We’re sat, sleet-soaked & steaming, by a fortuitously found fire in the Golden Hind Inn at Woolacombe; my mind is wandering back along the paths that brought us here: passed huge jellyfish-grey clouds dragging their damp tendrils over Morte Point; through golden gorse valleys, the weather changing the landscape’s mood like a passing thought changing a face; passed a stone-green lizard sunbathing on a black glove snared by brambles; passed the chestnut-coats & white-bouncing-bellies of a playful young weasel couple, leap-chasing across the open path, tumbling through the long grass, bounding cheekily into the spiky gorse & out again; further still, beyond the belligerent jackdaw, silver-grey nape and single-minded eyes, eating our nutty offerings before his crew cart him off in a storm of caws; back round to Lee Bay where we stayed the night in a coombe that sung in the strong winds like a bottle blown – a coombe filled with a mournful OM:
Bedding down on a level ridge ten feet above the path, hidden amongst tangled rhododendrons jealously hording space, space left empty by our old friend Oak – exhausted in service of the Second World War. We lie together, our sleeping bags zipped as one, feeling nervous, uncertain; I visualise a prayer:
Two eyelids meet in lashes seductive,
graciously closed, one of mother’s many precious nodes -
keep us safe, respect our shuteye state,
and when we open in the morn a tear shall yawn
from our tired I and flow into earth’s blissful face -
enrich the place, as tears do, with palpable relief.
*
^ Keep us safe ^
Caitriona’s Voice:
“There are bits of this trip already getting missed: the way the wind moaned as it howled over the tops of the valley of trees where we found our perfect spot last night – it was an excellent find. Each time so far I go through fear and wonderment as we settle down into our temporary home for the night – so compelling, real, but hyper-real to be outside for this long already.
I’d started to realise the largeness of this walk in just the two days before we left, but doing it’s still been really quite shocking. I’m quite emotional. I almost cried into the wind 800ft above the sea – filled with joy and gratitude at being taught the things I’ve known I need… I’ve seeping holes in place of my heels, the plasters slip so the sticky bit rips in and then the broken skin gets mashed by glue and walking sock – towards the end of the day I stop feeling them as my body switches into survival mode, but then each morning they zing and flaringly wake as soon as, boots tied, I stand up… And it’s so cold, it makes me crazy – I made a song: “If you camp out when it’s cold Mr Santa makes a note…” It’s impossible to sleep through the night it’s so cold at the mo’… But all my life I’ve struggled with not feeling entirely present, and on this trip we’re right there every moment, and we’re together – working on our hardcore survival guide for honeycoombers… Ha.
Bunions, backache, tiredness, cold, the unknown end – each question answered by “we’ll see…” (’cause no gambling fan could try to see the possibilities of each bay, each coombe, each headland further round, out of view). I’m content each time I eat or get warm because of each new day’s peak secret. Each raw foot or broken backache is simply a necessary strengthening, my body’s bending into shapes it’s long been envying. Breaths held deeper, I can feel my system springing clean with each new scene. But fears have been a difficulty in their adjusting – at the moment I seem prone to lengthy staring – an anxiety’s appeared in me that doesn’t often; I’ve been scared to death of everything: bulls, dogs, goats, horses, hills, streams, wind, cliffs, farmers, boars (although there’ve not really been any boars… so far at least…) They’ve all appeared somehow insurmountable until they’ve been achieved – (my prince I am so glad of you) – and so I’ve reduced my worries bit by bit – ahhh, we’re just getting into it!”
