Bideford to Clovelly (19.1 miles, 1288m ascent) (in which we sing a song and are tracked by a Hound of Hell)

We awoke to a disturbing glow from the purple walls and a lingering aroma of sweaty t-shirt. Fortunately this was soon overpowered by the smell of bacon wafting up from downstairs and we rushed down to happily devour a huge fry-up. I was glad to find that my feet and legs had recovered from the pounding they’d taken yesterday. I was still very worried that, having struggled that much over eleven flat miles, I would find today’s nineteen miles over more taxing terrain too difficult. Still, I felt a lot more up for it than I had done last night. I put on my new Bridgedale socks which I'd bought specifically for today's rigours as Ifelt they might offer more padding than my usual Peter Storm Coolmax socks.

Still, the early part of today looked fairly easy from the map. In addition, the persistent rain of yesterday had stopped and for the moment at least the sun was out. The forecast promised heavy showers and – more problematically – a strong headwind, but here in the Torridge estuary we were well sheltered and it felt pretty warm.

We rejoined the coast path exactly where we had left it (no short cuts for us professionals!) and followed it as it wended its way through waterfront housing. Where it passed through a very modern estate, we were glad to see that the estate builders had been forced to make provisions for the coast path. Soon after this, we once again passed under the huge spans of the Atlantic Highway bridge; on the other side the scenery suddenly changed as we left Bideford. Now out of the urban area we instead passed between large houses surrounded by woodland.

It is a definite advantage to walk this section of the path at low tide; in several places there is a short “low tide route” with a diversion inland at high tide. The first low tide section was very short – a squeeze down a narrow alleyway lead to a short cut across a small and very scruffy beach. After passing a series of big old waterfront houses the path headed inland slightly before heading uphill and back to the coast through pleasant woodland. Although we were now well up above the river, the views were restricted by the trees all around.

The path descended out of the woodland towards the huge boatbuilders’ warehouse we’d seen from the far side of the river. Before we reached it, we had another bit of low tide timesaving. A flood defence embankment that the coast path used to run along had been breached – it was still passable at low tide, but a big diversion would have been needed at high tide. The bottom of the breach was still wet, but easily passable for us, and the rocks strewn either side (presumably formerly part of the embankment) were evidence of the awesome power of whatever flood surge had torn apart this embankment.

From the top of the embankment we looked at the rusting hulks lying outside the boatbuilders and thought it a huge shame that formerly great vessels were left to die an ignoble death like this. The boatbuilders blocked the riverside progression of the trail and so it took us inland again, winding through a series of fields around Bidna Farm and eventually emerging on a minor road that would take us all the way into the fishing village of Appledore.

Joining the A386 we were greeted by a large, colourful and distinctive “Welcome to Appledore” emblazoned on a nearby wall, although the “Appledore” was strangely much smaller than the other two words. We followed the main road round to the waterfront, a long wide curve of concrete clogged with a nose-to-tail traffic jam of benches. You could imagine the heaving throngs of elderly folk making their way from bench to bench in the summer, but in the chilly October winds it was deserted. On a sign advertising boat trips we were horrified to see a picture of that darn otter - we thought we'd left Tarka behind on the other side of the river. As if to confirm his presence, our feet alerted us to the fact that we'd been walking on hard surfaces for some time.

Before we left the tarmac we had to pass through the "suburb" of West Appledore, effectively the older part of Appledore. Near a pleasant churche took a right turn down the intriguingly-named Isha Street and found ourselves in a tiny street lined with beautiful little old multicoloured fishermen's cottages. A lot of them had odd decorations on the doors - bottles and other flotsam and jetsam tied together. We wondered if this was due to some fishermen's superstition, or if it was part of a local festival of some kind. Either way, it was great to see such clear evidence of community spirit.

The road was so narrow in places that when a car came rumbling along the cobbles we had to press ourselves into doorways for safety. We emerged unscathed at the far end and stopped for a rest on a couple of benches near the lifeboat station. The wind was really picking up now - when I put my cereal wrapper in the bin (making sure I plunged it down to the bottom for safety) it rattled around in a mini-tornado inside the bin for a couple of minutes before shooting out one of the slits and making a determined bid for freedom. I must have looked ridiculous chasing it up the street, but caught it in the end and this time stowed it safely in my pocket. At least the exercise warmed me up!

