Day 7 - An ordinary forgettable day

Apparently, I had a great sleep that night—at least according to my written notes. I can see the effect very clearly now, considering it took me almost two months to restart this Day 7 blog.

At the time, I knew exactly how every single page of the walk would turn. But my overconfidence resulted in very few written notes, so it will be an interesting experiment to see how much I actually remember. If I can’t remember exactly how an experience felt, does that mean the experience is reduced only to what stays in my memory? That is a pretty serious philosophical trap I’d prefer not to stumble into, especially since I’ve returned to finish this task with zero expectation of external validation. A promise is a promise. I can’t go back on it—unless, of course, it’s a promise made to my kids.

When I first returned home from the trail, I thought I had changed. I told myself I would start treating work purely as work—just something done for money, completely detached from the emotional weight of the ideas. But living like that would be far too boring. The highs and the lows are what make things feel alive... just like walking this coastal path.

Becky was ready with the breakfast as I woke up and got ready. She had a big, beautiful house—her wedding photo hanging near the dining table alongside pictures of two kids, yet there was no one else in the house apart from her. I wanted to start a conversation, but somehow I felt she preferred silence. So, I silently finished my breakfast and prepared to leave. As I headed out, I told her she was extremely efficient; I simply couldn't find anything else to say to make her happy.

The walk back down to Clovelly village was calm and quiet. But as soon as I rejoined the South West Coast Path, I came across a locked gate. I stood there examining it, convinced it was a cleverly designed lock with a subtle puzzle I was expected to solve. After spending a solid five minutes trying to crack the mechanism, it became glaringly apparent that the solution was indeed clever: I had to physically jump over it. Naturally, I made sure no one was watching before I made my move. I don't like people copying my hard-earned intellectual property.

Within a few minutes, I stumbled upon a tiny, carved 1826 wooden shelter hidden in Snaxland Wood. It was built by a butler so the estate owners could sit and admire framed views of the sea. It was genuinely charming—a perfect spot to rest for a moment and take in the scenery.
After that, it was a long, silent walk with me, myself, and Satty. One of them—I’m not entirely sure which—joked about an old Kannada-medium exam question asking how Bhima killed Duryodhana. The question was worth five marks, meaning students were expected to fill an entire page with a detailed answer. The last-bench boy, unable to remember any of the actual epic, simply wrote: "Bhima punched, punched, punched..." for one full page, capping it off at the very bottom with: "...and then he killed him."
The other two inside my head couldn't stop laughing. The teacher, however, was furious. Most teachers in India are ardent students of discipline, they sacrifice their sense of humor and downplay out-of-the-box creativity. How will they know how many people that poor chap has made laugh over the years? So, in solidarity with the last-benchers of the world, I walked the next mile physically punching Duryodhana in the air laughing to myself. If Ashwini had seen me at that moment, she would have been utterly baffled—and she wouldn't have believed the truth even if I had explained it to her.

Continuing my aerial attacks on Duryodhana, I marched toward Mouthmill Beach, but the trail wasn't done throwing obstacles. First came the same snake that freaked me out four days ago. It was resting on my path, challenging my bravery. 

But this time I was prepared; I had done my homework to realize it wasn't a snake, but a legless lizard known as a slow worm. They are very shiny compared to snakes, and thoroughly lazy. I was still afraid to get too close despite knowing they are harmless to humans. Apparently, they can drop their tails when threatened, but I suppressed my instinct to use Bhima's mace to sever it. That used to be my primary school hobby—observing the frantic twitching of severed house gecko tails after striking them with a coconut broomstick. Mouthmill Beach itself was striking, particularly the two massive natural rocky arches jutting out into the water.

My dual-sock strategy was proving to be a stroke of pure genius. Zero blisters, zero hot spots. But while my feet were fully operational, my brain was fighting a different battle on the cliffs past Windbury Head. Walking along those sheer drop-offs, looking down at the crushing Atlantic swells, I remembered ABC again. He would have suppressed a feeling of jumping off the cliff. I checked if I could get a feel for that. No luck—it just felt like pure madness. I don't think I should try to feel everything just to appreciate other people's agony. I simply need to practice empathy without feeling it.

After about two hours of solitary navigation, I met a couple walking in the opposite direction. The lady did almost all the talking, explaining with immense pride that they were hiking from Weymouth and had successfully completed 65% of the path over a 12-year period. Most people on this trail are operating on a decade-long master plan—a slow framework that completely clashes with my execution style.

