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.

Day 3 - Silence of the Hangmen

Day 3 started on a more relaxed note, as it was supposedly less strenuous. However, Day 2 had already taken its toll: two blisters. One was on my little toe, and the other sat stubbornly between my big toe and the second one. To most, this would be bad news; to me, it was a badge of honor.

​Exactly one year ago, I led a group of friends and family on the Kumara Parvatha trek in India—one of the tallest in South India at 2,100m. My friend Nagesh had "defeated" me then, finishing the 24km trek in sandals with a one-inch-long blister. Looking at my feet now, my two blisters together were already over an inch long, and with several days left, their "growth potential" was enormous.

​Ashwini, ever the logistical mastermind, had prepared me for this exact emergency with three varieties of blister plasters. I took a crash course in their application—a technology I’d never had the pleasure of using before. Apparently, they must be airtight to form a "second skin." The engineering behind it was fascinating, and once applied, the pain vanished as if by magic.

​After a proper English vegan breakfast, I set off toward Heddon’s Mouth. The river environment was serene, with the water and birds singing in perfect harmony. Halfway up the cliff, I met Ivan, a young chap from Gloucestershire who was also attempting the full 630-mile path over three months. Unlike me, Ivan was camping. I asked if he had a newer copy of the guidebook that allowed camping. He laughed and said the restrictions were the same in the revised versions—he simply "conveniently skipped" reading those pages. He reckoned that since nobody reads the books anyway, nobody ever bothered him about his tent.

​As I walked further, I asked my "other self" to entertain me, having committed to avoiding external "pleasure toys" like music or podcasts. Soon, I found a small bird walking in front of me, as if chatting like an old friend. I walked, it walked. I talked, it talked back. It wasn’t afraid; perhaps it could smell that I was vegan. I’d noticed sheep on other treks were usually terrified of me, but this journey was different—they were treating me like one of their own. I am sure it is not because my brain isn't functioning as well as earlier. I slowed my pace so as not to tire out my new birdie friend. I think we both spoke French; we focused more on our feelings and less on grammar. Eventually, our vocabulary ran dry, the birdie got bored, and it flew off.

​I headed toward the Hangman cliffs via several "false" cliffs, with Ivan's warnings ringing in my ears. The Great Hangman is the highest sea cliff in Devon, and I had heard the local legend: a villager stole a sheep and stopped to rest at the summit, only for the struggling sheep to accidentally "hang" him with his own rope. My second-hand guidebook, ever the joyless skeptic, claimed this story was false and that the name linguistically just meant "stony hill." I realized then why the book hadn't sold many copies—the truth was far too tasteless.

​I climbed, and I decided to fix the missing links in the story. Why was the smaller one called Little Hangman? Then, the whole puzzle clicked into place. The man wasn't a thief. His young son had playfully stole a  lamb and climbed the smaller hill, where a tragic accident with the rope led to his hanging. Driven mad by grief and revenge, the father stole a massive ram and climbed the Great Hangman, only to meet the same fate.

​Just as I finalized this dark theory, I reached the summit of Great Hangman and froze. There, standing at the edge in the middle of a deserted weekday, were a man and a young boy.

​It was a chilling coincidence. There was nobody else for miles. I didn't stop to chat; I kept my head down, marched past them, and only dared to snap a photo once I was a safe distance away. When I checked the digital image later, the man and the boy were nowhere to be seen. It confirmed my theory perfectly: the Hangmen were still there, watching the "stony mountain" for eternity. I didn't dare to climb the Little Hangman fully; luckily, the coast path didn't force me to either!

​As soon as I descended from the Hangman cliffs, I reached Combe Martin. It was refreshing to see real people again, though most didn't smile back—which confirmed they were definitely real, if a bit chilly. I later learned it is supposedly the longest village in England, fortunately not the longest coastal path. I had a quick, forgettable lunch—forgettable being the operative word—and pushed on toward Ilfracombe.

​Soon after, I reached Watermouth Harbor. It was incredibly picturesque, but its beauty hid a secret: this was a test bed for Operation PLUTO (Pipe-Lines Under The Ocean). These underwater fuel lines were invisible to enemy planes and proved a game-changer for Allied forces in WWII.

​Coincidentally, I heard a plane in the distance. The sound in that calm environment brought back childhood memories of chasing planes in India. My mind drifted to our neighbor, Somanna, who returned from Kuwait during the war. He used to work as a servant in the Kuwaiti King's household and told us tales of their gold toilets. That war changed his life, though it didn't take his laughter—at first.

