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.

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 — which, after a day of silent walking, seemed like a logical completion. I had a long day of unforgiving walk tomorrow. My unplanned planning meant I had 20km and nearly 900m of elevation to cover by noon. The pub breakfast wouldn’t start till 8am, so I needed an alternative arrangement. After making three back and forth trips, I triumphantly sourced a banana, bowl of corn flakes and a vegan yogurt. I almost thought it would be a forgettable day, especially without notes, but nothing is as ordinary as it seems from outside.

Day 6 - Unexpected Homecoming

The rigidity of the tarmac cleared the numbness in my mind and forced me to find a solution for my feet. Apparently, I just needed to remove the friction between my socks and shoes. The solution was simple: two layers of socks—one pair dedicated to protecting the toes, the other to protecting that layer from the shoes. With the stars aligned, I happened to have the perfect Injinji toe socks I had bought for the marathon. Armed with this new solution and blister pads, I couldn't really feel the blisters anymore.

​Clovelly is a small private village just 24km away, but with an elevation gain of 1,000m—reasonably tougher walk on paper. I had to make a trip to the local Tesco since there were no villages on the way. I found some nuts and a strawberry yogurt, but no vegan sandwiches en route to the fishing village.

​Approximately after an hour of walking with no real people around, I was delighted to see a man in his wishful forties taking rest in an ideal spot, enjoying the day. I said, "Nice weather," hoping he would continue the conversation. I had read 'Watching the English' almost 80%. I paused because I feared I might actually become British in reality and not just on my passport. My grammar teacher would disagree, though, claiming my tongue is pure "Made in India." But this walker understood my accent perfectly well. He explained he was just doing the section to Clovelly, methodically ticking off 60% of the entire circuit. He asked just enough questions about my start and end points before signing off with a "See you later." It was precisely two minutes of discussion for a first meeting—leaving me with a feeling of knowing the person intimately well, yet remaining a complete stranger. Somehow, I knew he would start within two minutes, maintaining a strict 20-meter distance and talking asynchronously. I was right. He did, and I knew he would take another break in exactly an hour. I saw a high-probability fantasy of us sharing a beer at the end in Clovelly. There was small chance he might refuse though, because he had a small journey by car.

​As I started descending the cliff toward the deep, red-earthed valley of Peppercombe, I spotted a guy a few meters ahead standing dead center in the path, looking as if he was peeing. I told myself my cheap specs were deceiving me. But as I passed, the evidence stared right in my eye. I genuinely wanted to understand the psychology that prevents a person from moving two feet into the bushes, so I started with the weather story. He didn't care about the weather; he turned out to be Dutch. Much of their land is below sea level; naturally, they don't know how to operate well on cliffs. In addition, he had severe knee pain and had been separated from his herd, so he didn't have much time to walk those two additional feet. Still, he felt the guilt, instantly launching into stories of his visit to India and how beautiful the country was, clearly trying to win me over. I gave in willingly—stories move me—and spent a little time with the rest of his flock further down; they were on a six-day hike attempting 120km.

​Within a few meters, I met another English lady in her forties walking upward. Suddenly, a cold realization hit me: there was a high probability she would see the evidence in the middle of the path and involuntarily think, “Indians.” It would be far too difficult to steer a mid-hike conversation into a debate on European geography to clear my name. So, I did what any logical, data-driven person would do. I stepped decisively into the bushes and started urinating myself in a responsible way. It was the only way to carry the honor of my birth country.

​I was climbing another cliff when I met another British couple resting and taking photos—the perfect spot to praise the weather. The lady was quite warm, recounting how slippery the path had been during their last hike, making her fall twice. They were also tackling the trail in bits and pieces, having covered 60% of it so far. The husband was tracking their progress using OS Maps and eagerly explained how I could use it more efficiently to control my pace. Apparently, his overly cautious wife had throttled the pacing to 1.5 mph from 2.5mph. Because I lingered too long in conversation, Solo-man managed to overtake me. He dryly remarked, "We are having a party," and moved on without joining it. I would have gladly spent more time chatting, but I realized my excessive extracurricular activities were costing me my only chance of having a beer.