As I approached Hartland Point, I drew close to the giant white domes visible from miles away. They looked like oversized golf balls and appeared quite majestic from a distance. But up close, they looked like a pimple on an otherwise pristine teenager's face. They were aviation radar stations, so at least they served a clear functional purpose.
Near the radar site, I had to cross a field. I was blindly following my digital navigation instead of physical trail signs, and it deceived me, leading me straight into a pasture of intimidating cows. One of them was particularly adventurous, separating itself from the herd to single-handedly challenge me—as if it had sensed my hidden fear of cows. Little did it know, I had recently conducted serious counter-research on Bill Bryson's claims about dangerous cattle. As an Indian, I felt a deep moral responsibility to clear cows of unverified Western accusations. My logical conclusion was clear: cows have zero interest in harming innocent, good-hearted pedestrians. This particular cow was an exception though, it was testing me, but deep down it was still a cow at its core. I extended my trekking poles into a combative stance and marched forward with total unearned confidence: one lone cow on my right, me in the middle, and thirty spectator cows watching from a distance on left. It was a thoroughly disappointing performance for the audience; nothing dramatic happened. 

Not wanting a second act, I quickly reconnected with the main track.
After some time, I reached Hartland Quay. I had heard a lot about this spot, particularly its famous hotel. Perched on a dramatic outcrop, it lived up to every bit of its reputation. I grabbed a quiet corner and had lunch with a cold lemonade. As I was wrapping up, a couple approached my table. For a brief moment, I felt like a trail celebrity.

It was Catherine and Chris. They had been tracking my progress over the last four days, either waving or chatting with me every single day. Catherine systematically listed every micro-interaction we had shared—reminding me that I had lost my way on Day 2 and asked them for directions, that they had waved at me while they were biking along the Tarka Trail, and so on.
Initially, I rationalized that it was easy for them to spot a lone Indian guy on the Devon coast, whereas white hikers all looked remarkably similar to me. But the sheer personal warmth and precision of her memory made me feel genuinely guilty for failing to recognize them. In the end, I blamed it on my usual system flaw: prioritizing quantity over quality. We launched into a warm conversation about their week-long holiday and their upcoming trip to Lundy Island. They wished me well on my marathon push, handing me a brief burst of external fuel before I descended toward the razor-sharp Variscan rock folds below the quay.

Past the quay, I reached Speke’s Mill Mouth waterfall—sixty feet of water plunging over horizontal rock ledges straight to the beach. I almost missed it entirely while glued to my GPS, but I noticed a runner emerging from an odd off-trail path. Curiosity overrode the routine, leading me straight to the hidden drop.
That dose of human warmth at the quay effectively killed my animosity toward Duryodhana, and I stopped punching him. A little self-analysis helped me understand why I had enjoyed hitting him so much in the first place.

When I was in the fourth standard, I invited my neighbor over for a mace fight. Lacking the funds for war grade maces, we opted for the homeopathic alternative: thick bamboo sticks. They were lined with natural spikes, making the fight as real as the actual Mahabharata. My neighbor—playing Duryodhana—landed a sharp, clever strike that sliced off the tip of my finger. We only realized the severity when my "mace" started turning bright red. My family panicked and rushed me to the local doctor shop. I didn't flinch, though the prospect of visiting Dr. Sheshagiri Rao terrified me. His clinic was run by a deaf and mute compounder who had a terrifying reputation in our neighborhood. But when the compounder saw my bloody finger, he looked visibly frightened himself—which instantly gave me immense confidence in my own bravery. Still, I never truly forgave Duryodhana, even though I grew to love all the other morally complex characters in the epic.

Losing that anger also killed my internal comedy loop. But near St. Catherine’s Tor, the silence was broken by a group of young lads hiking together. They were having the time of their lives—roasting each other and laughing hysterically. They were the only people on the trail displaying pure, unadulterated joy, their laughter echoing off the desolate cliffs.

By the time I finally dropped into the quiet pebble cove of Welcombe Mouth at the Cornwall border, my engine was running on empty. I walked inland to my lodging—a rural pub with rooms in an outbuilding. It was Friday night and the place was packed to capacity. Struggling to find a seat, I ended up sharing a table with another couple. They shared my exact personality architecture—meaning neither of us initiated conversation—so we exchanged a polite nod and ate in silence. Outside, a guy who looked potentially homeless was having a pint with two locals. I genuinely wanted to buy him a pint, but leaving my seat meant losing my spot in the pub. I suppressed the urge and settled for a non-alcoholic beer.

The room was functional, though devoid of Wi-Fi. With a long journey ahead tomorrow to reunite with family and friends, breakfast presented a minor supply-chain puzzle. But through standard trial-and-error and bit of persistence, I managed to assemble a solid meal: a banana, some cornflakes, and a vegan yogurt. With no WiFi, the night was expected to be even more calm!