Hartland Quay to Bude (15.2 miles, 1,049m ascent) (in which we see a giant Mexican and Jim tries to sell me an ice cream he doesn’t have)

Like the rooms at the Hartland Quay Hotel, the breakfast was adequate but not a patch on the B&B’s we stayed at on this trip (despite the fact that the hotel cost slightly more). However, as soon as we stepped outside we were once again stunned by the location. We felt the need to wander down to the Union Jack once again and take in the view. In today’s overcast skies it wasn’t quite as dramatic as in last night’s sunset, but in the deep rocky hole immediately to the south of the promontory the waves still crashed angrily and sent up fountains of spray – I’d definitely like to see what it’s like here in rougher weather (maybe from besides the open fire in the hotel lounge…!). There was a partial solar eclipse due at 9am. Even though we clearly weren’t going to see anything through the thick grey cloud we waited until 9am before leaving. We were rewarded with a few minutes when it seemed slightly more cold and gloomy than before – but maybe that was just our imagination.

Today was the “biggy” – not as long as day 2, but renowned as one of the hardest days walking on the whole coast path. Looking at the map we would be climbing 17 hills of varying sizes between the hotel and our destination in Bude. We hit the first one immediately after leaving the hill – a fairly short climb up from the seafront hotel to the clifftop above. The path had been diverted slightly by a cliff-fall, and now passed briefly through the visitors’ car park up above the hotel. Here there was a couple of surfers in an old camper van, still lying down in their sleeping bags but leaning out the side of the van to cook their breakfast on a mini gas stove they’d set up in the car park. It was rather an enchanting scene, and from our brief chat the couple seemed very friendly. We weren’t sure what they were doing here though – the rocky coastline looked completely inhospitable for surfers, and we were surprised they hadn’t headed instead to the nearby surf resorts of Bude or Croyde Bay.

The path quickly dipped into a valley that reminded us of Smoothlands yesterday – open to the sea at both ends, barren, seemingly remote from civilisation (despite the bustling hotel just around the corner) and separated from the sea by a beautifully pointy hill. This one was called St Catherine’s Tor, and we both longed to climb it; the distance and ascent still ahead of us meant that once again we put it off for some other time. If you want to climb it, the easiest ascent is from the southern end but be wary of the shear drop on the seaward side.

Another gentle ascent followed, before a steep descent to Speke’s Mill Mouth. Our guidebooks told us of an impressive “twin spout” waterfall here, but as it’s slightly off the path we came close to missing it. If you turn right when you reach the stream, and follow it towards the sea you’ll soon come to a great viewpoint of this surprisingly high waterfall – there’s also a steep path down to the bottom of it. After more than 24 hours without rain the right-hand “spout” was down to a mere trickle, but the left spout still emitted a satisfying roar. When in spate these falls must be truly spectacular.

After crossing the stream there’s a choice of routes for the next kilometre or so – you can either take the cliff top route or the inland valley route. Both achieve the same end anyway – an ascent of almost 200 feet. The cliff path makes a fast ascent followed by airy clifftop walking, whereas the valley route makes a long lazy ascent. We chose the valley route, partly because it’s actually the official route of the SWCP (despite being further inland), and partly because we’d been doing plenty of clifftop walking and we fancied a change.

The stream that had created the valley was barely more than a boggy streak, marked out by marsh plants. As a result it gave off none of the usual watery sounds, and the valley walls seemed to block out all external noise. Without the crashing of waves, we were enveloped in a silence that was a million miles from the modern world. It was at the same time unnerving and uplifting; I suddenly understood what the new age crowd are on about when they talk about spiritual enlightenment. I stopped and breathed in the fresh air and marvelled at the sound of silence; that is, until it made me unwittingly start humming a certain Simon and Garfunkel song.

The fresh air didn’t last long anyway. As we neared the head of the valley we started gagging at the putrid stench of rotting flesh, and soon came across what appeared to be an exploded sheep. Lumps of flesh, wool and bones were scattered over a startlingly wide radius, and we couldn’t conceive of an animal that would leave such a mess. Maybe the fabled Beast of Bodmin had come north on a holiday or – perish the thought – perhaps the foul slobbering mutt from day 2 had finally caught up with us. Frankly we would have preferred the Beast! Shuddering, we headed as fast out of the head of the valley as we could to rejoin the clifftop path. However, it didn’t look like the clifftop path here would last too much longer. It ran along a narrow ridge between the bend of the valley and the sea cliffs. It was clear that at some point in the not too distant future either the stream or the sea would break through, and the lower part of the valley would become one of the weird inland “dry” valleys, like Smoothlands yesterday.

