Clovelly to Hartland Quay (11.2 miles, 973m ascent) (in which we watch sleds without snow and an American takes all the weight)

We awoke to find our room had fine sea views that we had failed to notice as the storms whipped this exposed hilltop location last night. The winds still sounded strong this morning, but had calmed a lot, and best of all no rain was forecast. At breakfast, Chris was not surprised that we hadn’t gone out the previous night – he said his guests quite often chose to stay in on rough nights rather make the long descent to Clovelly. His concert had gone well, and he was very chirpy as he served us an enormous breakfast, complete with excellent home-made bread and jam – he’s a chap who is clearly aware of the needs of long-distance walkers!

As we started out I was pleased to note that I had very little pain at all from my blistered toe – I was back to wearing Peter Storm Coolmax socks after my bad experience with the Bridgedales the previous day. I was looking forward to today; I was already starting to feel fitter, and it would be good to have a whole day of proper coastal walking at last, with no estuaries involved. Unfortunately, knowing we had a relatively short distance to walk today, we were rather tardy in leaving the B&B.

There was still no sign of the bull as we headed across the fields to Wrinkleberry, but a farmer trimming hedgerows nodded a friendly greeting to us. The cobbled pathway leading down to Clovelly was much easier in daylight than it had seemed in the dark and wet on the way up last night. We needed to nip into Clovelly to get lunch and send postcards, but we wanted to visit anyway, such was the renown of Clovelly as a must-see village.

We crossed the coast path and entered the village. At the side of the steep cobbled lane leading down between houses were a couple of wooden sleds. I’d read that deliveries to the village were made by wooden sled, but thought it must just be a gimmick for the tourists. A few minutes later I realised it was actually true as we met a villager dragging a sled down the hill laden up with a spin drier and four chairs. We soon discovered why – after a sharp turn the path grew narrower, and steep enough to need steps – and to make our heavy rucksacks take their toll on our legs. It was clear that there was no chance of getting a motorised vehicle down here, and we could suddenly understand the need for the sleds!

The post office shop had a paltry selection of lunch food and we ended up with a couple of manky pastries which looked like they may well have been dragged down the street without a sled. We sat outside the post office, writing postcards and watching beer being dragged to a nearby hotel on an extra large sled. It was all very pleasant. Time passed. We thought about how difficult it must be to get the sleds back up the hill, especially when laden. More time passed. Suddenly we realised it was eleven o’clock and we hadn’t started walking yet. Although we had a relatively short walk today, we’d managed to make ourselves a lot more pushed for time than we should have been. We reluctantly stood up.

We still wanted to see a bit more of this beautiful and unusual village, so we left our rucksacks by the post office and headed further down the hill. At another bend in this convoluted path we saw just how far below us the harbour still was. Much as we wanted to explore further, we were wary of how much time we had wasted and decided to leave it for “another time”. Picking up our rucksacks we struggled back up the hill, now realising just how steep the village’s main street was. We overtook some other tourists who were also struggling, at about the same time as one of the local kids went sprinting past without even looking out of breath. “Damn show-off Clovelly kids” said one of the women we’d just passed.

Reaching the top of the village Jim retrieved his hazel staff and we followed a sign for the SWCP that turned right off the village road. Unfortunately we failed to notice another sign, affixed to an impressive large and private-looking gate directing us through said gate. As a result we headed merrily off down a road that curved downhill to the west of the village. We got some distance down the road before realising our error and having to retrace our steps up the steep hill. However, the road did provide an answer to how villagers get loads up to the top of the village. The road actually curves down round to the harbour at the bottom of the village. If a villager wants to get a laden sled (or an unladen one for that matter) to the top of the village, they drag the sled downhill to the harbour, where the whole lot is loaded onto Landrovers and bought up by this road, well away from the prying eyes of tourists.

Finally back on the right track, the coast path was fairly easy going, ambling across gentle fields that looked like they were part of some former estate – from the map it looked like it may well once have been linked to Clovelly Court. We soon entered woodland, but woodland today was airy and less oppressive than that of yesterday. The paths were soft and springy underfoot, and even with heavy rucksacks we felt decidedly jaunty

This stretch of woodland seemed popular with tourists – maybe because it was a Sunday; maybe because of the shelters scattered through it. The first shelter we came across, a mere wooden hut, was crumbling into ruin, but the second was rather special. Set in a small dark clearing was a giant wooden structure, slightly reminiscent of an ornately carved mushroom.