​I restarted my walk with a necessary two-minute gap and began reviewing my blog points. To my absolute horror, I realized my black-market phone had completely wiped all my earlier notes. Panic struck. Data loss on this scale is a Sev 1 emergency. This phone possessed its own dark soul that simply didn't match mine; I could never understand it, despite us being together for two years. I cursed the previous unknown owners for its inhumane upbringing. When I pulled it out, it was already dialing the emergency services. It had been doing this routinely throughout the hike, and I could only assume it was simply bored of not talking to anyone. It was miserable having to explain to the 999 operators that it was just an accidental call, not a real accident. My official work phone never caused this kind of drama. To mitigate the crisis, I fired up the official phone and discovered a "split-brain" network issue had accidentally preserved a partial, older backup. I took a quick snapshot of the data and pushed forward.

​I had no time to waste if I wanted to catch up with Solo-man. He was fast, efficient, and deeply focused. To close the gap, I had to actively up my game by running the flats, praying the physical investment would pay off at the finish line. ​I reached the crest of another cliff and found Solo-man waiting and resting. It had been a little less than an hour since his last stop. It felt as though he had read my mind; he graciously stepped aside to let me pass, remarking, "You are fast and in a hurry." Realizing he had two minutes to spare, we began swapping details about our journeys. He turned out to be a former football player who had retired after a severe knee injury—hence his self-proclaimed "slow" pace. I shared my blister saga, and our conversation naturally drifted to family; he spoke of his six-year-old son, and I told him about my thirteen-year-old twins. It was an exceptionally pleasant conversation, but I could practically hear his internal timer ringing. I sensed he wouldn’t mind extending the chat for a few more minutes, but I didn't want to disrupt the internal harmony. I said, "See you later," and moved on.

Solo-man reminded me of Abhi-man, ABC’s brother, my junior turned neighbor. My upbringing was rooted in the rigid, analytical culture of KREC, firm Carnatic Music rules, like a joke needed logically provable punchline. But my real world ran on MIT energy, Hindustani style, everyone wrote their own version of rule. And “introvert” simply wasn’t in the dictionary. Finding another person who operated on KREC frequency felt like an unexpected homecoming.

We spoke the exact same language, without speaking. Unlike me, Abhi-man stuck to his nature, CET 2nd rank gave him confidence. Achieved enlightenment early and kept the world at a safe, deliberate distance. I, on the other hand needed validations, allowed myself to be heavily influenced, viewing my own introversion as a disease needed to be cured. I was making progress,thought I won’t be last man in the race. But to my surprise, Ashwini quickly awarded him the 'best husband' award. I appealed, said we should consult his wife. She overruled, citing five years of seniority. She was completely right on all counts, he was never bored of doing all the household chores. I was trying, but never met the bar—Ashwini has been a quality analyst for 20 years!

​Climbing further, I met another lovely couple from Poole, where this trail ends. They accidentally started there and continued for twelve years and were almost finished. They were sad to have recently lost their dog, but noted the poor animal would have struggled on the brutal Tintagel cliffs I was planning for Day 8. Their final day was scheduled as a hike on Lundy Island—a place I had seen mentioned multiple times on signposts, but hadn't realized was part of the official trail. While I was talking to them, Solo-man naturally overtook me. True to form, I cut the conversation precisely at the two-minute mark and followed.

​After a few more minutes of silent walking, I began descending toward the giant pebble beach of Bucks Mills, a historic pocket famous for its old stone artist cabins. I expected Solo-man to be resting out there. Walking further toward the old lime kilns, I finally spotted him sitting in a completely undisturbed place, in a perfectly tranquil state. Realizing he didn't want to be disturbed, I kept my distance and shortened my own break to preserve his peace. Another solid stretch of walking, I found a nice natural wooden bench—an ideal spot to finally eat my lunch of nuts and strawberry yogurt. I swear I bought it thinking strawberry is vegan, missing yogurt was a genuine mistake. I have learned to be kind to fellow hikers. I calculated it was precisely time for Solo-man to arrive and take his rest at this exact spot. I knew instinctively that he wouldn't expect me to still be hovering there; this type of protocol is practically embedded in our biology.