*
We arrived in Lee valley from the natural harbour at Watermouth that we departed yesterday morn. Apparently the grassy fields of the little headland that we paid £17 to camp on were once owned by no man & free for all…
Legend has it some thick-armed beast wrestled the spirit of the place to the ground for a count of three and won the right to call it his own. He plucked all the little stones from the fields, built showers and lights and white enamel shit-suckers, put up signs to attract caravan-flies and their precious parasitic cargos, installed three-holed food dispensers for their hungry electric-tongues. He left all the lights on at night so no-one would get scared or stumble in the dark, provided a machine that promised ‘hot drinks’ (but arrogantly refused to deliver either hot drink or money back – just stood there silent and took the flak). He made a little house where all the caravan-fly-families flocked and paid for every drop while they sucked up the electric-noise-picture-box through exploited sense-holes, numbing away the after-effects of a hard day’s play. He ate the metal that he got in return but never really understood. He ate the metal and got fat and heavy, and when he finally keeled over people just camped on his belly – their metal tokens tumbled uselessly into the void, echoing through fading family photographs of a beautiful place where everyone looks annoyed…
^ riding thru the sky like a caravanning fly ^
*
After resting in the valley of rocks, playing brain ping-pong in the cave of indecision, we spent the night in a cheap and homely B&B. Trevor and Pat were so welcoming and easy it felt like dropping in on family; a good bed and a good meal balanced out the uneasy sense of having gone awry – two rooms in two nights?
We woke rested and covered the ‘strenuous’ 13 mile stretch from Lynton to Watermouth. It wasn’t easy by any means, nor as hard as it should’ve been. Saw the ‘white lady’ as we left the valley of rocks: a sort of Mary Poppins made of negative space, catching a gust with her brolly in a cryptic going nowhere. Passed Lee Abbey, a functioning Christian community, caught the gist from a billboard that they think of themselves as nature’s caretakers (thought she could take care of herself?) and reckon the hills and wind and things belong to God, who created them. Seems to me there are plenty better more ‘local’ stories that might be nice to tell if not to fully believe (being stories n’all) saying most to those who know them beyond shallow readings to the very breathings translated wheezings. Anyhoo…
We climbed high, walked long, saw sights that we hope to see again and sung songs that aren’t forgotten – just hidden whispers in the currents of our voice. Walked along cliffs with jack frost’s freezing fingers jammed up seaside nostrils, half-face numbed in constant cold-stroke. Wandered over the Giant Hangman, a massive heather-haired beach ball rolling under our feet, stone-piled summit receding by ever-shrinking degrees as we approach.
We arrive to 360 degree views: sweeping swirl-streaks of candyfloss cloud, fields fallow or ploughed hopscotching into Exmoor’s glorious roughery – the fast wind slipping from it urgently, sheep weathering the unrelenting blast like stubborn clouds. Recall the second morning’s walk along North Hill: Cat wary of passing the unfenced bovine masses, we give in to two short-horned bulls because the devils they stare and I care not to be basher punkt – but I refuse to be diverted by peaceful cows – sing songs to reassure us all, don’t meet eyes and pass as wide as possible; heads down, hands held, singing:
“Hey brown cow, we comin’ past now, don’t freak out
Mr Moo-moo, we ain’t gonna move for you-ooh
We just passin’ through, you’re a very lovely Moo-oo-ooh…”
*
We’re sat in the tent weathering occasional passings of dark cloud laden with cold rain, hoping when this front passes it’ll herald a warm climb. Here in the dunes at Woolacombe: a wide and long sandy beach facing West, punctuated by many rock-pools, the shipwrecking stick-out of Morte Point to the North and the humpy headland of Baggy Point to the South. Dogs occasionally bark from (hopefully) distant dunes. Sometimes cold spots pass and I can see my breath drifting like the clouds of dancing snow from earlier: grey dispensers shaking high over the sea, disappearing before their slow falling substance disperses – settling and quickly converting to magnifying droplets on our faces, body-heat accentuated by the brisk air, breathing into it through growing grins – moods lifted – it’s felt so cold so far that the frozen sky-fall is a vindication.
We’re nearly at the end of the first week and it seems like too much has happened to keep but I don’t ever want to lose even a bit of it, which I guess I won’t – I’ve lived it – so somehow it’ll always be part of me.
Evolving: bags become easier to pack and more accessibly arranged,
the uses of certain items multiply, cooking become more efficient…
and yes, by the third cold night, we even learned
to turn our insulation mats
the right way up
(!)
*
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