My Reddit coaches had advised me to keep my backpack strictly within 6kg, which meant carrying only two pairs of clothes to wash and rotate every day. It worked surprisingly well. To meet their stringent requirements, I only added my 1.5 liters of water after the bag had cleared the scales. The blisters, however, required new dressings daily, unfortunately aggravated by the long baths. Jayne was ready with breakfast sharp at 7:30, and my taxi was idling by 8:00. The driver, an avid hiker himself, remarked that he hadn't come across anyone planning such a massive distance in a single day. He wished me well and left me with a few sightseeing tips.
Then, it was just me and 42km of the South West Coast Path. The Hitchhiker’s Guide to the Galaxy claims the meaning of life is 42. Just two weeks prior, during a marathon, I had actually discovered the meaning of life slightly earlier, around the 37km mark, amidst multiple leg cramps—but I had since forgotten it. Fortunately, pain isn't something I despise. I can compete with it in sheer stubbornness.
In the 8th standard, during PT drills, my teacher complained that I had missed a step and ordered me to redo it. I didn't budge; I insisted I had done it right. He took a heavy stick and struck my hand, demanding I redo the drill. I remained steady. He hit me again and again until the stick literally broke. The skin peeled from my hand and there was a bit of blood, but I didn't yield—in fact, I felt a strange, genuine happiness. I’ve read about Amazonian tribes that celebrate pain as an initiation. In the Sateré-Mawé tribe, a boy must wear gloves filled with stinging bullet ants twenty times for ten minutes to become a man. I looked down at my blisters and gave them a silent order: Keep my reputation intact.
The path began with a series of small cliffs, throwing quite a few ups and downs at me right from the start. Within two kilometers, I encountered an Indian lady walking with a loud radio blaring. Apparently, she had set off to find some peace away from her husband, but was now far too tired to walk back. If she went any further, she would have to call him to pick her up. I told her it was a magnificent opportunity to test his marital commitment, though I forgot to mention that there is absolutely no mobile network at Lee. Small mistakes are inevitable on the trail; one must simply learn to adapt.
After a few more climbs, I reached Bull Point. The lighthouse was nice because it was relatively new; the old one had been swallowed by the sea because the cliffs underneath were too dark and eroded. I pushed on toward Morte Point, keeping my eyes wide open for the seals the efficient husband had promised.
To my luck, I spotted two seals resting on the rocks far below. I triple-checked my vision to ensure they were real. Spurred on, I focused my eyes to find more, only to feel a pang of sadness when I saw another seal lying dead on a remote rock, turned completely white. Hoping for a miracle, I kept checking it as I walked.
Eventually, it moved, slid into the water, and turned black. I knew then that my cheap spectacles desperately needed a replacement, though I preferred to convince myself that it only moved due to the power of my repeated prayers.
Morte Point was fascinating, defined by jagged, artistic rock formations. Historically, it was a notorious graveyard for massive shipwrecks—the name literally stands for "Death Point."
The next milestone was Woolacombe, which still lay at a distance. The trail was quiet because I had started so early. By now, my decision to avoid Spotify was showing its side effects. The "me in me" was quietly whispering that this was a bit too much me-time.
My mind began to wander back home. Ashwini always teases me, saying the kids don't really acknowledge my presence or miss me when I'm gone. I only compete in the male category anyway, and within that arena, I felt I had already won the competition against my own dad—or lost it, depending on your criteria. The entire family, extended included, lived fearing my father. We never asked him for anything directly, not even our school fees. That task was always delegated to my mother, who had mastered the precise timing required for optimum results: right when he was about to pedal off to work on his bicycle, leaving him with no time to scold. Yet, despite the distance, I have nothing but respect for his personality. Where I grew up, care and love weren't the properties to seek from a father—stability and courage were!
Still, whenever I visit ABC at his home, a wave of guilt hits me watching how he pampers Adi. But then, Divya always takes my side, complaining ABC doesn't help with disciplining. That reveals the universal truth of marriage: whatever a man does, he can never make his wife truly happy.
Driven by a sudden insecurity from Ashwini's teasing, I had once asked both my kids independently what they would miss most if I suddenly disappeared. Anirudh said he would miss watching anime together. That was exactly how I wanted to be missed. Arjun, being the clever one, said he would miss all the coaching and hard work I put into him. I gave him zero marks for originality and shared the "right" answer. He then claimed he had thought of the anime answer first but deemed it inappropriate. He is exactly like me; I can't believe a word he says, but it’s okay.
Whenever we go hiking as a family, I have at least one of them holding my hand, usually Anirudh. Ashwini claims it's because he is lazy and wants me to pull him along to make it easier. I argue it’s because he loves me more, and Anirudh always takes my side. Sometimes I test this by scolding him and letting go of his hand, but he always latches right back on, proving my theory correct. Arjun, on the other hand, dedicates his energy to making me laugh with a non-stop barrage of jokes. He got that as hereditary, though I have no idea how his small brain stores so many of them. I decided right there on the cliff that I would call him in the evening to gather a few and write them down.
As I neared Woolacombe, I met an older couple from Germany who were on a month-long SWCP trekking expedition. They had also started from Minehead, but six days prior, meaning they possessed a clear, disciplined strategy. They kept their itinerary flexible, booking accommodations just a day in advance at accessible locations, and they actually used their guidebook properly. In my defense, there were two of them, meaning they had double the processing power for logistical planning. They took a liking to me instantly, and we walked together, exchanging notes. The husband knew his way remarkably well and displayed sound judgment. I thought it would be blissfully easy to just follow him blindly, but I had to take a short break when we hit Woolacombe town.