After passing a some grouse bins, the path made a gentle ascent out of the woods to the uninspiring viewpoint of Gallantry Bower. From here you can apparently walk out to another shelter a little further along the clifftops; instead we pressed on rapidly on the coast path as it plummeted to the boulder beach at Mouth Mill, and crossed a stream by means of some rather dubious stepping stones. Slightly out to sea to the right of the beach is the strangely geometric double arch of Blackchurch Rock – for a decent view you need to make a difficult scramble down the beach over ankle-wrenching boulders and slippery rocks.

Looking back up the valley leading down to the beach there are a number of derelict buildings, including a ruinous lime kiln. These really add to the sense of remoteness in what is otherwise a pleasant green dale. We stayed there for quite a while, but eventually the cool breeze started to chill our sweaty backs and we decided that a fast hike up the densely wooded west side of the valley was in order. For some reason this climb was surprisingly hard work; even when we emerged from the woodland into fields atop Brownsham Cliff, the ascent continued albeit at a slower rate. I felt quite hot and bothered.

As we started to descend into the next Jim’s knee started to hurt – he’s always had a bit of a problem with it going down hill and the repeated steep descents yesterday and this morning had taken their toll. We stopped at a handy bench at a meeting of paths, so that Jim could apply some Ibuprofen gel and I could grab some trail mix and water. While we were sat there, a couple came past who looked like they’d just met an exceptionally good salesperson from Cotswold Outdoors. Kitted out in matching bright-coloured waterproofs, shiny map cases and tightly laced gaitors (I’ve never seen a bit of the coast path that’d need them) they somehow gave the impression of being on their first ever walk. After looking at the nearby signpost and holding an earnest discussion they strode confidently off down the hill. Five minutes later they came back up the hill, too loudly blaming the map for their error, and headed off in a different direction. We didn’t see them again, but we didn’t give them a high chance of getting back to their car!

Once Jim’s knee had subsided a little, we headed off down into the valley ourselves on a very steep and narrow zig-zagging path through heather. From the coast path you couldn’t see Windbury Waterfall at all, but now we’d got some steam up, we didn’t bother slowing down to look, and instead marched straight up another hill to Windbury Head, where steep embankments signified the presence of an iron age settlement. This was an especially beautiful chunk of coast path, reminding us of the bare folded hills of the Purbeck section.

The path bobbed up and down through a couple more very small valleys, before settling out into a level slog through completely dull fields. We were separated from the clifftops by a fence and thick undergrowth, and more often than not kept to the edge of the field by an electric fence. This restrictive walking gave none of the feelings of freedom that we’d normally associate with the coast path, and no good views either. For a section of path that looked nicely wild and rocky on the map, it was quite shockingly dull. In fact in the three miles or so between Windbury Head and Eldern Point there were only a couple of points of interest. The first was a small plaque commemorating the crew of a Wellington Bomber that crashed here, and the second was a trig point – as these by nature mark high points of land, they are quite rare on the coast path. Jim spotted the trig first, set on a concrete plinth beside the path, but invisible from the east until you’re right upon it. There were a couple of things to be seen in the distance – Lundy Island, still bobbing about eratically on the horizon, and a curious structure like a golf ball on a stalk. We would pass this later on the coast path.

These features failed to detain us for long, and on the level (but dull) paths we made swift progress. Just before Eldern Point we passed some odd artificially terraced fields, and on the point itself we finally found some benches where we could stop for lunch there’d been nowhere comfortable to sit since our last break, before Windbury Head. Suddenly the views improved – Shipload Bay (inaccessible due to landslides), below Eldern Point, was full of crashing waves and contorted rock formations. Eldern Point itself was crest in true coast path style with bronzed heather and gorse. It was just as well that we had a feast for our eyes, for there was little for our stomachs. The pastries from Clovelly Post Office tasted worse than they looked (impossible though this seemed) and we ended up binning most of them. Heading on round the back of Shipload Bay (surely the name is a reference to smuggling?) we suddenly started to meet lots of other walkers, the first we’d seen since Windbury Head – obviously there was a car park coming up.

Beyond Shipload Bay the path took a short tour around the seaward side of the giant golf ball mentioned earlier. This was a radar tower, and it affords the opportunity of “amusing” photos of a giant golf ball balanced on top of your friend’s head. Beyond the radar tower we discovered the reason for all the people – the busy car park at Hartland Point. Our guidebook says that a café is open here from May to September, but it was open today too. From a small green hut in the middle of the car park an astonishing array of food is churned out – sandwiches, jacket potatoes, salads, ploughmans, pasta, chilli, burgers, fry-ups, it’s all there, sold at very reasonable prices by a very friendly man. The weather was now lovely (bar a slightly chilly breeze) and after our dispiriting lunch we eagerly sat down and consumed an excellent cream tea.

