Day 9 - An extraordinary unforgettable day

​Before sleeping, we tried to come up with a plan for tomorrow. I needed a drop to go back to Crackington Haven to start my hike from there. The weather wasn't favourable the next day as well. It was an easy excuse for others to drop out, and they planned to visit Tintagel Castle and do short hikes around. I had to ensure my wet shoes were dry and ready, so I made good use of all the radiators.

I have a history of messing up my shoes during trekking. A few years back, four of us headed to Snowdonia. We were initially planning the Llanberis route, which is an easier path. After dinner, Kishor got some extra energy and decided it wasn't challenging enough. So we decided to hike the Watkin Path, which was the second most difficult path. We covered 2km and my old sneakers gave up, with the sole coming off from the front. I felt it was humiliating to go back and suddenly had an ingenious idea. Krishna was wearing a face mask because we had just come off the COVID lockdown. We found a better place for the mask by tying it to my shoe sole. We successfully finished the Watkin Path in bad weather with a shoe that had a broken sole. The very next day, I ordered my first hiking shoes.

Then two years back, we went to the Norway fjords, combining kayaking and trekking. The day before trekking, I tried to help folks wash some utensils in sea water. Losing my balance, I fell into the water. Nothing bad happened to me, but my hiking shoes were completely wet. Again, we as engineers knew how to fix every issue. It was cold at night, and there was a campfire. Carefully, I placed the shoe on a rock two feet away from the fire. It was the  ideal didtance, was observing it from some distance, ensuring I wasnt stupid enough to let fire eat my shoes. I checked the shoes after 30 minutes. The rock was so hot that it melted the front portion of the shoe. It was dried well, so still functional. I treated the burnt part as a scar on a war hero and completed the trek the next morning. I wanted to use them for a few more treks, thought it would make a proud story. But Ashwini thinks a war hero without scars is even more respected.

Anyways, these incidents have taught me well, and this time there was no accident. I checked the radiator temperature scientifically to ensure it couldn't burn my shoes. I ordered Kishor to drop me off at 7:30am at Crackington Haven. Pooja was surprised that I was ready to leave the group and continue my solo trek. She is like Swathi's mother, equally convinced that my motivation is unsuitable for normal minded people. I told them I would meet them at Tintagel Castle for lunch. Ashwini was feeling a bit of suffocation using Kishor as my taxi service. But she doesn't know him well. I was doing a favour to him. He has been doing this taxi service for years, taking kids from one place to another. It's part of his genes now, and missing it would traumatise him more than doing it.

Day 9 trek was from Crackington Haven to Port Isaac, around 34km and 1650m elevation. The path here is among the most brutal on the entire SWCP: relentless elevation, rocky descents, and cliffs that don't apologise. I didn't have to believe it, as I had heard the same thing every day from different people. However, I remember a lady saying some of the downhills near Tintagel were quite risky. My legs have always been stoic, continuing to function without any expectations, without bothering whether they will fail me or surprise me. I was planning to reach Tintagel Castle by 1pm, and had to pass Boscastle by 11am. Boscastle was visible throughout my car journey as a mysterious white construction.

The path was empty, like any other day. I don't see many people walking the coastal path in the morning. It was mostly uphill until Boscastle. I no longer had to carry my full trekking bag; it was much lighter with just water and a few snacks. Ashwini wanted me to switch to a smaller 20L backpack. But I resisted and protested—no one would take me as a serious trekker without that 30L backpack with serious back cushioning. That was my unique identity for the last eight days. The extra energy was not just from the homemade breakfast, but the lightness of the backpack made a significant difference too. I was walking faster.

However, the eight days of near-solitude were missing, even though I was still doing a solo trek. The version of me that had been talking to myself, entertaining myself with running commentary since Minehead, had just gone quiet. There was nothing left to process alone. The "me in me" had apparently said everything it needed to say.