​Being data driven, I knew Abhi-man’s train schedule. But it wasn't easy to spot him, which was unusual as it breaks the consistency protocol. Once I accidentally ran into him in an unexpected coach; he didn't notice me, even though I joined his Udemy course. I curtailed my inner voice to change the coach, summoned all the courage pausing the online course. He was pleasantly surprised, and we talked, though both consciously acknowledging the unhappiness of Udemy course progress. It’s not that we don’t like talking; it’s just that the interaction needs to follow certain well-defined protocols. Only above intelligent people understand it. 

​True to my calculations, Solo-man did arrive at the wooden bench just as I was leaving.

​The final approach to Clovelly took me onto Hobby Drive, a beautiful winding track through the trees originally built in the 19th century as a scenic carriage route. The path began turning inward and heading mostly downhill, and I arrived at the village well before 4:00 PM. My B&B was located about thirty minutes outside the village up on the hill. My host, Becky, had already suggested that I should have dinner before coming up, she had her own plans for dinner. Vehicles are completely banned on Clovelly's famously steep, vertical cobblestones, and I watched a local methodically hauling crates down on a heavy wooden sledge, reminding me of Stone Age. I managed to track down a customized vegan salad in the fishing village, they looked at me like new species of fish.

​As I was exploring the small fishing harbor, I ran into the party couple again. I struck up a conversation with the lady while her husband was away grabbing drinks. The discussion quickly grew interesting, so I pulled up a chair, and her husband joined us upon his return. It was then that I realized my cultural mistake: I hadn’t offered to buy the first round. Thinking it was too late to buy one for self, I suppressed my burning desires and just kept talking.

​As it turned out, the husband had completed the Kilimanjaro trek a few years back and had thoroughly enjoyed it. They also mentioned they owned a twelve-acre property in the New Forest and warmly invited me to visit, noting that their horse was currently free since their daughter was away at college. The husband dryly observed that the horse had been worth every penny of the expense because it successfully kept their daughter away from boys, adding that it might help me with my twins as well.

​Within a few minutes, Solo-man spotted us and I echoed his earlier line: "We are really having a party now." I immediately offered to buy him a beer. But guess what, my earlier suspicion proved correct—he declined because he had to drive later. Knowing I can’t change his decision, I accepted his counter-proposal to have a tea instead. Since I had plenty of company, I could comfortably enjoy my own beer with the couple. Their bus wasn’t arriving until 6:00 PM, giving us an optimal window for data exchange.

​During the conversation, I confessed to them that I had been thoroughly destroying the pronunciation of Bude village, its called "Byood”. Solo-man smiled and admitted he had noticed, but found my pronunciation quite interesting. I only wished my grammar teachers were so kind! To my delight, the couple bought me another pint, turning the afternoon into a massive success. Solo-man then shared stories of his travels to Bodh Gaya, revealing a deeply spiritual side to his personality that I hadn't anticipated. We could have spent hours talking, but our allocated time eventually ran out. I headed back toward my B&B while they walked to their bus stop.

​Becky was highly organized and possessed zero extra time to spare. She mentioned she had to head out to the farm, so I politely reminded her about her own dinner plans. She looked momentarily confused by my tracking of her schedule, but still efficiently showed me to my room.

After a warm bath I fell into deep sleep, triggering an extraordinary dream of Inception standards. In the dream, I was telling my friends a story about me visiting "Sobhi-man" on my way near a river, resting on a wooden bench, without a beedi. My brain had cross-compiled two of them into a single entity, but one cannot question the source code of dreams. I asked him, "Why are you wasting your time like this, simply resting?"