We were very glad of this extra energy, for between here and Bude over the next day and a half we would be walking what the majority of sources claimed was the most challenging section of the entire south west coast path. From here on the path would go up and down more than an April umbrella, but would also (according to the same sources) offer us some of the most stunning scenery on the coast path. There does seem to be a direct correlation between the difficulty of the terrain and how beautiful it is, something that the people who merely drive up to Hartland Point and get out for a five minute toddle around the headland will unfortunately probably never discover.

Hartland Point itself is a landmark feature on the British coastline – you can see it clearly on a map of Britain, a sharp angle on the Devon coastline where the gently sweep of Bideford Bay suddenly ends and the coast begins it’s long straight southward journey to Bude and beyond. Our walk until now had been in the relatively sheltered Bideford Bay – from here on the west-facing coast would be exposed to the full fury of the Atlantic Storms – which accounted for the rather battered nature of the terrain.

Looking at any map you can see what a hazard Hartland Point could represent to shipping, and even from the safety of dry land the lines of jagged rocks trailing out to sea from the headland look positively terrifying. It’s an obvious site for a lighthouse, and sure enough there’s a white one squeezed onto the rocks below the end of the island. With waves crashing all around, and jagged cliffs above, it looks as delicate and as fragile as an eggshell. A lighthouse keeper here must have had a lonely existence – the headland used to be known as the point “furthest from the railways”

A private road leads down to the lighthouse from the car park, but the best place to view it from is from the west. The coast path takes you slightly inland across the neck of the headland, past an expanse of concrete that used to innovatively collect rainwater for the lighthouse. You’ll soon see the best photo spots – tourists have trampled down vegetation dangerous close to the cliff edge in order to get a good shot (can a photo ever really be worth risking death for?). From here you also get the best views of the jagged rooster-comb of coloured rock capping Hartland Point.

We headed southwards away from Hartland Point, with the numbers of other people gradually decreasing as we got further from the car park. We soon hit the first of many valleys; a low, flat-bottomed one formed by Titchbury Water. By the stream was a caravilla, which looked like it was someone’s permanent place of residence. It must be a lonely old life. The far side of the valley saw a short but steep climb up steps, and then a short march around open clifftops before descending into the next valley, Smoothlands.

Smoothlands is a bit of an oddity; rather than being a valley bearing a stream from inland down to the coast, it’s open to the sea at both ends. It’s thought that Titchbury Water used to run through it before the sea broke through at one end. A steep and absurdly pointy-looking (from the north) hill separates the centre of the valley; if you want to climb this there’s a fairly easy path up from the southern end, but beware of the sheer drop on the seaward side. The valley itself is a bizarre wild little place which feels miles from civilisation – even though Hartland Point car park is only just around the corner. It’s well worth a visit if you’re in the area.

Climbing out the far end of Smoothlands a couple of walkers start to catch up with us, and by the time we were half way up the hill the female of the pair had stormed past us. We weren’t too bothered about this – she was carrying nothing at all, and an unladen person has a huge advance over someone with a huge rucksack. We weren’t in any rush anyway. We found out the reason why she had so little luggage when her partner caught us up. He had a huge pack, twice the size of ours, and was red-faced, sweating and looking decidedly shaky. It was clear that she was forcing him to walk at well above the pace that he was really able to with such a heavy pack. Imagine the comparative speeds of a fat person compared to a thin person walking up hill, and you’ll have some idea of the difference a pack this size can make.

He turned out to be quite friendly and very American. We asked why he was carrying all the weight, and he seemed to be of the opinion that this was what the bloke was meant to do. In vain did we try to explain sexual equality, and that my wife would certainly willingly carry her fair share. It wasn’t just the weight distribution that was unfair in this relationship. She also showed no consideration for him at all. At the top of the hill she sat and rested on a handy bench. As soon as he approached, she gave him no chance of a rest but instead just got up and walked on again. Poor chap, you could almost see the thumbprint on his forehead.

