can’t be well. Boom boom.

The road led straight to the campsite opposite the Church of St Nectan

I pitched old tarpey boy and walked down to Hartland Quay for a crab sandwich and beer at The Wreckers. What a location. Looking north was wild.

The cliffs showed how the battering sea seeks out the weakest rock and creates caves, before further landslides.

Some fit lads were surfing in the bay. In wet suits. Southern softies.

Looking out to sea the Atlantic was rolling in. We are beyond the haven of Bristol’s Channel now.

And southwards, along the most difficult part of the entire path, for the next two days, it looks like this. The distant cliff top is in Cornwall. I’m sat here in a barn at the campsite in Devon. See below.

I’ve only just heard and I’m celebrating the engagement today of my darling daughter Antonia to a most wonderful person called Katherine.

I can’t express how much I love my wife and daughters and Katherine. I’m emotional and happy. Well done girls.

The two sons in law know I love them too. They’re good lads.

Back to now. It’s peeing it down now and it’s very cold. I’ll get up at sparrow’s fart and see how far I’ll get in the rain. There are streams coming down the campsite. Bloody ell! It’s a ridiculously difficult two days which I only allocated two days to complete. Arse!!!

Night night.

I didn’t want to get out of my sleeping bag, but sometime you have to, unless you’re over 600lbs, like people on those programmes of fatties that are advertised on tv.

They’re right fat. How do you wipe your arse when your arms can’t get that far round? Is it safe to sit on a bog and what if……..oh hold on a minute….. I’m being told that this line of monologue is unacceptable and could render me liable to prosecution under the Porkers’ Rights Act 2019. It could cause huge offence.

Yeah but…..yeah but….. yeah….. Understood. Sorry to any 600 pounders. No offence meant.

I packed and headed back down to the Coast Path, on a windy, dark morning.

The tide was on its way out with the shoreline advancing towards America.

What a beautiful conclusion to the Bristol Channel.

It became apparent that my target for today was too ambitious. Two women overtook me and in conversation they mentioned that there was a campsite near Clovelly where the owner picks you up from the path and drops you back. For nowt! New target! The sun highlighted Clovelly. It didn’t look far but on the path it was another 10 miles.

I dropped down to the coast and, with the tide still retreating, it was safe to walk along the pebbled and bouldered beach, which had accumulated tons of driftwood. Pity I can’t take it home.

The rocks reminded me of the Cote Granit Rose in Brittany that I walked with Antonia and Georgie, my two eldest daughters. That great pink hue.

It was a difficult route, trying to step from boulder to boulder whilst keeping up decent momentum. Folk look at you when you’re sporting walking poles as if you’re a fop with some kind of pathetic fashion accessory. Well matey folk, if I hadn’t got them I would break my ankle on this ground at the speed I’m doing it.

The cliffs sported waterfalls as fashion accessories, resulting in few places where I could escape the seafront.

Two miles short of Clovelly I was able to climb up a cliff path to meet the Coast Path, to see a sign that it was 4.5 miles walking this way. In and out, up and down. However, the woodlands I was walking through were beautiful. How English are bluebells!

Then my first near view of Clovelly. I was so glad that I wasn’t walking all the way to Hartland Quay in one go.

Clovelly is made for tourists. Its cobbled path drops down a kilometre to the quay. I bumped into Claire in the shop there, a woman who had set off from Minehead at the same time as me from the same hotel. She took off from Minehead like a rocket and I’d seen her briefly in Ilfracombe but she was covering ground quickly and was wild camping so she didn’t have to walk inland to campsites. As a result she was miles and a day ahead of me. Sadly she had got debilitating, deep blisters, and this was the end of the path for her.

I had liver and onions in the New Inn in Clovelly. My first food since my bounty bar breakfast.

Afterwards I legged it to the campsite. It was only a mile and it was around dinner time so I thought I’d walk rather than asking for a lift.

Roey’s was a decent campsite, just my tarp and the girls who had suggested this site who were in a tent.

A good day’s walking.

Night night.

What’s the point? Well it’s the northerly tip of the land between Appledore and Westward Ho!

I woke up at 7.00am, gathered my dirty clothes and dashed to get a bus from Abbotsham to Bideford.

I found the launderette and got my mucky stuff going. How can anyone not think of the Kursaal Flyers in a launderette!

When she finished her laundry she was all in a quandary
And made it for the street like a hare
Her escape was so urgent, she forgot her detergent
And dropped all her clean underwear.

After the washing was dry I headed downtown for another decent breakfast. How good is a full English?

Very good David.

The day was still windy, sunny and chilly as I walked down the bank of the estuary towards Appledore.

Just before Appledore is the shipbuilding yard which has produced ships since 1855. Harland and Wolff bought the yard recently and shipbuilding is buoyant here, according to a bloke cutting the grass.

Appledore’s a nice spot. Bideford, on the other hand, has a huge proportion of weird, mentally unbalanced and noisy people. Manic street preachers and loud speakers make you feel uncomfortable in the place.

But Appledore…..

Only weird if you think that a suit of armour in your garden and a shark with arms and legs hanging over your drive gate is weird!

The wind was slightly dropping and the temperature was warming a little. Looking back to Appledore (and across the estuary to Instow) the kayaks and boards made a colourful collage.

The lifeboat station was beached at low tide so it looks like they keep the lifeboat out in deeper water in case of action.

The centre of the little cape was great sheep grazing land, whilst the coastline was long beaches.

Round to Westward Ho!. Did that sentence need a full stop?

I was making good time but I was meeting an old mate and dear colleague of mine, Mark Sparvell, who had lived down here for a couple of decades. Passing Westward Ho! on the coast path the last stretch of coastline of the Bristol Channel spread out in front of me.

After a mile I cut up the hills and made it to Abbotsham where I was meeting Sparvey in the Thatched Inn. We had a great catch up and it was good to see him in fine form.

Back to the campsite, just a mile away, and a cold night ahead. But a lovely view of Lundy at sunset.

A ridiculous target in the morning, but I’ll see what I can do.

Night night.

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