​He eventually married and had two beautiful daughters, becoming a Patri—a medium for a local God. He started a grocery shop in our village where I would spend thirty minutes every day, eating a single chikki, waiting for a story which wouldn't escape from his silence. One day, he just disappeared, his shop locked from the inside. I was there when they broke down the door. I saw him hanging, his body already reacting to the days spent unnoticed. I walked faster then, trying to outpace the silence of that memory and leave it behind on the cliffs.

​An hour later, the path forced a choice. The acorn marker pointed left, but another path branched right, looking shorter and far more "interesting." I saw two ladies coming from that direction, and in the distance, I saw my friend Kishore waving at me to follow him. Kishore is the calmest man at home but the wildest spirit in the wild; years ago, he’d led us on a "shortcut" in Devon with kids in tow that nearly ended in disaster due to poor light.

​I took a few steps toward his ghost before I heard Ashwini’s voice, loud and clear in my head, warning me not to follow "non-standard paths." Kishore likely inherited his recklessness from his cousin, my old roommate—the thinnest man I knew with the thickest skin. I think my own courage was also his gift. ABC mentioned that people merge behaviors when they live together long enough. Ashwini, for sure, wouldn’t agree. I followed Kishore’s image until the path turned treacherous, at which point he just vanished, leaving only Ashwini’s echo behind grinning, "I told you so." I retreated to the safety of the acorns.

​As I neared Ilfracombe, a small, shiny creature slithered from the hedgerows. It was far more metallic than any Indian snake I’d seen. I remember reading there are no dangerous snakes in the UK, but wasn't sure whether I read a book or WhatsApp forward. But in that moment, I instinctively sprinted as if a King Cobra were at my heels. Between the Hangman ghosts and the "Bronze Guardian," my nerves were shot. I haven't watched a horror movie in ten years because I was becoming "wiser," yet here I was, running from a legless lizard.

​Ilfracombe was a welcome sight. I spent five minutes examining Verity, the giant bronze statue in the harbor. Due to poor eyesight, I resorted to an "open book exam" which revealed she is a pregnant woman, holding a sword and standing half-exposed to show her anatomy. She looked fierce, with sword raised—much needed for standing half-naked even for a statue. I then climbed Capstone Hill in the town, not really part of the coastal path, but was intrigued to see another statue of a girl. It was a memorial for Kate, a 14-year-old Russian girl who fell from Hillsborough cliff in a fog so thick that she couldn't see where the land ended.

​My B&B was in Mullacott Cross, two miles inland from the coastal path. Refusing the "shortest path" on my map out of a newfound respect for the acorns, I got hopelessly lost in town. After a few circles, I headed towards Lee and decided to branch out in the middle. I took a "bold" decision to follow a public pathway that was locked, but there were no signs banning hopping. A kilometer later, I was standing in a massive field with grass up to my thighs.

​My heart hammered. I couldn't see what was underneath my feet. I took a leap of faith in forgotten gods and started sprinting through the brush. Mid-sprint, I remembered my guidebook's warning about Lyme Disease—ticks that bite you in long grass and mess with your nervous system. I was more afraid of "snake-like things" than bacteria. I knew Ashwini wouldn't miss a single symptom if I caught Lyme disease. I jumped another locked gate into a private garden, praying the owner didn't have a gun, and finally emerged onto a road.

​A local couple saw my tired legs and messy appearance. They looked at me with genuine pity and spent ten minutes explaining the safest, most optimal way to reach the Inn. For once, my OS map agreed with them and I reached Jayne’s cottage 30 minutes later.

​Jayne heard my stupid plan to reach Barnstaple the next day by walking 45km. She convinced me to skip a section and start from Woolacombe with another group. She offered an early breakfast and drop-off in case I missed my bus to Woolacombe. But after half an hour in the bath, I was fresh and glowing. My OS map freaked out at the idea of starting from Woolacombe, because I would be missing 7km of interesting path. I made up my mind to start from Lee, which is 3km from the B&B, but I would need a lift to avoid an hour of unnecessary walking. I thought I could convince Jayne by buying her a beer at her own home; I can't drink on my own anyway!