What replaced it was simply walking. Each view was genuinely different from the last—the dramatic folded geology at Cambeak, the sweeping drops along High Cliff, and the path dropping and climbing with a persistence that felt almost personal. By the time I reached Boscastle Harbour, it was already 12:15pm. Tintagel was still around 5 miles away. I even skipped the white structure on the headland that I had spotted during the drive—turns out it wasn't a castle or lighthouse, but the old coastguard lookout tower at Willapark. It wasn't nearly as huge when looked at up close. Boscastle Harbour was quite busy with lots of tourists. I didn't spend much time there since I was planning to take a bigger break at Tintagel Castle.

Leaving the busy harbour behind, the path climbed steeply out of Boscastle toward Tintagel. This was easily one of the most stunning stretches of the whole week. The coastline opened up into deep coves where the slate met the sea in ways that made me stop and stare. Atlantic was doing what it does best. Despite being on a tight deadline for lunch, the views were so mesmerising that I surrendered to them completely, followed some walkers, taking a detour from the path. The path was growing, so stopped midway and instead took an uncharacteristic 15-minute break on the headland just to sit, watch the Atlantic smash against the dark rock faces, and absorb the scale of it all.

Near Tintagel, I spotted half my family near the beach. Tintagel looked spectacular with some kind of sky bridge leading to another part. It was filled with tourists; I saw Indians coming there in big buses like attending a marriage function. I refrained from going down there, even though it meant missing King Arthur's legendary sword/seat. The castle apparently wasn't a real castle; it was just some ruins. As planned, we had lunch nearby. Ashwini bought me the last vegan sandwich they had, and it turned out to be the best I've had in the last four months.

After lunch, they joined me for a brief ten-minute walk until the path bifurcated, and then I restarted alone. I would have enjoyed Tintagel even more if it wasn't crowded with people.

I had a good amount of company in the afternoon. There were a decent number of people hiking with their families, so I got to be the celebrity I wanted to be. The 30L backpack, cowboy hat, and trekking pole played their roles to perfection. After an hour, it became a solo walk again. I had forgotten how to talk to myself. It was too much work simulating talking to our new group.

While I was in this confusion of how to get used to this new setup, the sky made its decision to change the scene. The clouds started becoming thicker and darker. It was only around 4:30pm, but it gave the feeling of 7:30pm. I was in the middle of climbing another peak. I heard the thunder start with a mild voice. I am no stranger to bad weather. When we were small, we did fishing while staying inside our house when it flooded. A few times, the water came all the way into our kitchen, forcing us to shift to another place. Poor earthing when we moved to our new house resulted in repeated lightning strikes, with ceiling fans dying every rainy season.

Either I had completely forgotten those experiences, or there were always others with me, which meant I couldn't afford to be afraid in front of them. But I was all alone here—not a single person either in front or behind me for a mile. I couldn't see beyond that anyway. On top of that, I remembered that being on top of a hill is extremely dangerous during lightning. Sometimes ignorance is bliss. I forgot the exact odds of lightning strikes resulting in death. As I was trying hard to remember the data, the rain started, along with the first lightning strike.

Within seconds, there was a roaring thunderstorm. Water was all over my body, confirming 100 percent that it was rain. I felt like I could see the lightning strike in the sea nearby. The probability no longer mattered; however low the number was, it was just me on that bloody peak—not even a cow or sheep.

I was really afraid. What would I tell Ashwini if I didn't return? She would definitely say, "I told you so." Then I realised I don't really need to say anything, which kind of relieved me to some extent. I started walking faster. I had to find one more person, run just a bit faster than him, and ensure he was at a higher point than me. The pole that gave me my distinct identity became my biggest enemy. My shoes were completely wet, which meant my whole body had become an ideal conductor now.