Woolacombe beach was vast—over three kilometers of sand dunes according to the map. I have watched both Dune: Part One and Part Two, but looking at the actual landscape, it took me a long time to comprehend what lay ahead. My shoes immediately began sinking into the loose sand, drastically slowing my pace. Recalling that the Germans had been walking right down by the water line, I managed to find a shortcut cut-through to the hard, wet sand near the waves.
From there, it became a relentless, hypnotic march where no matter how fast I walked, I couldn't see any visual progress—until, finally, I reached the southern end of the beach. A brief, welcome section of solid coastal path followed, and then I found myself at Croyde beach, which was bustling with a healthy population of surfers. Realizing there wouldn't be another village until Braunton Burrows, I took a quick lunch break and prepared myself to head right back into the sand.
As I stepped back out, I caught up with Theo and Barbara again. Theo was adamant that this section should not be traversed via the beach, so we stuck to the official path behind the dunes and continued our conversation.
In a striking coincidence, it turned out they had both been in Kilimanjaro at the exact same time my group did the Kili trek, though they were climbing Mount Meru instead. It is a remarkably small world. We talked about everything under the sun, and before we knew it, we had arrived at the Saunton Golf Club, which is apparently quite legendary.
Theo was particularly interested in the course, perhaps sensing the hidden scars beneath the grass. During WWII, the US Army completely ran over these pristine fairways with heavy tank battalions and tested flamethrowers directly on the greens. It took years of labor from Prisoners of War just to restore this tranquility. Looking at the peaceful golfers enjoying the quiet luxury of Devon, I realized the landscape hides a history of raw violence and heavy machinery.
Theo was walking without poles, yet he comfortably matched my pace. Barbara was generally quiet but radiated a deep compassion. As we walked, Theo shared stories of their family, though at one point he completely forgot the exact ages of their three children; Barbara didn't complain, she just smiled and quietly supplied the numbers. They already had three grandchildren, with a fourth on the way. Eventually, having not eaten lunch yet, they pulled out their packed sandwiches to find a spot to rest. I said goodbye with a heavy heart and took a quick photo together, knowing our paths likely wouldn't cross again. Before parting, Theo said he had genuinely enjoyed the company and promised they would name their upcoming grandchild 'Satty' as a token of gratitude. That thought gave me a sudden surge of energy, and I accelerated toward the Braunton Burrows.
The Braunton Burrows form the largest sand dune system in England, stretching over 1,000 hectares. It is divided into three distinct zones based on the stability of the sand. Apparently, the military had mapped it to a strict grid system during WWII to keep training soldiers from vanishing into infinite loops of sand. By now, the speed and distance were aggressively taking their toll. I could feel my blisters having a massive growth spurt, so I adjusted my gait to a limp, ensuring their development remained entirely undisturbed. The burrow landscape was remarkably scenic, and at one point, I rested my feet in the cool air for a few minutes just to let the blisters breathe. Two passing locals stopped to make sure I was okay, giving me that brief, communal spirit needed to keep winning the day.
Within a few minutes, the landscape shifted entirely as I entered the Torridge estuary, with a muddy river on my right mixing into the ocean waters. It was incredibly windy, and the path grew interesting—though occasionally the smell forced me to cover my nose. It was only then that I realized I had been wearing ABC's neck gaiter throughout the entire hike. I was essentially acting as a walking advertisement for him.
The village of Braunton is massive, but the path bypassed it entirely, guiding me via Velator Quay toward the Tarka Trail. The area felt like a graveyard for old defense buildings, and the atmosphere was notably quiet; I didn't find anyone smiling or looking for a conversation. I joined the Tarka Trail in silence. It was meant to be a flat, 8km stretch to Barnstaple with zero elevation, a path shared equally between cyclists and walkers.
The Tarka Trail was marketed as the reward—8km of flat, civilized road. No elevation. No acorns to second-guess. Just a straight line to Barnstaple.
What nobody mentions is that tarmac is a punishment disguised as a favor. The cliffs at least had the decency to hurt you honestly—every climb earned, every descent a negotiation. Tarmac just grinds. My blisters, which had cheerfully absorbed mud, grass, and cliff edge for 34km, now staged a quiet mutiny against the unforgiving flatness. Even the hiking poles became a liability.
Without Theo and Barbara, there was nobody left to lie to about how I was feeling. Just me, a converted railway path, and the dawning realization of the meaning of life. Right at the 37km mark, I shouted "Eureka!" and accelerated toward the B&B. I knew I had finally corrected Deep Thought's calculation: the answer was 37, not 42. Philosophical questions require lived experience for the right answer.
There was no sign of Sarah at check-in; instead, I was met by her husband, a man who was remarkably economical with his words. The room matched his philosophy—strictly functional, with no space left for wastage. I only required two things: hot water for a bath and a single bed to sleep in. Both were present.
Taking a previous suggestion from Sarah, I ventured out to explore the local restaurants for a vegan dinner. Having no friends here meant there was no beer on the itinerary. Instead, I didn't feel a shred of shame ordering a bubble tea. It was profoundly delicious, and the vegan food was undoubtedly the best I had tasted on the trip so far. The longest day had indeed ended on a remarkably good note.
