A Strange Pilgrimage
It was early in the morning of April Fool’s Day 2008 when I lugged on my fully packed rucksack for the first time. It was shockingly heavy. I thought through everything it contained: a spare pair of trousers, a pair of shorts, three pairs of walking socks, two spare t-shirts, a pair of long-johns and a thermal top; a map, a guidebook, ‘food for free’ and ‘the spell of the sensuous’; a lightweight sleeping bag, bivvy bag, heavy duty poncho and thin insulating mat; toothbrush and toothpaste; a single blade razor and a small bottle of shaving oil; a flannel and a compact microfibre towel; a basic first aid kit; some string and a compass; a spork, a small tin opener and a serrated knife; a folding shovel and a toilet roll; some sun cream and a pair of sandals; a medium sized trangia and a 500ml bottle of methylated spirits; a small flask of brandy; one and a half litres of water; a Nikon f2 camera with two spare films; my mobile phone charger; a small box of paints, a few pens and a notebook; two tins of sardines, some quinoa, a couple of carrots, a red onion, a courgette, some powdered milk, some sugar, smoked sausage, tea bags, trail mix and dark chocolate; some home grown tobacco, a few grams of weed, about a hundred magic mushrooms, a small pipe and some psychedelic cactus… I couldn’t think of anything worth getting rid of for the weight. We hit the streets in a numb daze, following a will that seemed to have overtaken us, no longer sure exactly when the commitment had been made – only sure this whole idea had emerged from a desire to escape (but to do so in a constructive way).
Escape from what you might say?
From the self-perpetuating trap of working jobs we’d rather not, just to keep a roof over our heads and food in our bellies – in this context even the transient pleasure of a treat, the momentary relief of a short break, is nothing but an empty diversion, always feeding back into the cycle, leaving nothing changed, as futile as living for the weekend. We needed to do something radical to keep our souls from being stifled – walking the South West Coast Path seemed to fit the bill. We decided to spend the next few months on foot, following the setting sun out of Minehead along the north coast of Devon & Cornwall, walking round Land’s End and then heading back home towards Bournemouth – only Bournemouth wouldn’t be home anymore – we would walk east into a new day, our home would unfold wherever we chose to lay. It wouldn’t be easy – the path stretched for six hundred and thirty miles and over its entire length climbed more than four times the height of Everest – but it seemed like a good solution. We figured all we’d need to do was save a grand or so to cover three months food, that we wouldn’t need a campsite more than once a week for showers and laundry. A good solution should be neat, and it seemed as simple as that – it might not’ve been long term thinking but the promise of three months freedom was enough. There was the sense that somehow it would bring about change in its own way, that surely after such an epic journey nothing would be the same…
We arrived in Minehead by bus and made our way towards the gleaming sea, locating the monument that marked the start of the path and looking up towards the massive climb of North Hill, a steep eight hundred feet above sea level – what an introduction! By the time we reached the top Cat had ripped the skin from her heels, my neck was knotted cramp from the torture device of my bag, and the muscles in our legs were bordering on jelly – yet we felt like we’d never been so high! The wind blew wild and strong so that our doubts were blown away. My heart was in the mouth of a seagull, being spat like crazed laughter into the sky.
We decided to spend the night hiding behind a densely packed thicket of baby birch. Crouched in the relentless wind against the fading light I set about pitching up for the very first time, solemnly resigned to not getting things quite right I pegged out a saggy shambles. The wind blew under our loose lips in episodic bellows. We put on the kettle, listened to the roar of the blue flame until the rumble of the bubbles came, and resolved to look at the fact that we’d forgotten to bring any cups as the first test of a necessary resourcefulness.
Restless thoughts ran rampant. We suffered paranoia from strange lights and distant voices. The wind howled while pebbles and roots poked. Sleep came in snatches as we snuggled down into our bags, latching onto each other in our matching thermals, using the heat of trapped breath as an extra resource.
Just what had we let ourselves in for?
These are the intertwined diaries of Caitriona and I.
The nervous giggles and strange cries
of the ride of a lifetime.
CONTENTS