Five minutes passed and another lightning strike flashed, very clearly visible right in front of me. Thunder followed with a deafening sound. The section was pretty long; there weren't even any trees, just the path, the Atlantic below, and the sky conducting what felt like a targeted attack. I was, for the first time in the entire walk—and possibly life—genuinely afraid. I always thought I wasn't afraid of death, but here I was, afraid of a minute fraction of death. My half-knowledge deceived me: I knew that at ground level it was like one in a million, still higher than winning the lottery, but at peaks, I had insufficient data.

I turn more adamant when faced with unbending adversaries. There were no signs of either the lightning or the thunderstorm stopping, and the clouds were still very dark. I convinced myself that I had achieved pretty much everything I wanted and there wasn't really much I would be missing. I had a rollercoaster life. I thought about the conversation I had with my kids recently—I asked them individually what would they miss most if I disappeared suddenly. Anirudh had said he would miss watching anime together. That was exactly right: honest, specific, and true. I would certainly miss that too. Arjun said he would miss all my guidance and support. I gave him zero marks for the unacceptable, wrong and polished answer and shared the right answer. He immediately said he wanted to give that answer too, but thought I wouldn't like it. I think he was honest, but he is also bit unpredictable like me, and I don't like it. 

It didn't look like the thunderstorm was backing down. I was getting furious along with being fearful, and when they confront each other, fury always wins—that's my core nature. But how do I fight nature at its worst? My sword was my weakness here. So I resorted to my final weapon. Whenever I had to teach a lesson to my kids for their bad behavior, when everything fails, I threaten them that I would sing. It always worked, they can't tolerate it.

So the fight began. Standing on the cliff in a relentless lightning storm, soaked to the bone, I began singing at the top of my lungs so it could reach the clouds. Since these were English clouds, I switched to English songs—I wanted them to feel the pain even more acutely. I don't know which song I selected; it didn't matter anyway. I wouldn't remember the lyrics, so I invented my own to make the song and singing even more lethal. With no one within earshot to judge either the singing or the content, the freedom made the performance absolutely top-class. The lyrics started flowing just like the rain: in no particular order, heavy at times and light when overwhelmed, all directed at the sky with the full force of a man who has nothing left to lose acoustically. Once I make up my mind, I don't listen to anyone, including myself. So the sky listened, and retreated. Confirming there was no more danger to my life, I stopped my fight for survival.

I walked even faster, downwards. After a kilometre, I found another person—a camper taking rest and making tea near a bridge. He said he had been terrified too, having found a low point in the ground to duck for the entire duration of the storm. He had been waiting it out while I had been fighting it. We compared the notes briefly. He gave me the particular courage that comes from someone else having been afraid of the same thing—the confirmation that the fear was rational and the survival was real. He was aiming for the full path and carrying a 14kg backpack. He wished me well, as I had more distance to cover while he planned to camp nearby.

The final stretch passed in the specific satisfaction of achieving something unexpected. Another reminder that one must always bow down to nature, unless of course they can find their inner strength to cheat their mind. Breaking is easier than bending for high-headed people. My adventure was almost coming to an end; the last day was supposed to be very light with just a morning walk. There was indeed some sadness of a good movie ending.

I shared the parking lot address and waited for Kishor. Ashwini accompanied him; without the adjusted clock in the cottage, they started ten minutes late. I waited for another thirty minutes; with no sign of them, I realised Ashwini was likely navigating. The old camper, who was supposed to sleep in the tent, passed by. He badly wanted to rest due to the terrible afternoon. He advised I was better off walking to reach faster. He proved right as I waited for another thirty minutes. Then I spotted Kishor’s car. He said there are two car parks with the same name and took me to the other car park so that I could believe them.

As soon as we reached the cottage, I jumped into the jacuzzi—perks of staying with family. Apparently it is advised to stay in a jacuzzi for only 15 minutes, but only my kids read it and not Ashwini. So I relaxed for more than an hour; it was amazing with two beers. When I finished, my son played the "Dream On" song, one of my favourite ones. Then the gang opened a new bottle of wine. I didn't count the glasses of wine; I felt compelled to give good company, drinking till Pooja and Swathi were finished. We laughed. We joked. We made Swathi even happier by  convincing her she looked exactly like Sridevi; the wine was really good. The kids were loud. Ashwini was content. I slept like someone who had finished something and tomorrow didn't matter.