We were glad that we were under no such pressure, and that we were able to stop on top of Blegberry Cliff for some water. Unfortunately after this we spotted the American couple heading down into the next valley, and decided that we were damned if were going to let them get to the hotel before us. We started to give chase, following them down into that valley, up over another hill and down into yet another valley, but with very little impact on their lead. Fortunately at a bench near Blackpool Mill the bloke finally went on strike (the woman had already passed the bench, but he just sat down and refused to move until she came back – fair play to him, I say!).

With the American couple resting, we were finally able to catch and pass them. However, they obviously wanted to be first to the hotel too, for barely had we passed them than they got up and started walking after us. This got my gander up (possibly my cob too, which is much bigger and scarier), and, knowing that the next hill up The Warren was the last before the hotel, I stepped up to my fastest possible pace (that is, my fastest pace uphill with a heavy pack at the end of a long day). I surprised even Jim and left him trailing in my wake, and within minutes the Americans had fallen way behind and I was feeling hot and headachy. I’d built up such a lead though, that on top of Warren Cliff we were able to slow and take some arty shots of Stoke’s distant church through the arch of a ruined tower on the cliff tops. Over Warren Cliff we had probably the longest stretch of flat walking (a whole three or four hundred metres of it!) that we’d had since Hartland Point. This stretch of coast had certainly so far lived up to its tough reputation, but our fitness was improving fast and it hadn’t been a problem at all.

We came to a road at the intriguingly-named Rocket House. Our guidebooks could not explain the origin of this name, but there certainly seemed to be a lot of meteorological paraphernalia around it. The road wound its way down a steep hillside to Hatland Quay Hotel, our destination for the night, whilst a maze of eroded paths rambled across the hillside. We followed the shortest one down the hillside through the public car park to the hotel.

Hartland Quay was to be the first hotel we’d stayed in on the coast path – in this stretch of path there was no real alternative for us. There was a youth hostel a few miles further on at Elmscott but it was self-catering only and also closed for the winter. There was a campsite a mile or two inland but we had no intention of carrying a tent. In fact, everyone I knew who’d walked this stretch had ended up staying at Hartland Quay. Fortunately the hotel didn’t take advantage of this and only charged £30 per person per night – the most we’d paid on the coast path by some distance, but cheap considering it was a hotel and considering its location.

The hotel wasn’t exactly as I expected. You get used to these pictures of swanky resorts on the holiday programmes, and end up expecting all hotels to be the same. Hartland Quay isn’t like this though. Two long low battered old white buildings stretch along the base of cliffs. Given their location, it’s not surprising that they look a little the worse for wear – they must take the full brunt of Atlantic storms as they come in from the west. As we arrived in our room we found evidence of the ferocity of the sea here – our first floor windows were completely encrusted with salt, and you could here the booming of the waves on the rocks below. We imagined it must have been pretty impressive here in the gales the previous night.

After baths, we finally got our first pint of the trip (and an excellent real ale it was too) at the hotel’s pub (The Smuggler’s Inn) and wandered outside to explore. The smaller of the two buildings (and the one closest to the sea) hosts a small shop and a museum of smuggling (both closed as it was 6pm). The back building held the pub, restaurant and all the rooms – we guessed that this way the front building sheltered the bedroom building from the full force of the storms. We quickly realised how lucky we’d been with our room. We’d asked for a twin room, and had been given a huge L-shaped family room spanning the full width of the end of the hotel. Whereas many first floor rooms would have had their views restricted by the shop and museum in front, ours stuck out the end and had full views out to sea. In addition we had windows to the side that gave grand views up the jagged coastline we’d just walked along.

Seawards of the shop and museum was a small promontory that culminated in a low rocky knoll, topped by a flagpole proudly sporting the Union Jack. Below we could see the remains of the small harbour that gave Hartland Quay its name – it was destroyed many years ago in a particularly bad storm. Being west facing, we were hoping for a good sunset. It was slightly more cloudy than would have been ideal, but nevertheless the low sun glinting off the sea through the serrated black rocks was most impressive, and we spent some time trying to take “arty” sunset shots. We stayed outside until it got dark, and then headed into the pub to warm up and for an excellent and substantial meal. Jim had steak and ale pie and proclaimed delightedly “Wow! It’s got a suet crust”. I’m less of a fan of stodgy traditional British fare than him and was glad that I’d opted for the very tasty hickory chicken. And another superb pint.

It had been an excellent days walking. We were starting to feel fit, the scenery (especially towards the end of the day) had been excellent, and we were staying in one of the most stunningly-located establishments we’d yet found on the coast path. I was actually looking forward to hitting the infamous “hardest section of the coast path” tomorrow!