From here there was a long, almost imperceptible ascent for two kilometres of grassy clifftop. Even on a cloudy day like today, it was pleasant walking. At one point we saw a sign pointing inland to Elmscott Youth Hostel, where we could have stayed last night had it been open. At another place we saw what looked like the remains of a winch platform – we wondered if smugglers had once used it to lift illicit goods up the cliff, or if it had a more innocent purpose.

The path bore briefly inland to join a minor road at Sandhole Cross, soon afterwards leaving it and returning to the coast on a permissive path running past a large radio mast. Just afterwards came what appeared to be a radio mast nursery – thirty or so miniature radio masts waiting to grow up and – presumably – colonise new county tops and marilyns on behalf of their race.

After circling around South Hole – a village name which Jim found inexplicably amusing – we started on a gentle ascent of Embury Beacon, atop which was located the remains of an iron age fort. As we approached it a minibus ran up the track ahead of us. We groaned, imagining it disgorging loads of people to take possession of all the benches at the top of the hill before we got there. However, on reaching the top we found no people and – disappointingly – no benches. Instead we sat on opposite sides of a stile, and decided that in many ways it was better than a bench as you had something to lean back against. We’d walked 4.5 miles before this, our first break of the day, and we felt pretty pleased with ourselves – we didn’t feel even slightly tired, and felt we were storming along. Despite this it still felt good to rest awhile and enjoy the view.

According to our guidebooks much of the hill fort has now fallen into the sea, but there was still a substantial earth bank running across the headland. On the far side of the hill fort a chain of molehills ran dangerously right along the very edge of the cliffs – we wondered if the mole responsible had one day met with a watery death. In the field below us we saw the minibus again, which turned out to belong to the National Trust. We watched bemusedly as it zigzagged aimlessly back and forth through the long grass looking increasingly lost, before eventually accelerating down to the bottom corner of the field and disgorging a horde of people. We idly wondered how many National Trust volunteers were actually needed to repair the stile they were all looking at.

As I’d said, so far we had found this supposedly difficult section very easy, but from looking at the map it was about to get very much harder. As we headed down off Embury Beacon and across Knap Head, a view ahead opened up – of high cliffs repeatedly scored with deep valleys. Looking down into the first one (Welcombe Mouth) we noticed that the tide was out and wondered if it was possible to walk to the next valley (Marsland Mouth) along the beach rather than by going over the high cliffs in-between. In the end we decided that as we couldn’t see a way up from the beach into Marsland Mouth from where we stood, it could potentially be a big mistake and cost us a lot of time and energy trying to get between the two. We would stick to the conventional route of the SWCP for safety.

So we descended a steep path to Welcombe Mouth, to the sight of a car park. This had obviously been put in to bring the trainer brigade down to a delightful scene of stepping-stones crossing the head of a pretty series of waterfalls. After the obligatory “oohs” and “aahs” and a couple of photos, it was straight back up the other side of the valley – a tough climb this – before immediately descending again to Marsland Mouth. On the way down we came across the curious Ronald Duncan’s Hut. This surprisingly solid and pristine one-roomed building is a good place for a break (an opportunity that we failed to take advantage of), having benches inside and out and grand views. It also has a visitors book – we’re in there if you care to search! Ronald Duncan was a twentieth century playwright who got much of his inspiration whilst sat in this remote place – some of his work is on the walls.

Despite being smaller and quieter than the neighbouring Welcombe Mouth, Marsland Mouth is a much bigger landmark for coast path walkers. The stream at the bottom marks the boundary between Devon and Cornwall, and we stood on either side of the small wooden footbridge shouting things like “Oi! Git out o’ moi county!” Incidentally, there is a path down to the beach here, so at low tide you can – if you wish – take a short cut along the beach between Welcombe Mouth and Marsland Mouth. This does mean that you would miss Ronald Duncan’s Hut, and please be careful not to get cut off!

Beyond the footbridge was – you guessed it – another steep ascent. The path was starting to fall into a regular pattern of ascents and descents. Coming so soon after the ascent from Welcombe Mouth, this one hurt badly and we stopped for a break on a handy but damaged bench (aka a seesaw) at the summit of Marsland Cliff. Far from our pride at our progress at Embury Beacon, we now felt like we were starting to slip behind schedule. Over the last kilometre we’d suddenly had to start putting in a hell of a lot of effort to make very little progress on the map.

Whilst we were sitting there a couple of walkers came confidently striding up the path from the opposite direction. Given that they’d just come up a hill similar to the one we’d climbed we were a little aggrieved to notice that they didn’t even appear to be slightly out of breath – despite the fact that they were carrying far larger rucksacks than ours. They were very friendly and we soon struck up a conversation, only to be even more shocked – not only were they carrying camping gear (hence the huge rucksacks) but they’d already done two-thirds of the distance between Bude and Hartland Quay, whilst we’d only done a third (albeit in the other direction). To add insult to injury, when we offered them space on the bench they said they didn’t need to rest! From their burly physique, we wondered if they were army types – it made us feel better thinking this.

