Could I be the slowest South West Coast Path Walker of all time? I set out to walk clockwise the 630 miles from Studland to Minehead on a sunny Sunday evening in July 2016.
Slow walking. This is my thing. Or just an excuse to daydream. It’s not just walking. It’s observing, listening, feeling, speaking to people, watching the sun appear from behind a cloud, seeing a dolphin jump in the Helford estuary or watching the first star to appear as I lay down next to the path.
When I crossed over the Exe estuary on a tiny ferry from Exmouth to Dawlish Warren two years ago I met a man completing it in six weeks.
He was a beast of a man, huge in every way and probably a rugby player. Bearded, gentle and quiet with a slight Somerset burr. He would walk all day until late in the evening. The night before he’d slept on a wooden seat near the path. How could he have fitted on it I wondered.
He showed me his provisions: big bags of nuts, seeds, dried fruit and blue m and ms. He had a huge back pack covered in a luminous waterproof cover. He had a water pack and even an app on his phone to signal where he could fill up water. (I fill up my battered bottle at pubs, public toilets, streams or just knock on people’s doors).
Six weeks! That’s pretty good going. Yet that’s not how I like to do it. For me it’s not about the end – the completion – it’s about the journey. It’s about everything that happens in between.
He strode off along the dunes. I jumped in the sea.
I am exact about following the path as closely as I can. Sometimes it’s impossible because of diversions, normally because of rock falls or parts of a cliff collapsing.
I mark each part of the route on an Ordnance Survey Landranger map in green pen with a date and the odd note: places I swim, where I met someone for a chat, visited a church and so on. The maps are starting to pile up in a box of memories at the cottage in Somerset.
Whenever I start a new leg I make sure I return to the place where I finished before. When I return I always think about what has happened in the missing weeks or months. On many occasions there is a wooden sign pointing west marked ‘coast path’. It’s often my marker. I smack it, pause and announce ‘back on the path’ to no one in particular.
Last Summer I went round the Lizard arriving on Porthleven Sands in September. And here I am 11 months later as near as possible to where I ended up. I cast my mind over the lost months. We won’t forget this year.
Approaching the point which marks the start of Porthleven, a gentle 3 foot wave curls then disappears behind the point. Two miniature black figures dance amongst the foam like stickmen. Behind them a solitary crepuscular lights up a patch of sea like a spotlight. Something leaps inside of me. It’s a feeling unique to Cornwall. The slow released breath is loud in my ears.
At the entrance to Porthleven harbour I pass holidaymakers: couples, young families, dogs. I stop to look at the entrance formed by the sea walls. How many boats have passed out through those walls? How many men set out in the early hours to drop their nets and lines who knows where out there?
I wander round the edge of the harbour wall. Seagulls stand around like teenagers with attitude. They’re probably more permanent here than most of the people.
I walk almost a full circle, from one one end of a horseshoe to another. The Ship Inn is built high up so you have to climb stairs to get to it. It reminds me of so many others like this: traditional Cornish inns which smell of the sea and glow with opiate orange light. I wonder how far out to sea it can be seen.
Half an hour later I’m two fields out of town and the rest of Porthleven has been hidden by a shoulder of land.
Not long ago I had some trepidation about doing this. Now, like with a lot of things, I don’t care.
I look for flat ground first, preferably with thick grass. Then cover from the wind. I settle in the lee of a stone wall on the eastern side. It will shelter me from the westerly I’ve been walking into.
I learn from my mistakes: last year I lay down on a promontory near Broom Parc on the Veryan Peninsula. The wind got inside my sleeping bag and I started to shiver. In the middle of the night I found a dip next to a wall. It is one of the loveliest feelings, the feeling of being sheltered. Dry stone walls now feel homely.
I unpack quickly: all loose objects, keys, phone, wallet, toothbrush go in a separate mini rucksack. I blow up the West Peaks mat – a six foot padded mattress with blow up pillow. Once I’m in the sleeping bag and bivvy bag I am a large worm. A worm with an eye mask on my head.
I remember another evening on the path last year near St Anthony’s Head. I was in a field of long grass. It was a warm, sultry night full of life: fat, black insects the size of small birds buzzed back and forth. As I stared at the sky a ghostly shape appeared above. As white and silent as snow. A barn owl’s wings make no sound. He checked himself right above my head and started to swoop, then changed his mind. For a moment I was terrified.
I’m cosy and looking at the half moon dipping in and out of the clouds on its own voyage up there. With no distractions I could watch it for hours like Endymion waiting to be seduced. Slowness. Simplicity. And finally sleep.
The Slow Walker 