They reckon there’s a billion stars in our galaxy (the Milky Way) and billions of galaxies in our Universe. The strongest theory coming forward as far as I understand it is that there are an infinite number of universes, together creating the Infiniverse. But rather than wrestle with the insignificance of our being and the blink of an eye that constitutes our lifetime let’s celebrate being here.

These are shots along the coast from Padstow to Newquay.
Last night in Higher Harlyn was ok and I’ve put a few miles under my belt today and set up Wilson at Trevarrian Holiday Park. It’s got a bowling alley and an amusement arcade. From my point of view it’s a tenner a night and it’s got soft toilet roll and warm water.
My oldest is Georgie Lola Smith. This is for her, from Padstow.

The weather again has been beautiful, warm sun, cool breeze. Captain Beefheart – Full moon, hot sun, come back baby you’ve had your fun. Sadly gone forever with John and George, Lou Reed, Sandy Denny and Richard Wright.
Return to now. Have you ever seen me happier?

Remember Bob Dylan looking so relaxed and happy on the Nashville Skyline album cover in 1969? Do I look a bit like that?

A lot of people on the coast path today as the resorts get closer together. It’ll get less and less as Autumn kicks in. Susie and Pete (sister and brother in law) are in Hayle and I might see them Tuesday or Wednesday as I pass.
Maggie’s coming down on the train to Plymouth next Friday and we’ve got four nights near Looe. I’m hiring a car from Penzance and picking up from where I leave off – which looks likely to be this side of Lands End. Andy Mandy joins me then for two weeks. I think he needs his own tent don’t you?
As well as snoring I fart.
Love to all.

Made it to Rock last night. Thanks John Mably at Trewistow Farm for donating my fee to H4H. These independent farmers running campsites in the summer are the most generous souls.
Tired tonight.
Higher Harlyn, beautiful part of the world. I’ll blog tomorrow as this signal is ropey.
A sunny day with a cool wind. I’m burning cold but ok here in my sleeping bag with the breeze blowing around me through the tarp – Wilson. It’s very basic and very nice.
Night night.

I’m ok, I’m alright doh you have gone from moy loife. What a great song, the old Flogging Molly. What a great day. Port Gaverne leads up to Port Isaac and what a lovely village that is. Bacon sarnie for breakfast and Cornish stream water, three fallen apples and hands full of blackberries for lunch. Yet to pitch but aiming for a site near Rock to give me an early ferry to Padstow.

Fallen behind a bit on my schedule but I’m not too concerned with that. It’s certainly been the toughest part of the coast path.
I’ve done over 162 miles and around 41,000 feet.
Nights
1. Porlock
2. Lynton
3. Hunters Inn
4. Coombe Martin
5. Woollacombe
6. Braunton
7. Bideford
8. Abbotsham
9. Hartland
10. Morwenstowe
11. Bude
12. Crackington Haven
13. Tintagel
14. Port Gaverne
15. I’m hoping for Rock

Thanks to Ann at the farm along the track from the Port Gaverne Hotel. Gave me a free night camping and a shower. May your God be with you.

It’s a short trip from where I am to where I’m going tonight. I’ve stopped to check what’s what and now I’m going on the road again. Right foot is feeling a bit better but every step still hurts. Like Robert de Niro climbing the waterfall in Brazil carrying all that armour and gear as his penury in ‘The Mission’. Oh what a film.

‘Given to the Wild’ – oh what an album. If that had been released in the late sixties it would still be lauded as one of the greatest of all time. Why has recent history not glorified it?

I’ll leave you with a nice photo of my mate Antonia when we were in North Devon.

Great walk from Tintagel to Port Gaverne/Isaac. Britain is extraordinary you know. Fabulous countryside and coast, best food ingredients in the world (even if the French think we don’t know what to do with them), best inventors, explorers, history, military, flaura,…… Walkers?
These are the remnants of an old quarry south of Tintagel.

And this is where I’m sat outside the Port Gaverne Hotel looking down to the cove.

The weather has been wet at times but not persistently yet and most of the time it’s been sunny with passing clouds. Blast from the past those are from when I was a smoker in the seventies and given to fashion. Passing Clouds, plain and strong.