Soon after the lifeboat station we had our third high/low tide route choice of the day. The high tide route heads inland to the hamlet of Assells. The old coast path route used to run along the top of a very low cliff which has now crumbled away - however, at low tide you can descend to the beach (called the "Skern") by means of an old wooden slipway and take a short cut along to Northam Burrows.

Northam Burrows Country Park is a huge area of sand dunes jutting out from the coast, the counterpoint to Braunton Burrows on the northern side of the Taw/Torridge confluence (I love that word!). There's a golf course in the centre, and the coast path runs right around the edge. Unlike the lightly wooded Braunton Burrows, Northam Burrows is entirely bereft of trees; it's also relatively flat. As a result the wind absolutely howled across here, turning what should have been very easy walking into a bit of an ordeal. Reaching the north of the headland and curving round to the south was a good moment though - more than two years and about 25 miles after reaching them we were finally clear of the Taw and Torridge estuaries. Between them the two estuaries were the most dismal bit of walking we'd done on the coast path, and we were hoping that the rest of the coast path wouldn't offer any more such prolonged periods of tarmac-lined boredom. It has to be said though, that the Torridge was infinitely preferable to the Taw.

The western, sea-facing side of the Burrows was protected from the Atlantic storms by the long man-made "Pebble Ridge". The official route of the South West Coast Path was through the dunes just inside the ridge, but they were so soft underfoot that we found it very hard going. Fortunately, as the tide was still out we had the option of scrambling down onto the wide sandy beach below, where the hard sand allowed us to pick up speed as we marched towards Westward Ho!, the only place in Britain with an exclamation mark after its name.

Despite the cold wind the beach was very busy with dog walkers, kite fliers, sand yachts, wind surfers, kite surfers and even a few "normal" surfers. And two hikers. We marched through the crowds who gazed at us curiously. Soon surfers and hikers alike were gazing fearfully out to sea at a misty patch of particularly grey cloud in the distance, which all too quickly resolved into our first heavy shower of the day (there would be quite a few more before we reached Clovelly). The wind picked up, and we were stung by big raindrops that were so cold that they felt more like sleet or hail. Despite this, on seeing a cairn atop the Pebble Ridge Jim raced eagerly up to it, only to find that he could barely stand upright in the wind up there.

The rain stopped as we came into Westward Ho! It's a bit of a drab, dispiriting place compared with some of the other places we'd seen on the coast path - probably as a result of having been created as a resort town rather than having originally evolved as a fishing village. There were no exciting winding lanes with interesting shops and restaurants here - instead there was the grassy esplanade, arcades and greasy chip shops more associated with the south-eastern resort towns. The town planners also clearly had a problem with the fact that the beach runs away at right angles away from the esplanade - somehow the town lacks the seafront focus of similar resorts.

Despite its lack of charm, the town inspired a song. Think of Snow White and the Seven Dwarves and you'll probably pick up the tune:

"I ho, I ho, it's Westward Ho! I go
With a pack on my back and a plastic mac
I ho, I ho, I ho, I ho."

It had a second verse but it was a bit rude so I won't publish it here.

It was too early for lunch but fortunately we found a Co-op a short distance from the coast path where we were able to stock up with the ridiculous amount of provisions that long-distance walkers require. We returned to the coast path and headed along the esplanade first past a swimming pool cut into the rocks below, then by some new flats right on the sea front (very appealing right up until the moment the Atlantic storms roll in…), and finally through a serious of beach huts with mildly amusing names. We headed out of the town with - on my part at least - a certain degree of sadness. An old friend of mine lives here; I hadn't seen her in a couple of years and I had intended to pay her a surprise visit. Unfortunately I had forgotten to bring her address or 'phone number. Michaela - if you're reading this, I'm very sorry I missed you and I'm sorry for slating your town. But hey, look on the bright side - you didn't have to put up with a couple of smelly, muddy hikers in your home!

Unfortunately we also left the town with a dog. Some stupid slobbering mongrel decided to follow us, and despite varied tactics of (1) shout-at-him-and-wave-our-arms-about-madly, (2) ignore-him-and-he-might-get-the-hint, (3) run-away-as-fast-as-twenty-pound-packs-allow and (4) hide-behind-each-other. The fourth tactic was successful from my point at least, as the cursed canine started to follow Jim rather than me. Eventually we decided to just get on with the walk and hope he turned back at some point.

