A relief when the terrain levels out for a while. Photo / Joanne Mitchell
At 1014km, England’s longest National Trail, the South West Coast Path, isn’t for the faint of heart, but even a few weeks of walking is worthwhile, writes Joanne Mitchell.
Not all who wander are lost, but on the last day of the South West Coast Path, somehow we were. After 21 days and 418km of hard-won experience, we still managed to miss a waymarker. Now we were cornered in a matrix of fields with obstacles between us and the path winding up the cliff in the distance. Gorse hedges, barbed wire fences and bracken hiding sleeping adders were impassable. An inelegant clamber over a dry stone wall cost us our pride but eventually put us back on track.
This is the Salt Path experience. The longest continuous path and National Trail in England, which follows the coast of Somerset, Devon, Cornwall and Dorset. Established in the 19th century, the path was initially created to allow coastguards to patrol the 630 miles from Minehead to Poole. In early June, with only a month’s leave from work, I tackled almost half of it, from Minehead to Land’s End.
Despite the innocent name, this “path” is an unrelenting trek with long days, steep climbs and sheer descents in the full range of British weather. However, the body adapts and the reward is a stunning and stimulating hike, with each day bringing varied landscapes.
The film The Salt Path, based on a 2018 novel*, came out just before we left New Zealand, but the walk had been nine months in the planning. The SWCP website is helpful with suggested daily start and end points, but finding available accommodation in small villages is what dictates your final itinerary.
Early days began with dappled woodland paths meandering over small streams and stone bridges before rising up cliffs. On the seventh day, rain set in, making for a treacherous stretch around fallen trees and down muddy paths. It was a relief to descend late in the day to Clovelly, one of the UK’s prettiest villages. Carless due to the narrow, extremely steep lanes, locals pull wooden sleds over the cobbles with their loads, greasing the runners with lard to make them run smoothly.
Fishing villages seemingly tumble down the coastline’s deep coves. Rounding a headland on day 10, Boscastle Harbour emerged from the sea mist like a movie set with centuries-old whitewashed houses, slate roofs, and pubs.
The following night was spent at the Slipway Inn in higgledy piggledy Port Isaac, where the TV series Doc Martin was filmed. Up and over a cliff path lies Port Quin, the village that died. In the 1800s, as the story goes, the fishing fleet was caught in a storm and all the men perished, forcing the women and children to abandon their homes to survive elsewhere.
This is a path marked by tragedy, and walking along the cliffs with the Atlantic always on your right is invigorating but surprisingly poignant. Memorials lie for bombers flying back from World War II missions that missed their landing and flew into the cliffs; a hospital ship torpedoed in 1918; and a plaque with the first words of For The Fallen “They shall not grow old as we that are left grow old ...” was written overlooking this area.
A surprise, never having been to Cornwall, was the vast golden sandy beaches and clear turquoise seas. I didn’t associate England with beaches that reminded me of Aotearoa’s Far North. As tempting as they looked for a dip, we ploughed on, mindful of the kilometres still ahead. Cornwall’s St Tropez is the beach town of Rock, a stone’s throw from Padstow. At high tide, a ferry takes you across the River Camel in minutes.
The nature of the Coast Path means that ferries must sometimes be used to cross estuaries. The same respite from walking also helped in Newquay with a boat across the Gannel River, and the ferry across the River Torridge from Instow to Appledore, saving another 10km walking around and crossing the bridge at Bideford. I had the best Devon ice cream in Instow while waiting for the tide to slowly rise. The world’s oldest funicular water-powered train took us up a vertical climb in Lynton that saved 25 minutes on foot. Small and appreciated mercies.
The National Trust undertakes enormous environmental work on the coast to preserve the area’s wide open spaces. Their wildflower meadow project in North Devon, among Britain’s most threatened habitats, attracts birds and pollinators, increasing nearby wheat crop production, as well as being visually stunning.
The demand created by tourism along this coast is clear in several towns with new upmarket holiday homes, and less upmarket holiday chalet developments, sprawling at the edges. The same global economic changes are clear here, with absentee, rich second-home owners putting pressure on affordability for locals. The UK Government is clamping down by increasing taxes for these homes, and St Ives has banned newly built houses from being sold as second homes.
Padstow (aka Padstein because of the influence of celebrity chef Rick Stein, who owns several restaurants and businesses here) was the first place we saw tourists thronging the narrow streets, which is jarring after days of seeing few people. St Ives is similar, and despite the picture postcard shops and the flower basket explosion through town, I enjoyed these towns less.
On day 19, we lunched at The Tinners Arms in Zennor next to St Senara’s, an austere-looking 1400-year-old church. Inside, it is one of the most atmospheric churches I’ve seen. The legend here is that one of the choir boys was such a beautiful singer that a mermaid at sea came ashore to hear him. She lured him back to sea, and he was never seen again.
From here, the path follows the ghostly stone towers and tin mine remains of Poldark fame. Arsenic gas was a byproduct of the refining process, and numerous signs and barriers around collapsed mine shafts illustrate how the odds were stacked against these miners.
It was a little emotional arriving at Land’s End on day 21. The last mile each day always felt the longest, but despite a relatively gentle path at this point we slowed down to enjoy our final one. The arrival did pull us out of the peacefulness of the path with quite a reality check. A queue of tourists waited to take a photograph (£11, thank you) at the iconic signpost while a man knelt down and proposed there (awkward). Next to me sat a life-sized model of Paddington Bear outside one of the many gift shops and tacky amusement parlours at this otherwise wild Atlantic spot. However, this made me appreciate even more the absorbing quiet and serenity we had enjoyed in the previous three weeks, and was a reminder that this challenge was not about the destination, but the journey.
*An investigation by British newspaper The Observer has raised questions about details and alleged omissions in Raynor Winn’s memoir The Salt Path. Winn has denied these claims.