I’ve got a camouflaged poncho which fits over me and my backpack – Swiss army job. I look like a new breed of cattle when I’ve got the hood up. I’m frequently walking through cow fields and on one occasion I had the poncho on. The bull snorted and made a beeline for me, seeing me as a new addition to the harem. The cows saw me as a threat to their young and made just as quick a line towards me. I legged it – just making it to the stile that I took like David Hemery in Mexico in 68, to the excited vocal background of David Coleman. You remember – Mexico Olympics.

Another herd at Saunton were more excited. I didn’t even need my poncho, the bull ran at me but stopped when I didn’t move – paralysis not bravery. Two young bullocks took over and ran at me as I walked (quicker than normal) to the gate. I turned round and shouted “come on cattle, I’ll take you all on”! I felt tough when they backed off. I wasn’t too far from the gate if they hadn’t. Idiot at Home?

I like this photo of me – I’m right tough you know.

I’m enjoying this. Grasshopper – the journey is a monkey.

We’ll I’ve made it to Tintagel but I can’t tell you how much my right foot hurts. It’s got quite a few blisters. That’s my only moan my friends. God (who I don’t think exists but if he does then) bless the Headland Caravan and Camping Park for giving me a freebie on account of my Help for Heroes sponsorship. It cost a fiver last night for a sloping, stone filled pitch and a cold shower – which I declined.
The country:
Coming down from Crackington Haven to Boscastle and down to Tintagel is a real challenge. A lot of steep valleys to struggle down and up, even though I’m as hard as nails. In Crackington I met a bunch of Blades fans – the Burgins from Swinton. Salt of the earth.

As I was saying, the country; the scenery is stunning. Just beautiful and the mountainsides are covered in purple heather, yellow gorse flowers, red thingys and blue flower things. The weather couldn’t be better, sunny periods with a cooling breeze to keep me from overheating on the upward climbs.
Antonia took this when she joined me for those three lovely days.

Some more metrics.
So far 144.9 miles 35,600 feet

This is a photo of a wild horse with her foal on the headland north of Tintagel. I’m very lucky to see this.

In Bertha’s wake there were strong stormy showers and after a particularly harsh one I bumped into a man and his daughter who had caught the storm on Holdstone Hill near Combe Martin. He said they’d been on top of the hill when it hit, adding that it was a Holy hill. He said there were UFO’s and ETs up there and they passed their energy on to people up there who radiated it onwards to the whole world.
I said I was going to Combe Martin and he told me that they lived there. He told me that I’d drop down into a valley before climbing up over 1000 feet to the top of the Great Hangman – the highest point on the whole coastal path. When I was by the stream the woodland elves and spirits would send me their energy and I would be ok to climb up to the top.
I bade him we’ll. Incongruously he was wearing a Peterborough United track suit top. I made it up the Great Hangman though!

Night night.

Only 10 miles but over 3,500 feet and I’m not going to knacker myself for the sake of a day or two. I feel guilty though if I walk less than 8 hours. A lifetime of service, standards that I haven’t lost. Today I did 6 hours. Crap really but tomorrow I’ll thrash it. Boscastle and the legendary Tintagel. Not a strong signal so no photos I’m afraid. I’m setting some targets now:
Tintagel tomorrow night. 11.4 miles and 3,000 feet.
Port Isaac the night after. 10 miles 2,750 feet.
Padstow on Thursday night.
I’ll need to break a limb not to make that now.
I’m into this now you know. I could be like one of them blokes who is a Master, like the old gimmer on the Kung Fu programme in the seventies and eighties. The wise old one who all the young trainees listened to in awe and he talked rubbish but they pretended to understand.
‘Master, you have walked far’
‘Yes Grasshopper, I have walked many leagues’ – that’s me saying this bit.
‘Master, why do you walk and what is your journey?’
‘ Well Grasshopper, mostly it’s for a bit of exercise to keep my brain sharp. What was the other question?’
‘ The journey Master, the journey’.

Then because I’m revered a lot of the trainees gather round and sit cross legged on the floor.

‘ Let me tell you all about the journey my children’. Obviously they’re not my kids but it’s what wise men say.

‘ The beginning is always the end and the end always the beginning. Wisdom gathers around every step and if you are ready you will embrace this wisdom. If not then maybe try it again a week on Saturday’.

Then I’d lift up my robes, hover for a minute for more revering, then go to the pub.