Day 8 - The grand reunion

I woke up early at 6:30, carrying a slight nervous anxiety about meeting my self-imposed high expectations. With no dependency on a formal B&B service, breakfast was lightning fast— cereal, a banana, and vegan yogurt without a proper dining setup. I convinced myself that this minimalist fuel was entirely sufficient for the mammoth morning walk. By sheer repetition, it seems you can successfully cheat your own brain. I don't fully understand the internal psychological mechanisms, but my wife swears it works, when she keeps our wall clock ten minutes fast to ensure she gets ready on time.

The pub was dead silent when I stepped outside into the crisp morning air. I was ready for the  36km stretch down to Crackington Haven, packing over 1,650 meters of relentless elevation gain. What goes up, comes down, so it is a pure quad-burning punishment. In my head, however, it was the grand act of an epic saga. My family and friends were meeting me in Bude by noon, and we were going to trek together. The anticipation was already built up. Swathi has constructed a visceral  narrative of Rama finally marching to meet Sita, backed by the noisy, unpredictable energy of the Kapi Sainya. The mission gave every single step an electric, cinematic urgency. I had a short road walk before rejoining the South West Coast Path. Near the beach, I crossed paths with a runner and a dog walker. The runner was far too fast to intercept, but the dog walker briefly heard my ambitious morning itinerary. He noted that I was tackling one of the single toughest sections of the entire coast path and advised me to be careful. I ignored since I heard that many times before. He warned it isn't normal to cover that much distance in a single day, but seeing how energetic and eager I was to reach my family, he applauded and acknowledged those emotions would carry me forward with unprecedented ease.

The path pitched upward almost immediately, proving him right within minutes. Running strictly against my own deadline, there wasn't much time for deep reflection and self corrections. I simply dialed up the pace. When I reached Marsland Mouth, I was officially crossing the border from Devon into Cornwall. I had been to Cornwall and Devon many times, but I'd never bothered to pay enough attention to understand where one actually ends and the other begins. The distinction between north and south Devon was much clearer now. Climbing out of the valley towards Morwenstow, the incline was brutal. I resorted to walking on all four limbs to make it easier; it felt like a far more natural and vastly superior approach. Human bipedal evolution suddenly looked like a genuine design flaw.

Further along near Hawker's Cove, a local man stopped me for a short talk. I told him all about my walk so far and made sure he picked up on my excitement about meeting my family. Almost everyone reacts favorably to an emotional story—I've watched enough Indian reality TV to know how that logic works. He began sharing his local field expertise as a regular walker, advising me to be careful near the cliff edges and to keep an eye on the geology. He explained the ongoing dangers of coastal erosion and landslides, even pointing out a section where a fresh slide had collapsed just two days prior. I pushed myself hard to make Bude by noon, but no matter what I did, time never seemed to favor me. I consistently underestimated how much time I actually spend taking photos and talking to strangers. But skipping those felt like doing an injustice to the experience of solo trekking.

As I approached Stanbury Mouth, I saw a woman in her thirties taking rest with a massive backpack. It was clear she was on a mission to hike the entire coastal path. I stopped to gather some intelligence on her trek. She was doing a solo, full SWCP push, aiming to complete it over three months. She was camping most nights and booking a B&B only when conditions got too harsh to get a warm bath and proper rest. I shared my own adventure, but realizing it sounded completely amateur next to her three-month epic, I quickly pivoted to the emotional angle of meeting my family. When that also failed to impress someone who was intentionally escaping society for a quarter of a year, I resorted to the standard protocol that always works in Britain: the weather. I remarked that the weather had been really great and that it hadn't rained for eight full days. But I managed to mess that up too. She immediately gasped, "Shh!", looking frantically toward the sky as if pointing out an invisible deity. "They might hear you!"