​But I found her husband instead. He was extremely knowledgeable on the SWCP and criticized me heavily for missing the Lynton cricket ground from Valley of Rocks. I convinced him of redoing the section again with family to see the cricket ground. He agreed with me that I have to start from Lee and shouldn't move from Bull Point unless I see the seals. Without waiting for my comment, he immediately pulled four taxi contacts and asked to pre-book and start from Lee early morning. Before I could mention that Jayne might drop me, he noted she’d be too busy in the kitchen and he would be at work, and then disappeared, wishing me well. He was extremely efficient at reading my mind, but just couldn't see my heart. I just stood there, staring at the beer cans in the fridge for a long moment, before heading upstairs to book my taxi and call it a very long, very dry night.

Day 2 - Nature calling and the last solo pint

Day 2 started at 6:00 AM with minimal snoozes. Breakfast was a rapid-fire operation: one samosa, followed by a banana, then the second samosa. I felt a dangerous urge for another banana; unable to resist, I went for it. Having reached my limit, I donated my surplus food to Tyrone. He was almost in tears and saw me off right at the door with a heavy heart. I am fairly confident it wasn’t just about the four bananas; some people are simply born with a gift for connection.

​It reminded me of my last visit to ABC in Seattle. When I was leaving early in the morning, his ten-year-old, Adi, came down to say goodbye, still rubbing his sleepy eyes. I had to rub my own eyes even though I wasn't sleepy. I try to teach that kind of warmth to my kids, but they tell me some behaviors are simply hereditary!

​By 7:00 AM, I was on the streets. Within ten minutes, I reached the beach and realized I had no idea which way to go. I spent two minutes heading toward Bossington—the place I’d just come from. I suddenly remembered my friend Rohini’s trip to Udupi. She’d stepped off her bus for a toilet break and came back to find a stranger in her seat. She nearly threw him out before realizing she’d boarded a similar-looking bus headed back to Bangalore. With no margin for error, I switched my OS Map to full zoom.

​As I climbed toward Culbone, the markings improved. Tyrone had warned me about a landslide-prone path where I should take a left, but by the time I reached the junction, I couldn't remember if he meant "take the left" or "avoid the left."

​Inside the Culbone woods, I met Chris and Simon—two towering, adventure-seeking guys who had camped near Porlock Weir. They spoke of the "serenity" of listening to nature overnight. I told them my plans, and they remarked that I looked even taller than them. It was only after we parted that I wondered how they managed to camp; my second-hand book strictly forbid it. Perhaps they had paid for a new copy!

​The paths were amazing and tranquil; I felt like Nature was truly calling me, whispering its ancient secrets into my soul. Soon, I realized Nature was really calling me very loudly—thanks to that extra banana. The "spiritual call" had rapidly turned into a "physical call."

​My mind raced back to our college souvenir book, Smriti, where my friend Bootha wrote his infamous "Kela Story" about eating 20 bananas. His friend’s footnote—"There was no water in the hostel the next day"—loomed over me. I was only facing 1/10th of Bootha’s problem. Unlike my logistical linchpin friend ABC, I wasn't carrying a trekking shovel. For those in this predicament, the protocol is to go 50m off-path, dig a six-inch hole, and bury the evidence. I could have perhaps found an ayurvedic shovel, but I needed allopathic tissue paper, which I didn’t carry.

​I was laughing at myself in this complex situation and remembered Bootha’s other invention: the Complex PJ (P + iJ). For ordinary people, the joke part is imaginary, hence "complex." I am 100% certain he didn't copy it from anyone else—the man had never read anything besides textbooks before he met me, so it had to be an original invention. He just didn't think to copyright it.

​The path eventually dropped toward Foreland Point, supposedly the northerly point of Devon. The official trail markers pointed up the hill, but the OS Map suggested a route toward the beautiful lighthouse. I trusted the map. It led me to a dead end at a locked cottage. I had to backtrack and decided from that moment on to trust the physical "acorn" signs over the digital gods.

​I finally rolled into Lynmouth and had a vegan focaccia sandwich at Simones. It was the best I've had in my life. I realized a bit late that two local dogs were staring at me not out of love, but for my sandwich. I also found a public toilet for 50 pence. It’s the only thing in England that hasn't succumbed to inflation; I remember paying 50p at Paddington in 2008 when I didn't even have a job!

​After my 50p toilet break, I passed by "The Walker" sculpture near the Lynmouth harbor. He’s a bronze figure frozen in mid-stride, hand extended for a handshake. He marks the intersection of four major trails, and I felt he was the only one in town who didn't look worried about me. I gave him a mental nod—two walkers on a mission—and marched toward Lynton.

