After breakfast at Marsh Mills I was ready to head off. When I was leaving I
was hearing a bit more about how the owner was recovering from a head injury
sustained from falling off a ladder. I
also heard how he was an Ayrton Senna fan and had been upset by the death of
the racing driver. When I returned to
work, I got hold of some posters from Team Courtaulds and sent them to him. I
understand from a letter I received later that they made him feel a bit better. I hope so.
It was a couple of hundred yards walk
up the main road before taking a right turn down a farm track for a mile and
then into fields. The path was
adequately marked and it only got rough once in some woods where lots of trees
had fallen which were pretty tricky to hurdle over with a rucksack. The whole route down this side of the estuary
was deserted. I had that feeling I could have been lost in the woods for days.
Bantham was a picturesque village but
was already crowded with visitors cars by the time I was walking through. Skirting the car park the path goes out onto
a sand spit and nature reserve with views over the estuary to Burgh
Island. Back along a beach and then up
onto the cliff tops for the fist time today.
I experienced a bizarre incident at Thurlestone where I got hit on the leg by a golf
ball! I must admit that although it left
a graze, it did not hurt much. When the
golfer eventually came to see if I was OK. The cheek of it all was that he then
went to play the next shot, cheeky because if I had not stopped it with my leg
it would probably have gone over the cliff!
Thurlestone Sands bought back some
memories of when I went there with my parents on a Holiday Fellowship holiday,
but not much of it looked familiar, only the rock with a hole in it. I stopped at the far end of the beach for a
cup of tea. A little annoying detour for
100 yards forced the path inland behind a hotel before it returned to the
coast.
At Inner Hope the path goes along the
main street of the village, thronging with people on the Bank Holiday
Monday. I thought about a drink in a pub
but decided against the crowds, so stocked up with pop and cakes and ate them
on a bench overlooking the bay. I moved
on as soon as the ski-jets took to the sea and spoilt the peace. Bolt Tail was much more peaceful though some
of the more energetic holiday makers had strode this far. The exact path was not always evident and at
one stage the path turned into a scramble close to the edge - a bit dodgy when carrying a backpack.
There is not much doubt that Bolt Tail
to Bolt Head is a beautiful stretch of coast and a sunny day like this made it
even more spectacular. There were some
other walkers out and the only other sign of life was in the fairly crowded car
park at Westcliff. Sometimes the path
was steep and crept around headlands with steep drops off to the right. Not far past Bolt Tail I had caught up with a
girl who I guessed was out for short walk from Inner Hope, but she walked
almost all the way to Bolt Head at the same pace. I was impressed because I walked virtually
without stopping.
Straight after Bolt Head, it became
crowded again with people out for a holiday walk. Two men on mountain bikes were finding the
path a little steep and walked much of it.
There were spectacular views around Sharp Tor. After Sharp Tor the path became wooded and
level with cars parked alongside the road.
It was apparently along this stretch that a girl was murdered a few months later. A sobering thought.
I had booked into the Youth Hostel at
Sharpiton which during the day time was a National Trust gardens. It was not far off the coast path but it was
a very steep climb up a narrow road. Having my NT card on me I was able to go
into the gardens. I drank a pot of tea and had a quick nap on the lawn, not
quite the thing to do on a National Trust lawn I guess, especially with ones
shoes and socks taken off. When I awoke
I got chatting to a group of elderly people who were amused by my nap taking in
the middle of the lawn. They were walkers
and told me that I was wise not to try to cross the River Avon because they
knew someone who had lost their husband trying to cross it.
At 5 o'clock the National Trust tea room suddenly
emptied and transformed itself into a Youth Hostel. I took a temporary membership and went to my
dormitory, a 20 bed large room with great views across the gardens and estuary. I had the communal tea cooked by the warden,
of savory chicken and rice and a huge pot of tea. Two other families joined me for tea. After the joint washing up I went down to
South Sands for a drink in the pub/hotel overlooking the beach. I got talking to a group of people from
Bristol who included someone who worked at Berkley power station. When I went back to the dorm in the hostel I
met the only other person in the room, a Canadian who seemed quite caught up
with the 50 years since D-day celebrations.
There always seems to be a North American staying in every youth hostel.