I laughed at her tribal belief and started walking down the gradient. I hadn't moved more than five minutes before the sky opened up and started pouring. I had to stop to haul out my waterproof jacket. I looked back up the trail wearily; she was walking down behind me, laughing out loud, and shouted, "I told you so!". I increased my pace trying to disappear from her sight and then the rain stopped.

Shortly after, I caught sight of Bob — a tall 6.5ft man in his late sixties, formidable pace and unmistakable aura. He had crossed my path earlier heading in the opposite direction, and my photo breaks had allowed him to catch up. He began recounting his extensive walk journey, finishing full SWCP years ago, on both directions, then the Wales Coast Path, conquering northern sections aiming for John o' Groats, and an 80-mile east-to-west coastal push. Facing a severe credibility gap, I countered with my own late-bloomer credentials — three peaks, marathons, Kilimanjaro. They weren’t standing on their own, so started injecting extra emotion into the pitch to compensate. The sheer intensity of our walking jugalbandi while waiting in a corner started attracting a crowd of onlookers. We concluded our quiet competition with great mutual respect. I felt like touching his feet in reverence, but settling for cultural compatibility, I shook his hand and took a photo. 

Sometimes these obsessions mesmerize me. He had started walking early in his teenage along with his dad. I don't recall ever going for walks with my father. But growing up in the remote village of Heranje, with zero public transport, it was a standard routine to walk 7km whenever we visited my father's ancestral home. I also routinely walked 5km just to sell a liter of cow milk. It was diluted with an equal amount of water, doubling the burden to two kilograms—and I was only seven years old. In that way, my mother taught me the art of walking very early in my life too.

As I rounded the final headland toward Bude, I came across the Bude Sea Pool — a semi-man-made tidal structure built in the 1930s where the high Atlantic tides naturally refill it with fresh seawater. A few people were swimming in it like an ocean basin carved into the rock face. A short distance further, I encountered a stone artwork monument where walkers would leave the memories of their loved ones. One inscription from someone named Ruth — remembering her father who always took them for walks — brought a sudden drop of tears to my eyes.

To maximize the dramatic impact, I sprinted down toward the Bude parking lot where the family was scheduled to embrace me in style. Naturally, the plot had an unexpected twist: Pooja was driving the car and saw a fuel station at the last minute and couldn’t stop the urge to shop, delaying the grand entrance. But my extended family was already on site, with Swathi as cameraman and her kids directing it. Kishor stepped brilliantly into the role of Hanumantha, running toward me in cinematic slow motion to officially complete the ‘grand Milana’ act. Five minutes later, after the credits began rolling, Pooja's car finally pulled in. We staged a post credit scene with Ashwini as Sita hugging Rama, completing the reunion. Pooja remarked that the audience would be thoroughly confused, claiming I looked more like Hanumantha than Rama.

My kids were nowhere to be seen. Ashwini proudly announced kids just don’t miss me, haven’t bothered much about grand reunion and are still glued to their mobile screens. But she doesn't understand them quite like I do.

The reason they were glued to that phone was because it was my old mobile. Whenever they miss me, they play on it as a surrogate presence. It’s like hugging me. When they were younger, I used to feed them while playing games on that screen, so it became our shared language. Complex human interactions like that don't need to be explained — they just need to be felt.

We had lunch together before organizing the logistics for the final leg. Our cottage was near tintagel, 20 minutes from crackington haven. We had to come back here to collect Pooja’s car since she wanted to walk. That looked like an extremely complex puzzle to Ashwini and attributed it as my poor plan. They started modelling it as the puzzle involving grass, cow and the tiger trying to cross a river over boat. I had no plan, I didn’t needed one, I just wanted them to be here. After some complex calculations and manipulations, they decided Kishor and eight-year-old Swara would drive ahead to meet us at Crackington Haven, while the rest of the crew joined me on foot. It had been an epic 90-minute break.  Everything shifted into slow motion the moment a group joined my solo trek.

