Buck's Mills to Hartland - Walking the South West Coast Path

Walker's shelter on campsite

It rained a little in the night and this morning it was still drizzly when I woke up. Mick was still conked out so I decided to give him a bit longer while I headed a mile down the road to the local shop for provisions. On the window of the campsite reception was a copy of the Met Office weather forecast. There was a great big yellow blob over the south-west of England indicating a weather warning for heavy rain. Great. Still, it could be wrong, after all it wouldn't be the first time. Although admittedly the short rain forecasts are usually pretty accurate, it's the long range ones which are suspect. Sometimes I wish forecasters would be more honest. 'Today we're pretty sure it's going to rain, tomorrow we're 50 per cent sure it will dry up. The day after tomorrow? Not a fucking clue mate, we live on an island in the North Atlantic. Anything could happen.'

Despite the drizzle we enjoyed the walk to Clovelly very much, through woodland thick with Jurrasic sized nettles and equally enormous dock leaves, so large I wondered whether to pick one to use later as an extra blanket. The last couple of miles before Clovelly were along Hobby Drive, built 200 years ago by Clovelly men on the instructions of Sir James Hamlyn Williams. Presumably it was his hobby. No vehicles are allowed now and the wide track made for easy walking with fantastic views down to Clovelly.

Jurrasic dock leaves

Its all a bit touristy but Clovelly is still a marvellous place to visit, with its steep cobbled streets winding down to the small harbour at the bottom, and no vehicles in the village itself. Goods are brought in by sled, a supply of which are at the top of the hill although it is possible to drive to the hotel at the bottom. The village is privately owned by John Rous, a descendant of the Hamlyn family and all the properties are rented. One of the conditions is that tenants are resident - Rous is keen to prevent Clovelly becoming the preserve of wealthy second-homers.

Stone Bench, Hobby Drive

Bringing home the shopping - Clovelly style

We called in the cottage tea rooms and as the rain had stopped we sat in the garden with a cup of tea and a sausage sandwich for an hour. By the time we left the rain had started again and was coming down hard. It seemed the Met Office forecast could be right after all. Initially we were semi-protected by the rain as the path ran through more woodland. In a clearing we were astonished to come across a beautiful wooden shelter with a carved roof. It seems Sir James Hamlyn Williams was responsible for this too, as part of the landscaping around Clovelly Court. I was very taken with it.

Angel's Wings, Clovelly

By now the weather was getting pretty foul. As well as the rain, fog had rolled in reducing the view to nil. At Blackchurch Rock Mick set off inland along a forest track.
'Are you sure this is right?' I said dubiously. 'Did you see an acorn sign?'
'Yes,' said Mick, marching on. After ten minutes it was clear we had taken a wrong turn.
'Where did you see the sign?' I demanded.
'I didn't say I'd seen a sign,' he said.
'Yes you did!'

Blackchurch rock

We trudged back to Blackchurch rock in a bad mood. We probably would have had a row had we not at that moment come across the first walkers we had seen in two days. We stopped for a quick chat.
'We told him we had come from Buck's Mills and they looked surprised. 'Did you set off late then?' the man asked.
'Erm, yes I suppose so,' said Mick, slightly defensive now. 'How about you?'
They told us they had come from Hartland Quay. They were however, carrying only small daysacks, having done some vehicle juggling and left a car at Clovelly.
'Where are you from?' asked Mick.
'Manchester,' said the man, at the same time as his partner said 'Rochdale.'
Mick laughed. 'Don't you know?'
'I don't like to say Rochdale,' he said. 'It's always in the news for the wrong reason. People assume its full of child molesters and muggers.'
They were hoping to move down here, they said, and were currently looking at properties. They also warned us about the path. 'It's very overgrown,' they told us, 'you'll get soaking wet.'

This prediction proved to be entirely accurate. After struggling up and down a couple of hills we were battling through thick foliage in mist and rain. Then the path took across endless fields of long, wet grass. My shoes squirted water out the front every time I took a step. My feet were drenched. On our right we knew there were cliffs although we couldn't see them. As we crossed a field we met another walker, a man in his sixties I would guess. He started as he saw us in our capacious capes. 'I wondered what it was for a minute looming out of the mist,' he said.
'It's Casper the friendly ghost and his little short mate,' said Mick.
'Weather's not so good,' the man observed. 'We love it though, don't we?' He clearly did, despite the weather. He had already walked from Morwenstow to Hartland when he decided to press on to Clovelly. This was fifteen miles over some of the toughest terrain on the entire coast path and yet he was bouncing along like it was nothing. I was struggling to share his enthusiasm.

Three more fields with nothing to see but mist and I had had enough. We reached a signpost for Exmansworthy, from where we could walk the couple of miles into Hartland. 'Shall we get off the path and call it a day?' I asked Mick. He didn't need asking twice and we trudged into the village of Hartland. We came immediately to the Hart Inn where we devoured a pint of Betty Stoggs from Skinner's Brewery. It went down very well, although I thought it odd and a shame they had nothing from the Forge Brewery based here in Hartland, and a personal favourite of mine. The other beers were conservative - Otter and Doom Bar from Sharps (now owned by Molson Coors).

Jackie behind the bar was very helpful and pointed us toward a bed and breakfast nearby, the Acorns and we went and knocked on the door. We must have looked a bedraggled mess. When the door opened a kindly looking woman stared at us. 'You must really like walking,' she said.
'No, not really,' I replied.
A piping hot bath each put us right though and put some feeling back into my frozen toes. Later we walked back to the Hart for a couple more beers.

Tucked up into the corner of Devon, Hartland feels a wild and lonely place. 'People here are afraid of bridges,' joked a local at the bar. 'That's why they never go beyond Bideford.'
Even the little white town, it seemed, was sometimes too far away from home. 'We lived in Bideford for a while,' our landlady at the bed and breakfast told us the following morning. 'We didn't like it though. We came back here to Hartland. We won't ever move away again.'

Distance: 10 miles
Total Distance: 103 miles
Accommodation Ranking: 9/10
Accommodation cost: £30.00 each (but so so worth it)