​Immediately, Ashwini interrupted me, declaring, "Stop, everyone already knows this story." I was about to argue saying it’s different, but my internal alarm kicked in. Recognizing a definitive system override, I realized it was time to stop right there.

Day 5 - Tales of Tarmac

The end of the day would mark the exact halfway point of the journey, so I started the morning full of enthusiasm. On paper, it was supposed to be the easiest leg of the trek—32km with almost zero elevation. However, the majority of the path lay along the Tarka Trail, which my feet already knew was an unforgiving stretch of tarmac.

​In the breakfast room, Sarah recognized me immediately and asked with a smile whether I had managed to find vegan food at the Tarka Lounge the night before. When I told her it was the best meal I’d had on the trip so far, she practically started glowing. She eagerly brought out my coffee and oat milk before disappearing into the kitchen to cook my breakfast. When I looked down, the milk looked suspiciously white. I hesitated for a moment, but found no logical reason to suspect Sarah. As I sat there, she checked on me again, noticed me struggling with the cafeteria filter, and kindly showed me that I just needed to push the plunger down to make it easier.

​I often make these kinds of silly mistakes intentionally just to test people's reactions. At home, both Ashwini and the kids consistently prefaced their help with, "I don't know how you got a job at Meta..." before showing me what I am doing wrong.

​A few minutes later, Sarah rushed out of the kitchen, her face completely pale with horror. She apologized profusely, explaining that she had accidentally poured me regular cow's milk, and offered to replace the coffee immediately. I controlled my composure with great effort, smiled, and told her it was completely fine. I genuinely do not mind when honest mistakes happen, and looking at the sheer sadness on her face, I stuck firmly to my narrative. I really didn't want to make her feel bad. Of course, the coffee now tasted like absolute poison the moment the realization hit me, but I drank it down regardless. When I finally left, Sarah wished me well, followed me all the way to the front door, and apologized one last time.

Day 5 set off in a completely different environment, beginning with a walk through the Barnstaple town center before joining the Tarka Trail. The atmosphere here was unlike any other day on the path; there was a constant stream of people walking, running, and cycling. Yet, paradoxically, the journey felt far more silent than walking completely alone through miles of deserted cliffs. Few people returned my smiles, and the crowd only made the trail feel lonelier. I felt a powerful urge to break the silence and turn on Spotify, but I had already taken a silent oath to abandon the app. I could hear my friend Aishwarya teasing me in my ears: "remember, Once you decide something, You don't even listen to yourself!" The weight of maintaining this stubborn, false image can be quite suffocating.

It’s not like I am a big talker anyway. It's the opposite—I seldom speak. Back home, my mother routinely tells the villagers that I only smile, likely because she gets tired of answering questions about my limited vocabulary. In school, our teachers always encouraged more writing and less talking. During high school, my friend Vijay and I routinely competed over who could fill more pages. In a three-hour window, we would easily produce a 24-page answer booklet, knowing teachers felt too guilty to award anything less than four marks per page. Yet today, my close friends complain about my four-page blog. I even started naming friends in the posts as a form of paid advertisement, but I'm still operating at a loss.

​People who talk non-stop have always fascinated me. In college, I ended up rooming with Ballu. Once he started talking, he simply couldn't stop. He possessed an incredible memory and knew everything under the sun with absolute accuracy. I initially thought I would benefit immensely from his knowledge, but like a standard Indian husband, he spent his entire day and night hidden away in the computer center, only returning to the room after 11:00 PM. Naturally, we never fought.

When I first moved to the UK, I had another colleague named Harshad who operated on the exact same frequency. Unlike Ballu, Harshad was always by my side whenever he visited the office. Whenever we took the bus together, his voice would completely fill the space; it felt like even the vehicle entered a silent mode just to accommodate him. Sometimes it actually concerned me, but Harshad was never bothered by the bus. While I certainly gained a lot of knowledge and entertainment from him, I never could comprehend how his brain managed to grasp and retain things so vividly.