It turned out that they were waiting for their two mates to catch them up, who they referred to affectionately as “the slow one and the old git”. Apparently the four of them regularly hiked the Lake District but had decided this time to hike part of the coast path for a change. Apparently they were most impressed, and were already considering returning to complete more in the future. Five minutes later “the slow one” appeared over the brow of the hill and we were somewhat reassured to see that he was at least as red-faced and out-of-breath as we had been when we first arrived at the bench. So it wasn’t just us that were unfit then! To be fair, this chap had no doubt been forced along at more than his natural pace by the two army types, and was probably still far fitter than us – he had, after all, still walked almost twice as far as we had so far today! After exchanging tips on the paths to come, “the old git” still hadn’t arrived, but we decided it was time for us to be on our way. The army boys asked us to kick “the old git” in the shins when we finally saw him. We finally found him, a fellow possibly twice the age of the others (we wondered if he was their Dad?) halfway down the next hill into Litter Mouth, and were pleased to see that he wasn’t remotely tired. With the wisdom of age on his side, he knew that the others in his party would have to wait for him to catch up anyway, and so was happy to just plod along at his own pace and enjoy the walk – “the slow one” could have done with taking lessons from him. We informed him what his mates had told us to do to him, and he just chuckled and said “yeah, they’re b***ards aren’t they?” When he was a hundred metres or so past us, he started shouting “ow, ow, my shins, why are you kicking me?” so that his friends could hear. They were a good crowd, and it was a shame they weren’t going our way. Or maybe it wasn’t – I don’t think we could have kept up with any of them!

Litter Mouth would have been stunning anywhere else, but here it was just one of many such beautiful valleys, and just meant yet another steep ascent on the far side for our tired legs and aching lungs. It was followed in quick succession by the similar Yeol Mouth, which left us weary enough to stop for lunch slightly earlier than planned, on top of Henna Cliff. The earlier flood of benches seemed to have petered out and we ended up sitting for lunch in what was becoming a familiar position – back to back either side of a stile.

There were cows in the field and we had been worried that they would come and try to steal the adequate-but-dull packed lunches that the Hartland Quay Hotel had made up for us. In the event the cows weren’t the problem (perhaps they were scared off by the beef crisps?). Instead we suffered a plague of flies. We’d noticed on the last few cliffs that, as soon as we got above about 80 metres altitude, we’d start to be investigated by little black flies. Here, at 130 metres, several different types of fly decided to band together and launch a mass assault on us. In the slight breeze they hit us in waves, big black clouds of insects so dense that visibility was actually reduced slightly. They didn’t bite at all (no self-respecting fly would want to touch a sweaty hiker!) but their constant flying into you, landing on you and crawling into your lunch was irritating in the extreme. We were forced to move on a lot sooner than we would have liked, which might explain why we failed to spot the trig point located just a few hundred metres inland from here.

The flies vanished as the path resumed its rollercoaster journey by diving into the next, unnamed valley. St Morwenna’s Well is rumoured to be located here, but as to what or exactly where it was we could find no clues. Up on Vicarage Cliff we came across signs Reverend Hawker’s Hut, rumoured to be the smallest National Trust property. It’s quite hard to find – you have to locate a small path that winds down the cliff from the SWCP. The Hut is a tiny rickety wooden affair, set back into the cliff itself, somewhat overgrown and with a turf roof and stable door. Below there’s a feature marked on the map as “Lucky Hole” – the name made me snigger and wonder if the Reverend was attracted to the spot because of that! Just as with Ronald Duncan earlier on, the Reverend used this spot as inspiration for his poetry; the Reverend’s hut was undoubtedly rather more romantic and unusual, but on a stormy day I know I’d rather have been in Ronald Duncan’s more sturdy building!

Another plummet and reascent followed, this time to get past the wonderfully-named Tidna Shute. The other side was a glorious orange rocky cliffside wilderness tumbling down to Higher Sharpnose Point. In the midst of this classic bit of coast path was an old coast guard’s look out point, looking for all the world like an abandoned ice cream hut. Jim actually went in, leant over the “counter” and tried to sell me a 99 that he didn’t have. It was here too that we met a couple who appeared to be lost. They say that appearances can be deceptive, but not in this case, for they asked us in pleading tones to direct them back to their car in Morwenstow. They had no map, no water and only thin coats and trainers, and looked knackered – a good reminder that even a well-made and well-signposted like the SWCP can be dangerous for the unwary. The woman in particular looked aghast that all three routes that we suggested to them involved a hill.

