Countisbury to Heddon Valley - Walking the South West Coast Path

After a better night's sleep we were up and about earlier today. It was still not yet seven o'clock when we returned by car to the little car park back at the top of Countisbury Hill. 

'Well, you're on your own today,' said Mick. 'I won't come with you.' I know why this is. Today's walk includes some high climbs and steep drops and Mick is none too keen on those. 'I'll tell you what, though. I'll meet you with the campervan at the end of the day. That way you can can sleep in a comfy bed to make up for two nights in the back of the car.'
'That way you can get to go to the pub without doing the walk, more like,' I said. But we agreed that he would do this. 'Bring some food as well,' I suggested. I also gave him some items I decided I could manage without. The radio, a t-shirt, a pair of leggings and another pen are ejected from the pack. I waved him goodbye and set off. 

The path travels straight through the graveyard of Countisbury Church so I popped into the church for a look. Inside I spied an electricity plug so I take the chance to give my laptop a quick charge while I was there before setting off down the hill to Lynton. In my defence I did pop a small monetary contribution in the honesty box.

Idiosyncratic garden ornaments in Lynmouth

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I had hoped to cheat by catching the funicular railway from Lynmouth to Lynton but sadly I am too early and instead I plod, puff and curse my way up the violent hill that connects the two villages. It is steep. Very, very steep, criss-crossing the path of the railway line which slides almost vertically down the hill.           

At the top I turned right for the village in search of a cashpoint and a coffee. A chap outside the fruit shop asked me what I am looking for and pointed me towards a bank. Before leaving I stocked up on some fruit and had a quick chat with him. He told me that he used to have a shop in Ilfracombe but as soon as Tesco turned up he saw the writing was on the wall and sold up and opened a shop here instead. I told him that I don’t go into supermarkets and he nodded approvingly. He also recommended a coffee shop. ‘Best coffee in Lynton,’ he said.

I walked into the café opposite, Charlie Fridays. It was still before ten and not quite open so I asked whether I could leave my stuff while I went to the bank. As it happened, the owner was heading to the bank too and on the way back we fall into conversation.

‘Looks like you’re on a long walk,’ she observes and I explained that I am walking the South West Coast Path over the summer. I had been walking for over an hour and my breakfast so far had consisted of a few slugs of tepid water, so the coffee and bacon toastie are very welcome indeed. The owner introduced herself as Jackie. She is lovely and friendly and wants to feed me up for the toils ahead. When I have finished my toastie she brought over a plate of toast, butter and jam on the house and we chatted about travelling. Jackie told me about a trip she did last year, the Plymouth-Banjul Challenge, travelling from France to Gambia in an old banger, which is then auctioned for charity at the end of the journey. It sounds like a brilliant trip. I have only been here half an hour but feel I have made a friend. Hope to see you again Jackie, in your marvellous café.

From Lynton the road soon headed into the awesome Valley of the Rocks. The path is tarmac, which makes it feel slightly safer but the vertiginous drop to the pounding sea below is still astonishing. Above the path rocky outcrops dominate the skyline as the narrow path winds its way along to a dry valley cut by the East Lyn River before it diverted to its present course encircled by weird and wonderful rock formations and dominated by the focal point of Castle Rock, with its weathered and cracked stones.  Coleridge and Wordsworth visited here in 1797 and the scenery inspired them to write The Wanderings of Cain although it was never finished. Coleridge blamed Wordsworth for pulling out and he turned instead, rather more successfully, to writing The Rime of the Ancient Mariner.

It was quiet here today, still early and empty apart from an older couple sitting on a bench in companionable silence. I wandered amongst some of the rocks for a while, it truly is an amazing place.

From here the path is along a minor road which heads steeply down through the Lee Abbey estate, a Christian community, before beginning a steep climb up the opposite side of the valley. At the top the narrow road winds precariously along the top of a cliff above Woody Bay.

Lost on Exmoor?