​I missed those interactions for years after starting driving and commuting alone. Covid and remote work aggravated it further. With the Meta office moving to Kings Cross, I found that dynamic return during occasional office visits, this time through Deepti. By then, I had mastered dealing with natural talkers. She would speak non-stop for ten minutes, at which point I was required to speak for exactly two minutes to keep the momentum going. My strategy was simple: I would intentionally state something factually incorrect about a topic she knew inside out, so she could naturally interject and take over for another ten minutes. It worked beautifully since I prefer listening to talking. After a while, however, I realized I hadn't placebo-tested my theory, so I adjusted the ratio to 50:50—my absolute practical limit. That completely dismantled the system, and she abruptly changed her morning train timings. I couldn't take the insult lying down, so I shifted my timings to match hers. She didn't usually care about competing, but when challenged, she could be even more stubborn than me; she immediately shifted to an even later train. It was then I realized there was no point winning the battle only to lose the war. If I kept competing, I would lose my office breakfast—and absolutely nothing is more precious than that.

To be fair, the path itself wasn’t actually boring. It was a beautiful tarmac road winding through a lush green landscape with the river running along one side—the kind of place lovers would consider an absolute paradise. And there were quite a lot of them, which made the journey feel even more horrible as a solo hiker. The previous day, I had spotted a girl sitting on the edge of a cliff, completely absorbed in painting for hours. I could genuinely appreciate and enjoy a quiet moment like that, but walking non-stop while being forced to look at couples holding hands was a different story.

​I never once saw my dad holding my mother’s hand while walking, nor did I ever see Ashwini’s parents do the same. Yet, somehow, she had developed this firm idea that good couples must always hold hands when they walk. Naturally, unlike her, I prefer action movies—where the hero only holds a hand when he’s dragging someone into a fight!

​In order to truly understand this hand-holding phenomenon, I began closely observing the couples passing me by, and a very clear picture emerged. The people holding hands were invariably unmarried. It was easy enough to verify; either they were simply too young, or the woman wasn't wearing a mangalya. In a few odd cases, I did spot people in their forties or fifties holding hands, but that data remained inconclusive because they could have married later in life or found a new partner entirely.

​Everyone else was walking with a dog, and they were out in massive numbers. It was only then that I realized the dog is just a pretext. It isn’t actually a profound love for dogs that drives them, but rather a lack of romantic vigor to showcase love to their actual partner. Later on, I extended my research and found that people who absolutely hate dogs simply go for hiking poles or children as an alternative buffer.

​Suddenly, a realization hit me. Ashwini had been saying recently that she wanted to buy a dog, and now everything made perfect sense! I immediately began visualizing the absolute perfect gift for her 50th birthday: a romantic gesture that no one have attempted in my 5 days of walk,  taking her for a Tarka Trail walk, with me holding a dog in one hand and her hand in the other!

​By this point, the bullet ant blisters on my feet were becoming increasingly uncomfortable, tempting me to stop and rest every now and then. However, the voice of my friend Abhinandan kept echoing in my ears, constantly repeating: "If you stop, it will be much harder to restart." That had never actually been the case for me on previous walks, but hearing his warning on loop in my head a few times was somehow making it a physical reality. I had to keep moving.

​Passing Fremington and heading toward Instow, a peculiar formation of stones caught my attention. It was the Yelland Stone Row. Apparently, it was laid down roughly 4,500 years ago by Neolithic people, though the rising sea has since consumed and submerged the majority of it. Staring at those ancient, half-drowned remnants offered a brief, welcome distraction from the tarmac.

​Instow itself wasn’t too far away. Back at the B&B, Sarah had suggested that I take the ferry from here across the water to Appledore to save my feet. But when I arrived, there were no ferries running; apparently, they can only operate during high tide. A wicked idea struck when I spotted a young boy selling ice creams nearby. I would ask for a vegan option, confident that a local kid wouldn’t know the difference and would simply hand me whatever was closest. He looked at me without missing a beat and directed me to walk all the way to Bideford.