We soon left the park-like area running out of Westward Ho! and passed through a gate into the wild grassland-and-heath that we have come to recognise as the "standard" vegetation of the coast path. We hoped the gate might hold the mutt, but no, he found a way through and came bounding after us, tongue slapping from side to side. We were now seriously worried - signs informed us that this was an area where livestock roamed freely (or in the case of sheep, probably just stood freely) and that dogs should be kept on leads. We were very worried that the foul cur may attack something. We starting hoping that we would meet some people going the other way who the dog would follow back to Westward Ho! Fortunately, half a mile on we did just that - a kindly elderly couple offered to hold the dog until we were out of sight, and then take it back to the town. The last sight we had of Muttley was of him almost dragging the old couple along the path as he tried desperately to follow his beloved Jim. For the next few miles we dreaded hearing the sound of scampering feet behind us as the hound caught us up, but fortunately he didn't - we'd like to offer heartfelt thanks to the benevolent couple who helped us out.

Suitably divested of dog we hurried onwards. Finally, after the low-key Taw and Torridge Estuaries, the path started to regain some of the wild grandeur that we had loved on our previous trips. Unfortunately, the reason that it looked so great was the roller coaster series of hills and valleys that it ran across. In one of the early valleys was a ruinous building that Paddy Dillon's book informed us was an old lime kiln. The climbs were fairly gentle at first, and when we stopped for lunch on a handy bench on top of Green Cliff I was feeling pretty good. I felt even better when a couple came up the steeper hill on the far side looking red-faced and out of breath, and assumed looks of misery when they saw us already occupying the small bench. From here we could see all the way to Clovelly, our destination for the day - it looked depressingly distant.

Beyond Green Cliff the path grew ever more taxing, with repeated ascents to 300 foot followed by descents down to rocky beaches. There seemed to be far more hills than shown on the map - perhaps the OS simply couldn't fit them in. There were certainly some sneaky ones, where you didn't notice the path running diagonally across contours, or where the contours were partially obscured by landslip/cliff symbols. Unusually for the coast path, the path here was very muddy and slippery, especially up the long, steep ascent to Westacott Cliff. Here we met a group of seven Duke of Edinburgh Award kids with huge badly packed rucksacks (stuff trailing out the back, odd kinks halfway up) who looked exceptionally tired and rather dazed by the whole experience.

By Higher Rowden we were so tired that we stopped for some precious chocolate-coated Kendall Mint Cake, and were promptly hit by one of the worst squalls of the day. We saw it coming, a huge swirling mass of cloud out to sea. Jim started to struggle into his mac, whilst I said I would tough it out "like a man". A minute later I was soaked to the skin, freezing cold and "whimpering like a girl", as Jim kindly put it.

At Peppercombe there was no sign of the castle marked on the map, but there was a huge change in the landscape. As the coast swung around to face first north and then north-east (from the north-west coast we’d just been walking along) the vegetation changed suddenly from grassland to dense and seemingly ancient deciduous woodland, chock full of various fungi. This was Sloo Woods (closely followed by the indistinguishable Worthygate Woods). With the change of vegetation, the path changed too – rather than taxing climbs and descents, it now instead tended to run with the contours along the wooded slopes, making for much easier going. Unfortunately, the woodland all around cut off any glimpse of a view and made for much less interesting walking – save for the spectacular bracket fungi en route. It did offer a boon for Jim – he cut himself a hazel staff to try to ease the pressure on his aching knees.

After a while we encountered the final valley of the day, a steep descent to Bucks Mills. As we accelerated down the hill, briars cracked in the wind like whips, leaving nasty gashes across my arm. Bucks Mills was hauntingly beautiful, a tiny seemingly deserted hamlet squeezed into the bottom of a deep narrow valley. We didn’t see a single person while we stopped for water and trail mix, and felt that the village might have looked exactly the same had we visited it several centuries earlier.

However, it obviously held attractions for some. As we ascended the steep slope through further woodland to the west of the village, we met three teenagers dressed up for a night out on the town – the two girls were actually wearing white jeans! I don’t know how they’d managed to keep them clean, but they were certainly struggling to get down the hill in their high hills. We assumed they’d come from the holiday camp up the top of the hill, but wondered what was on offer in Bucks Mills to make them dress up so. If this encounter had happened in the south east, no doubt we’d have been subjected to a mouthful of abuse, but here the youths greeted us with a polite “good afternoon” and wished us good luck with our walk.