​On my left, I saw the water-powered cliff railway. The technology is a marvelous Victorian relic using gravity and water to shuttle people up the cliff, but the coastal path demanded a manual climb. I tackled the hill on foot, once again confusing the route despite the perfectly intact acorns. A couple assured me the path ahead, the Valley of Rocks, was spectacular. They weren't wrong. I saw plenty of tourists, including some Indians, all agreeing on its beauty. As I maintained a brisk pace, I spotted feral goats perched on the steep cliffs, watching me with a mocking air. I felt the need to clarify: "I am just walking, not competing!"

​The Valley of Rocks ended after about a mile, and suddenly, the crowds vanished. I was heading toward Martinhoe via Woody Bay. The path was a series of ups and downs, much like life, but with no people in sight, so it was easier. By this time, I had decided to forego music or podcasts. I had the vastness of nature and my own self to talk to. I had totally ignored "him" earlier in life, but given enough time, I found him to be quite interesting.

​Eventually, I encountered a lonely lady with a massive backpack. I caught up to her—not intentionally accelerating, I swear—and asked where she was headed. She was planning to hike the entire 630-mile path over three months. When I asked, "Would you walk with me?" she replied, "I am not ready yet."

​I’m fairly certain she thought I was proposing Saptapadi. That’s usually the only time an Indian husband is guaranteed to walk together with his wife! After a quick clarification, she explained she hadn't even decided where she was staying that night. I wished her luck and found my rhythm again. Soon, even the family with kids overtook her. It confirmed she was indeed not ready! For the next ten minutes, I imagined what my life would be like if I were as impromptu and indecisive as her!

​By 4:30 PM, I was near Heddon's Mouth. It was beautiful, though perhaps not the "hallucinatory" masterpiece I had built up in my head. I met a solo walker coming from the opposite direction who dropped a bombshell: "The Hunter's Inn is two miles away, and they close their kitchen at 5:00 PM."

​Panic set in. There was no other place to eat, and they had ignored all my messages about vegan options. It never occurred to me that I could have simply telephoned them. With only 30 minutes left, I started running. Even after a strenuous day, the fear of sleeping without food gave me a burst of adrenaline. I reached the hotel with ten minutes to spare, only for the kind staff to calmly inform me that for residents, dinner is served from 6:00 to 7:30 PM.

​I had sprinted almost two miles for nothing. However, the reward was a 30-minute bath, two pints of beer, and a delicious vegan dinner. The Inn was incredibly serene, but the day ended with a logistical bomb from my son Arjun.

​"Appa," he said, "You shouldn’t have had those beers. You took a New Year’s oath to only drink with friends!"

​I froze. He was right. Arjun tried to offer some "legal" workarounds—suggesting the oath is suspended when no friends are there to witness the event—but I don't trust him; he is much more clever than me. He will trick me and later use it against me. As an engineer, I know there is always a logical solution for every complex problem. I fell asleep with my brain working overtime, trying to calculate a logical ceasefire between my oath and my thirst!

Day 1 — The Perpendicular Rebellion

​I knew I had to reach Minehead by public transport, so I mentally prepared for the five-hour morning trek before the actual trek even began. The second leg, from Taunton to Butlins, listed 62 stops, which looked incredibly fishy on paper. It was only quite late that I realized it was actually a bus ride! Just three stops before the end, I realized I should get down at Minehead station instead of the Butlins gate to make life easier. Luckily, that last-minute adjustment saved me a whole kilometer of walking. On Day 1, a map was essential to maintain speed and timing, as the paths weren't always easy to understand.

​The trail took me through the woods, following the path up North Hill. Soon, there was a bifurcation. The map only recognized the curved route, while a perfectly decent straight route stared me in the face. Being Day 1, I listened to Ashwini diligently and followed the long route. When it eventually joined the other path, I realized someone had made a shortcut that simply had a slightly higher elevation! It was a decent climb, but I was filled with enthusiasm; it felt like a casual stroll. Once the woods ended, the open space began, revealing those incredible coastal views.

Then I kept on walking, walking, and walking. I must have slept in between, as I can’t remember the majority of the details. I was writing this blog in my head as I moved; it looked interesting and funny. I had full confidence that I would remember every detail and thought I would finish it soon after reaching my B&B. What better thing to do without the hassle of work and family!