As I resumed, I passed walkers photographing an old signal booth, muttered ‘tourists’ under my breath, and moved on — only to discover later it holds a significant place in British railway history. I dragged my feet further, passing more walkers, runners, and cyclists, but none of them did anything to change my mood. Out of sheer boredom, I finally cracked, picked up my phone, and called my friend Sriram. He had recently moved back to India and usually always had time for his friends. But today of all days, even he rejected my call; it turned out he was traveling in Europe, and apparently, that is the only time he actually does any office work!

​Right as I was thinking about him, the colors of the trail changed all of a sudden. A beautiful, six-foot-tall lady came running toward me. I intentionally slowed my pace just to enjoy the scenery, and even as she passed and faded into the distance, she remained a commanding six feet tall.

​Witnessing that height instantly unlocked a story from my past—one that I have never shared with a single soul until now.

​Back in 2008, when we were migrating back to India, I went to Heathrow Airport to receive my wife. We had spent almost three months apart without seeing each other, which remains the longest stretch we've ever been separated, even to this day. I was confident I remembered exactly what she looked like, so I kept a sharp lookout at the arrivals gate. After waiting a long time, I spotted someone who looked just like her walking toward me from a distance. As she drew closer, however, her height seemed to keep increasing. I was absolutely thrilled, naively wondering if staying apart from your husband could somehow cause a sudden growth spurt. When she got within a few meters, I finally recognized the face clearly—it was Deepika Padukone. I didn't know whether to laugh or cry. But I kept on waiting; I am a principled and committed man, after all.

​A couple of minutes later, I noticed a luggage trolley rolling down the terminal entirely on its own. It was stacked high with three massive bags, balanced precisely one over the other. I stood there thoroughly impressed by the advanced robotics behind this driverless trolley. As it finally rolled closer, however, the illusion shattered: I could see my wife walking behind it.

​She wasn't even five feet tall, despite what had been advertised on her matrimonial page. I do remember a few people commenting on our height difference when we were getting married, but I had never considered height a metric worth worrying about. That day at Heathrow, I finally realized why those people had been so concerned. Still, I was right, it was difficult, but not impossible to spot her behind the trolley.

Some more mental rumblings later, I found myself crossing the Bideford Long Bridge. At the time, I had absolutely no idea I was walking across a historic medieval masterpiece featuring 24 arches—each built to a completely different size, mathematically proportional to the wealth of the specific trustee who had sponsored it. All I cared about was finding a seat. I stopped at a local café and treated myself to a stunning avocado on toast alongside a vegan cake that quite literally came with a free hammer just to break it apart. Even the café's toilet was historic enough to be worth mentioning; it is a baseline memory I will carry with me for a long time.

With my stomach finally full, I pulled a classic Abhinandan—locking into a rhythm and refusing to stop again until I hit Westward Ho!. I didn't add both ! and . to fool you into thinking my text wasn't AI-curated, but this is the only place in the whole UK with a ! as part of the official name.

Once there, I spent ten minutes on the shore watching kite surfers, fascinated by how they managed to navigate the air. For a fleeting moment, I considered adding it to my list of future hobbies, but my 200GB cloud storage was already full. The wind here was undoubtedly the second highest I had ever witnessed in the UK, with gusts screaming across the coast at a recorded 56.7 mph. The beach looked never-ending—a vast desert where the gales created a literal sandstorm right on the Devon coast. It allowed me to sing loudly without hearing myself, producing the best vocal performance of my life.

Battling through the flying sand, I finally reached my B&B, which doubled as a lively local pub packed with people. After a long-awaited bath, I grabbed a table outside and tried to convince myself that my glass of lemonade was an adequate reward for the uneventful day. Everyone else was laughing and busy playing Bingo inside. I haven't yet developed the skill to bribe a stranger to keep me company over a pint anyway.

Day 4 - Meaning of 42

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.