The climb felt relatively easy compared to those earlier in the day, and soon we were once again walking along the top of wooded slopes, still with no views. The holiday camp had been carefully hidden from view from the path, although there had clearly been some landscaping in places. Beyond the holiday camp the path was due to join something called the Hobby Drive, but it seemed to take an awful long time to get there. Eventually, after skirting round the edge of some fields and then re-entering the woods via a small wooden footbridge, we discovered the Drive, a wide level track running through the woods, and winding along the contour lines. It seemed to be filled with enormous numbers of grouse, which ran ahead of us in their usual stupid panicked gait.

It should have been exceptionally easy walking, but my little toe was paining me. It had started to hurt at Westward Ho!, and was now making me limp. I feared I had a blister. It was also pretty demoralising walking through the trees with no reference point as to how far we’d gone or how far we had to go. We’d said we’d be at the B&B at 6pm; it now appeared that we’d get there some time after that, and I rang to warn them. The B&B owner said he was off out at 6.45pm, and we’d need to be there before that. We quite literally put our foot (or feet) down – fairly gingerly in the case of my right foot though.

The only real moment of interest in the whole length of the Hobby Drive came as we rounded the final corner, where white iron-wrought benches looked out over a big drop down to the harbour of Clovelly, looking like a toy hundreds of feet below. However, another icy squall soon made us move rapidly away from what must be a favourite haunt of photographers.

The coast path passes through the very top end of the villages, by the tourist car park that seemed to have an almost impossibly tight turn into the entrance. Jim hid his newly cut walking stick here, ready to be picked up tomorrow, proclaiming himself well pleased with it. With the deadline imposed by the B&B we had no time to explore the village, but thought we’d be able to do that when we came in for dinner in the evening. Our B&B was actually a little way inland at the hamlet of Burscott; to reach it we turned left at the car park entrance up a steep pathway lined with slippery cobbles running under trees. It was already getting dark, and difficult to see our way up the unlit path; we started to worry about how difficult it would be returning down here in the dark for dinner.

We emerged, slightly breathless, at Wrinkleberry, to find Clovelly school. The kids of Clovelly must be pretty fit if they have to climb up that hill every morning. I don’t think there’s any need for Jamie Oliver’s healthy school meals here – they’re probably more worried about if they’re packing in enough calories! From Wrinkleberry it was a short walk across darkening and muddy fields to Burscott. A sign warned us to beware of the bull; we skulked nervously along the hedgerows but never actually saw him. We were glad to finally reach the B&B with a good quarter of an hour to spare.

The B&B was called Pillowery Park, a name which straight away implied comfort. The proprietor, Chris West, was most friendly and welcoming. It turned out that he was an architect who had designed the B&B himself; he’d certainly done a good job, it was a lovely place. He was off to play the tuba in a concert in Bideford that evening, and joked that if only we’d waited in Bideford he could have picked us after his concert and saved us the walk.

Chris also claimed that he had the most powerful shower in North Devon. A hot powerful shower is just what you want after a day’s walking – it warms you up and soothes the aches and pains. I have to say that his claim fully withstood scrutiny – it was the most powerful shower I’ve ever felt in my life. It nearly caved in the top of my head! It also made my little toe hurt even more; I did indeed have a blister. Having never ever had one from hiking before, I could only attribute it to the one change I’d made to my walking apparel – my new Bridgedale socks. The seam was just too large, and had worn away my toe. I would be sticking to my much cheaper, but much better Peter Storms in future. I burst the blister and applied antiseptic cream, and straight away the pain began to ease.

Chris provides torches to help his guests make their way into Clovelly, but gales were howling around the B&B and heavy rain was blattering against the windows. We were warm and comfortable after our showers, and had no inclination to go out in the cold and wet. After a while it was apparent that this rain was not the squally showers of early, but was set in for the night. We decided to stay in and eat the contents of our rucksacks. We had done this once before on the coast path in Kimmeridge, but this time were much better prepared for it. We had a virtual feast laid out – beef jerky, pepperami, malt loaf, chocolate and chocolate bars, fruit and trail mix.

As we played cards (and Jim repeatedly lost for once) we reflected on the day. The first half had been a super section of path, at last seeing the return to “proper” coast path walking. The second half had been almost entirely wooded, and could have been anywhere – we had gone long stretches without seeing the coast at all. We fervently hoped that tomorrow would bring less woods, but as the wind and rain grew increasingly violent outside our main emotion was thankfulness that we hadn’t headed down to Clovelly that evening!