Another mile, another deep valley – this time called Stanbury Mouth. This one had a greater percentage of sand in the bay than any others today, and the reduced amount of serrated rock was the first indication of a forthcoming change in the landscape. For the moment there was unfortunately no let up in the coast path gradient, and the climb out of Stanbury Mouth whilst not the biggest of the day was for me the hardest. I was tired, I’d been rationing my two litres of water and so was getting a little dehydrated, hot and headachy, and it had been a long time since our last stop. At least at the top of a hill we finally reached a landmark that we’d been able to see for much of the day (at least, when we weren’t down at the bottom of deep valleys!) – an extensive collection of radio antennae. The right hand one looked surreally like an enormous bust of a Mexican in a sombrero. As we reached it, we briefly joined a wide decrepit tarmac drive. Given my tiredness after the climb, my navigation and indeed thinking skills were at a bit of a low, and we may have mistakenly carried on down the drive for a long time had Jim not spotted a coast path sign leading us off down a small path to the right into the gorse and heather of Lower Sharpnose Point.

On Lower Sharpnose Point a black cormorant stood in a stately pose on a jagged rock, beautifully silhouetted against the sea behind – with a better zoom on the camera it would have made a great photo. We could also see ahead down the coast to Bude, and could see the change in the coastline foretold by the sand at Stanbury Mouth. The cliffs were about to get much lower and – thankfully – more gentle. We weren’t there yet though; first of all came a scary switchback descent on a narrow path off Steeple Point and into Coombe Valley. Here, at Duckpool Beach, there were several surfers, a foretaste of the huge surfing community at Bude. It looked quite a hairy place to surf – despite being mainly sandy, the beach still contained its fair share of rock ledges. There were quite a few other people around and no wonder – the car park and toilets were after all the biggest sign of civilisation since leaving Hartland Quay more than 10 miles earlier!

It was another long slog up the far side of Coombe Valley, but with the promise of easier walking to come I managed it far more easily than Stanbury Mouth. The landscape already felt less aggressive, each valley being less deep and each intervening set of cliffs less high than the previous one. The rough gorse, heather and rock were starting to give way to uncultivated grassland and pasture. We stomped easily across a couple of smaller valleys before Stowe Cliffs narrowed to a pleasant headland between the sea and an inland valley, with great views. A descent to Sandy Mouth completed the change in the scenery; the reascent was much shallower and took us to the low, gentle, grass-topped cliffs we’d seen from Lower Sharpnose Point.

Suddenly walking became easy and we rapidly sped up. On the negative side, the views immediately became somewhat banal compared to what we’d walked through. At the clearly defined tumulus near Menachurch Point we stopped to gulp down the last mouthful of water in each of our Siggs. Our water consumption was probably the best indication of how tough a days walking we’d really had. Jim has camel in his ancestry, and I’ve rarely known him to finish two litres of water in a day before. For my part, I normally drink like a thirsty fish, and it had taken strict-self control to ration my water all day so that I still had some left now. Yet this was on a cool cloudy day – on a hot sunny day it would have been a living hell for me to try and undertake this section with a full rucksack and only a mere two litres of water!

After the gentle (in fact almost imperceptible) valley of Northcott Mouth there was an equally gentle climb up to Maer Down. Despite being a 150-foot climb we barely noticed it. We soon found ourselves in the surfers' haven of Crooklets, an outlying part of Bude full of cheap cafés and surf shops and people who call you “dude”. Here we left the coast path for the day, and along Downs View to find our room for the night at Fairway Guest House. And what a gorgeous room it was too. First of all we were upgraded for free – we’d booked a non-ensuite room to save money, but were given an ensuite room. It had clearly been recently decorated in a modern style and had all mod cons – even a teddy bear on one of the seats. Rather than your common old Nescafé sachets, the tea tray had slightly scary (but very tasty) disposable coffee filtering mechanisms. We felt rather ashamed and out of place as we dumped our muddied, sweaty kit on the immaculate cream carpet.

Once we were showered, we headed back the way we had come to the Crooklets Inn for dinner. The hearty meals were served in a large conservatory, after which we retired to what felt distinctly like the “locals bar” to play pool. Fortunately the locals were very friendly and more than happy to move out of our way in the restricted space around the pool table, watching us intently as I beat Jim 4-1, due mainly to a series of well-timed flukes rather than any particular skill on my part.

As we played, we discussed the days walking, and whether it was indeed the toughest part of the coast path. For me my personal nemesis had been the section from Swanage to Kimmeridge, whilst Jim had certainly suffered walking from Lynton to Ilfracombe over Great Hangman. However, they’d both been earlier in the respective holidays – Kimmeridge on day 2, Ilfracombe on day 3. We certainly weren’t as knackered as we had been on those days, but perhaps that was just because after four days walking we were fitter than we had been then. Probably if we’d walked Hartland Quay to Bude on the second day of a holiday we’d have been shattered. What there was no doubting was that it was one of the most beautiful sections, and also one of the quietest and most remote. We both agreed that we had thoroughly enjoyed it!