In the late nineteenth century Colonel Lake, a wealthy solicitor from Kent, came up with ambitious plans to develop this small, remote area into a tourist resort and the remnants of his building work can be seen in the pier and walls around the bay. Lake poured money into the scheme. Unfortunately much of it was from his client’s accounts not his own. The project was beset by problems; the pier washed away in a storm and in 1900 Colonel Lake was arrested for embezzlement and sentenced to twelve years imprisonment. The development was purchased by Charles Bailey who owned the nearby Lee Abbey estate. He had no wish to have a holiday resort next to his country house and all work on the development stopped.  

By the time I reached the top of the hill I was very warm. The sun was strong and it was with some relief that I turned into woods where I found a lovely flat stone to sit down and allow my poor feet some freedom from my festering boots. It was lovely sitting there listening to the birds and the sound of the trickling waterfall nearby. I decided to feast on some of the fruit I bought in Lynton earlier. This turned out to be a mistake. As sweet liquid from the juicy pear trickled down my chin I was invaded by a zillion flying creatures who proceeded to launch a co-ordinated vicious attack. I stuffed the rest of the fruit back in my bag, crammed my reluctant feet back into my fetid boots and carried on.

Soon the trees thin and woodland give way to scrub and bracken as the path heads suicidally towards the outer edge of another cliff. I picked my way along as the track grows ever more narrow until it becomes little more than a sheep track clinging to the side of the cliff. I rounded a promontory only to find that the path continues along another ridiculously narrow path to an even higher outcrop. It was with some relief that I reached the next corner and find the path wider at this point, wide enough to accommodate a couple from Suffolk who are sitting on a rock tucking into their cheese sandwiches. I know they were from Suffolk because they told me so, they were on holiday in Devon and had found this place accidentally while looking for somewhere else.

‘We often find places like that,’ the woman said cheerfully. ‘Sometimes the best places are the ones you get to entirely by accident.’ A sentiment which is as true of life as of walking, I mused, as I walk the final stretch down to Heddon’s Mouth and along the valley floor.

Heddon’s Mouth is a stunning place, a steep, steep valley covered swathed in trees. The land here is too steep to cultivate and the trees cover the hillside in a mass of green. At the bottom of the valley the Heddon River tumbles towards the sea where it opens into a small beach.

Heading the other way I soon reached Hunters Inn where there is a small settlement and a National Trust shop as well as the inn itself. I changed into my lightweight shoes and lay down on a picnic bench where I slumbered for a while before walking gingerly across the road to the National Trust shop for an ice-cream after which I hobbled back to my bench and took another nap. I clearly have not done enough training for this walk, I can only hope that my strength will improve as I go along. After an hour or so I headed down to Hunters Inn for a beer.

Hunters Inn

The Hunters Inn is a large pub built in 1906 to resemble a Swiss chalet; at the time the area around Lynton and Lynmouth were popularly known as ‘Little Switzerland.’ The dining room is quite fancy but the bar manages to maintain a local atmosphere. Several beers were available including Miss Loosemoor, brewed by Heddon Valley Ales. I gather that they are gypsy brewers, renting plant at other breweries to produce their beer. I enjoyed the result, a golden coloured ale which went down exceedingly well. Mick turned up and we drank a couple more pints before returning to our unofficial campsite.

Heddon Valley

Mick had not brought any food. After rummaging around in the cupboard I managed to find a tin of baked beans and a tin of mackerel. Too tired and hungry to bother heating it up we ate them cold. 

I was by now desperate to lie down. I barely had time for a half-formed thought to enter my head about tomorrow’s walk being rather challenging before all thoughts of climbs and clambers, blisters and boots were whisked away in a fog of crazy dreams which entertained my subconscious for the next nine hours.

Vain peacock at Hunters Inn

Distance: 11 miles
Total Distance: 30
Accommodation ranking 7/10
Accommodation cost £3 (parking donation)