Anyway what is it about cows? All they do is chew. I’ve walked through quite a few cow fields and they’re chewing grass. The herd in the morning must get around the leader, obviously if I was a cattle type thing that would be me then, and talk about their objectives for the day.
The leader says, ‘Who wants to do what and we’ll have a vote?’
This daft heifer says ‘Let’s run round the field’.
The leader says ‘OK who votes for a run?’
Nobody puts their hoof up.
Another cow says ‘Hey, why don’t we graze today?’
Every hoof goes up and that’s all they do. Grass straight into the first stomach then they puke it up and whack it into the second stomach. Makes watching the Blades fascinating compared to the life of cows.

Roll on Tintagel.

I’m in Cornwall.

 Only made it to Morwenstowe last night but had a great meal in the local C13 Inn and a farmer cleared out and secured a small field for me. My tarp is good you know. It’s only a big, green waterproof hanky that you tie up to hedges and stuff so it’s open but it’s my friend. I call it Wilson now after I lost an earlier Wilson in Devon. I made it to south Bude today and then watched footsie in a nice pub. The campsite charged me 12 quid and gave it to Help for Heroes. Cheers Brigitte at Upper Lynstone Campsite!

The kind folk at Little Roadway Farm didn’t charge me. People come up, give donations or make gestures of kindness. It’s an England that used to be.

Anything can walk into the tarp in the middle of the night and in Braunton I woke at 3.00 with a snail on my forehead. Had it again at Hartland.

The coast is beautiful and I’m enjoying it now. I posted 7kg of stuff home from my backpack. I had to be tough. Fishing rod, catapult, cooking stove, lots of accessories. I had to do it. I couldn’t carry it any more. I think I’m down to 13kg or less now.

 The reflection in the dryer is me and Antonia washing my stuff in Bideford in a launderette. If you ever think of going to Bideford just to let you know we sat outside a pub and a bloke on the table next to us said – “have you ever played conkers with somebody’s eyeballs?”. Give it a miss. Martin at The Villa there gave us excellent bed and breakfast. My only b&b so far but great with Antone.

Thanks for reading.

night 11

bude 123.7 miles. Climbing 29,000 feet. I’ve climbed one Everest!

Just made it to Hartland. The climbing and descending is crazy, cliff top to sea shore continuously. But I’ve done over 105 miles and around 25,000 feet.
Nights
1. Porlock
2. Lynton
3. Hunters Inn
4. Coombe Martin
5. Woollacombe
6. Braunton
7. Bideford
8. Abbotsham
9. Hartland

Tomorrow hopefully I’m into Cornwall, aiming for just short of Bude.
All is ok except my feet are buggered (well my right one is) but apart from that I’m now enjoying it. Antonia came down for a few days to walk with me and that was a pleasure. I’ll tell you some of the weirder stories next time I blog. Oh yes, the woodland spirits are here!
Dave.

The next day I struggled across the side of Exmoor and eventually made it to Lynmouth. This wasn’t good. My shoulders were bruised from the weight of the rucksack. I felt very negative and decided to break the next day’s planned walk in two.

I struggled to the Hunters Inn and pitched my tarp in a field. I nipped down to the Hunters and ordered a sandwich and a pint for me tea. The landlord looked at me like I was mental and I couldn’t work out why. I sat down and read the map, ate my sarnie and supped my pint. My hand rested on my head and I felt some peeling skin. It had been warm but not that warm. I peeled it off, and looked at it. I’d had my new cap on for half an hour and somehow a small round sticker with 2 in the middle had transferred itself from the new hat to the middle of my high forehead. For 4 hours I’d walked around as number two! To my embarrassment I’d talked to quite a few fellow travellers (mostly German for some reason – don’t mention it) but they’d looked at me as normal. Quite a methodical, process-oriented nation I suppose.

It was Saturday the 9th. Bertha hit in the night. Tarp nearly got washed away, but we were ok in the end.

It seems a long time since last Thursday. The train journey was great and Richard Lupton from Help for Heroes met me at Taunton Station and gave me a lift up to Minehead. Thanks Richard.

The statue is the start and I left Minehead about 3.30 in the afternoon and got my first reality check walking that afternoon and evening to Porlock. My back pack weighed 18 kgs and I had to climb 2300 feet over the 10 mile hike.
I was knackered and made a mess of putting the tarp up so it dipped into my face in the night. I didn’t sleep we’ll.
This North coast of Somerset and Devon is beautiful. I was not enjoying it.