As soon as the Kapi Sainya and I set off from Widemouth Bay, the sky opened up again — this time determined to demonstrate just how brutal the South West Coast Path can be. The rain escalated into a non-stop troublemaker. Downpours are particularly problematic for someone like me wearing glasses — essentially four eyes with zero windshield wipers. To make matters worse, the moisture invaded my phone, glitching the touchscreen and rendering GPS navigation useless. The hand kerchief was wet as well, we were out of ideas to make it work. I lost my way again, thoroughly humiliating myself in front of my expanded support group.

The kids quickly realized that walking in a deluge is not a heroic movie montage, and the inevitable complaints about wet socks, logistics, and endless mud began. The worst part was that they were entirely right to complain this time, rendering my standard defense mechanism — shouting back — completely useless.

I had imagined this differently. Not the weather specifically, but the seeing. Eight days of walking alone had quietly rewired something in how I looked at a cliff, a cove, a fold of rock disappearing into the sea. I had developed a language for this landscape that I didn't know I was learning until I tried to share it. I wanted them to feel what I had felt standing on the Great Hangman, or descending into Peppercombe, or watching the Atlantic do its indifferent thing from a cliff edge at dawn. I wanted to hand them eight days of accumulated seeing in a single afternoon.

Ashwini looked at a cliff and saw a cliff. It looked the same as the last one to her, and the one before that. She wasn't wrong — from the outside, one dramatic Devon headland does resemble another. But I was no longer looking at it from the outside. I was looking from somewhere inside and the view from there was completely different.

I couldn't explain why things were more beautiful than they see it. There was no logical way to explain it, especially in that mid-rain, without sounding arrogant and hyper critical. So I walked, and they walked, and we looked at the same landscape and saw different things. It was again a solo trail — not the chosen solitude of the cliffs, but the other kind. The kind that finds you in a crowd.

In a strange way, the miserable conditions worked in my favor. They had no idea how manageable the trail had been on other days, so the storm constructed a grand illusion of my invincibility — here I was, enduring this exact treacherous exercise for an eighth consecutive day. Though the physical terrain was easier than the morning leg, our boots were completely waterlogged, adding literal deadweight to every step. Sold as "waterproof," my shoes failed to stop even a single drop from entering. My new rain jacket, sourced just twenty-four hours prior, was at least holding its ground comfortably.

As water flooded our shoes, the pace of the group fragmented. Swathi marched ahead rapidly out of a genuine fear of hypothermia. She can be somewhat absent-minded while walking, and along one treacherous cliff section, she was striding forward while chatting to mom on the phone in near-zero visibility. I had to physically sprint and intercept her before she walked straight off a dead drop where the path turned sharply without warning. Her mother apparently tried to understand why I would take on these unnecessary challenges instead of living happily. Couldn’t find any sane reason, still wished me success in whatever I was pursuing.

Despite the bad weather, constant complaints and ‘are we there yet questions, we were making good progress. Ashwini was slower but steadier. By the time we finally dragged ourselves into Crackington Haven, exhausted and caked in mud, the group collectively swore a solemn oath never to follow me on a trail again. I quietly said thank you.

As much as I love them and enjoy being surrounded by their energy, I realized that on a trail, I prefer the solace of silence. Kishor was waiting on the other side, kicking off a full logistical circus to fetch the second car from Bude — a far more chaotic exercise than resting quietly in a B&B. Yet, being surrounded by everyone, laughing, and sharing a bottle of wine made the exhaustion entirely worthwhile. The landscape I couldn't share, I kept. Everything else — the chaos, the mud, the complaints, the wine — I shared freely. I certainly slept better that night than any other.