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.
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