 |
What a difference a bank holiday makes…or the
end of the school holidays. We returned to Combe
Martin three weeks later, to a place with a very
different feel. The air slightly cooler than the
heat of our previous visit, and scarce a soul
in sight. Dosing up with Deet enriched insect
replant, determined not to carry any ticks home
with us this time, we set off well before nine
o'clock on a walk that promised a good selection
of watering holes, as well as some excellent scenery.
The term strenuous in the path description did
make us wonder what we were in for.
(Click on any photos to see large versions)
 A
good part of the climb was dealt with coming out
of Combe Martin, then we passed Watermouth Castle
an 1825 development, now a family amusement park.
Dropping down onto the foreshore, taking the most
slippery, slidy, sea-weedy course imaginable round
the top of the creek. Once again the tide is out,
and the little boats are propped up precariously
on their sea-legs waiting for it to come back
in.
Round Widmouth Head, we get great views, including
a last sight of the Great Hangman, the highest
point of the whole path where Mike played Sherpa
atop the cairn just a few weeks ago.
A classic row of coast guard cottages greets
us, reminding us of the history of these shores,
where the revenue fought a constant battle against
the wicked smugglers.
Chocolate stop is at Hele, where we take a while
to put the world to rights and start to see a
few people wandering out on to the beach. I eat
most of my lunch at this point..saves carrying
it!
 Next
stop Ilfracombe, where we drag ourselves past
the brilliantly named Loopy Lou's café (Photo
taken for the benefit of Lou Kemp.) . First liquid
refreshment stop of the day, sitting outside a
pub with tenuous links to ships. I fiddle and
fuss with my camera, which seems to be having
a bit of a breakdown, Decide to resort to camera
on my phone, which is just as good, and a lot
lighter.
Leaving Ilfracombe, we cut behind the bizzare,
wigwam structure of the theatre, gaining height
fairly quickly. Much of the section along to Lee
Bay is old road, in pretty poor repair, but it
soon drops us down into Lee Bay, which, according
to the map , boasts two Inns, perfect timing for
lunch. (Except I already ate mine) and a pint
of cider.
Grr, the hotel by the water is shuttered up and
closed down. It's a diversion inland to get to
the other, but we had psyched ourselves up to
a drink. We go for it, following a pretty, fuschia
lined path most of the way. Fuschias are grown
as hedges in these parts, and are hardy as well
as pretty.
 Having
idled in the shade of the garden for forty minutes,
with shoes and socks off for extra ventilation,
we pick ourselves up and go to leave via the back
gate. Suddenly a familiar voice rings out, and
Lo! There are Simon and Ellie Green sharing a
most sophisticated pot of tea at the table near
the gate.
Well, sociable beings that we are, we have to
stop and join them for a drink, but, it must be
admitted, we do not rise to tea. We stick with
the fizzy stuff we are used to. Leaving the pub,
we separate at the road as Simon and Ellie walk
off in the direction we had arrived from. They
point us to a short cut through the rocks, which
bring us out on to an irrestistable beach. It
really is a gorgeous day, and before I know it
Mike is off for a swim. I doze off the lunch break
leaning on a rock, and although we know its going
to leave us pushed for time, we agree the purpose
of the walk is all about opportunities like this,
not route-marching. 
Our target for the day is Woolacombe, and once
back on course we have two more hours walking,
some of it truly spectacular. Rounding Morte Point,
the sea off shore is as trecherous as the name
suggests, with the submerged Morte Stone a threat
to craft. The sea really seems to be boiling as
the infamous tidal race surges around the headland.
Weary by the time we reach Woolacombe, we track
down the Golden Hind, a must for Mike, who claims
a family connection. I get the job of ordering
at the bar, and only realise how tired I am when
I stand for a very long moment at the fully open
French door onto the terrace, trying to work out
how to get out there.
B and B for the night is at a pretty farmhouse
off the beaten track at Putsborough. Search for
an evening meal is easy as we venture down to
Croyde and spend an evening in a heaving, humming
pub pretending we are up for a day's surfing tomorrow.
|
 |