​Then came a section with markings showing a different route than my OS Maps. The map was simpler, while the other path went dangerously close to the beachside cliffs! It was tempting, but I stayed in line. Half a kilometer later, I saw people on that other path and couldn't control myself—those views looked breathtaking.

I took a giant breath, prayed to my wife's God, and started forging a perpendicular route that was neither in the OS Map nor the second-hand guidebook. It was probably only 300m, but it was the most difficult decision I had to make. I could hear Ashwini shouting, "DANGER!" Pushing through the bushes wasn't easy, even for an elephant.

At the same time, there were 5-6 cows grazing nearby—the biggest I have ever seen. In my roots, cows are the kindest animals; I worship them and have never eaten beef. But then I remembered a Bill Bryson book, The Road to Little Dribbling, where he says a couple of deaths happen every year due to cow attacks! That changed my impression completely. I still wouldn’t mind being killed by a cow in India; it would be a holy death one can only wish for. But these are genetically modified Jerseys—there is no guarantee of a safe heaven!

​I immediately checked my phone for the stats on how many people were already dead this year. If it was none or one, statistically I was in real trouble. But the phone was disconnected from the world. My battery was at 30%, and my black-market backup phone follows an exponential discharge curve. I tried charging from my super-charger, but it wouldn't work—some cabling issues. Panic set in.

​Then I saw people running toward me. I was certain they were planning to rob my second-hand guidebook. Ashwini’s prediction was coming true within hours! I marched faster in the aftermath of a total collapse, passing the "cows" only to realize they were actually ponies—and Bryson said nothing about ponies being dangerous. The "robbers" turned out to be elderly retirees. They heard my epic plans and said, "If there is one person who could do it, it would be you!" They filled me with energy. Unlike my younger days, I like old people more now; they are the only ones as wise as me. Years ago, an elderly man in the New Forest scolded us for walking on the road. We had just moved from India—how were we supposed to know? Back then, I confirmed old Brits can be extremely racist. But things got better after I got my British passport and started becoming "old" myself!

After they left, the phone finally started charging. I marched along the cliff edges, getting glimpses of the days to come. Every now and then I’d meet retirees with big smiles. My mother always said I don’t talk much but I smile well; I was doing both when it was just me and my path.

​I don’t remember what happened next—I must have been sleepwalking. But I was full of energy, so it felt amazing, without an iota of boredom. It was almost hallucinatory, like being at a peak with some unknown mushrooms. I was paying attention to everything: birds singing, winds blowing, even the different mechanisms of the gate locks.

 I found myself deeply disappointed with a lock that had rounded edges—a total waste of metal. The first gate was simpler. I figured someone who should have been an artist became an engineer instead, which means they were very likely Indian. 

Lost in these thoughts, I reached Porlock by 3:40 PM. My B&B check-in was at 4:00, so I entered a coffee shop nearby. I was the only person there, so the owner was all ears for my story. He had a world map for visitors and would ask selected people to put a pin on their location. Obviously, he wanted me to do that as well, but I had to give up my British passport for a moment to pin India. I was the second Indian to visit; the first one was from Kashmir, so technically I can say I am the first Indian to have coffee there. What a great accomplishment!

​I went to Myrtle Cottage at 4:00. Another couple was already waiting to check in at the exact same time; they were doing small bits of coastal sections. Tyrone was managing the property and was perhaps the kindest person I have met in a while. He was retired, while his partner Neil was still working and helping out. Tyrone spent a lot of time talking to me over tea; he was an avid walker too. We discussed a wide range of trekking topics. My Kilimanjaro t-shirt, which I wear everywhere to show off, was finally giving me the persona I wanted!

​But I was still getting used to the names of the local places and confused him by saying I was planning to go all the way to Combe Martin. He went inside, visibly concerned, and complained to Neil about my "unscientific plans." Neil dropped all his work and joined our conversation now. I looked up the precise location and shared the postcode of my destination. They said it was still ambitious, but if anyone can do it, it would be only me!

​I got the energy to finish the next day in style, but I was also worried. Breakfast only starts at 8:30 AM, which would be too late for me. I panicked, rushed to the nearby Spar, and bought two samosas and a few bananas—the only ready-made vegan options available. Tyrone said he would have provided some options, but I didn't want him to worry more about me. We changed topics to culture, social economics, religion, parenting, and artificial intelligence. I forgot about the blog for a moment, but I realized I had more material for it now. All that talking made my mouth dry, so I headed to the pub for dinner and two pints of beer. The waiter said I really deserved it!