The Salt of Old Age

Prologue

As we grow older, our eyesight often diminishes, our hearing fades, and our senses of smell and taste weaken.
This makes it all too tempting to add a little extra salt – literally on the plate, but also metaphorically, as a craving for stronger, more intense experiences beyond the blandness of everyday life.
That sometimes leads to spontaneous and – at first glance – surprising decisions and actions, often leaving onlookers baffled and amused.
And so it was that on March 3, 2025, a wild idea crystallized into the first “drops of action.” The imaginary saltshaker was shaken, decisions were made, and a purchase followed: a one-person tent
Aha. But why a tent?
And why salt – why not pepper, ketchup, or curry?
Well, the explanation is: „Salt Path.“
Never heard of it? The Salt Path – or more precisely, the South West Coast Path – is a coastal hiking trail in the southwest of England.
It stretches 630 miles (1014 kilometers) – making it the longest hiking trail in Great Britain—from Minehead to Poole, always hugging the coastline. It was originally built as a patrol route for customs officers, designed so they could peer into every cove and catch smugglers in the act.
Later, the path was also used to transport salt, giving it its popular nickname.

So what better way to spice up a peaceful retirement than by „salting“ it with a hike along that very trail?
Granted, there are plenty of things that would be more reasonable than tackling 1,000 kilometers of steep coastal terrain with the equivalent elevation gain of climbing Mount Everest four times.
But that’s how wild ideas work – they rarely come from sober reflection and sometimes end with a hangover.
And to fill the shot glass right to the brim – perhaps even down a double – the plan is to tackle this little stroll in backpacking mode:
No cozy inns with soft beds and hot showers, no hearty breakfasts or secure roofs.
Instead, the “lodging” for what could be two months will ride in the backpack: the newly purchased one-person tent – which, to be fair, looks pretty slick and user-friendly in the pictures.
Also, the author has camping experience! As scouts, we had tents, and then there was that holiday in France years ago – there was a tent involved there too.
As you can see: a wild idea is still a wild idea.
We’ll see how this all plays out, and where it ends.

(But just to avoid being labeled a completely senile grandpa, I should mention that my walking stick already bears the marks of a few long-distance hikes, including some renowned routes like a Camino de Santiago and the West Highland Way – though always with beds, showers, and roofs 😉 ). And yes, that was a few years back…

“But seriously – ideas like this don’t just fall from the sky!”
No, they don’t.
It takes a spark – let’s say: “inspiration.”
My sources of inspiration were two friends who recently told me they plan to walk the Camino Portuguès next May, the Portuguese route of the Camino de Santiago, which starts in Lisbon (though most walk it from Porto) and ends in Santiago.
Thing is –  that was my plan!
After walking the Camino de la Costa (the northern Camino) in 2016, I had set my sights on the Portuguese route for the following year. The best of all wives even gave me a guidebook as a welcome-home gift after my return from Santiago. But for various reasons, that never happened. The lovely guidebook gathered dust on the shelf – until now. I lent it to the ladies, and at least now it’s getting some use, as my grandmother would have said.
Still, I couldn’t let it go. I asked a certain well-known search engine about the Camino Portuguès, and – unsurprisingly – it offered up a string of videos on a certain well-known platform.
Soon, I was back in the mindset, and a few clicks later, already mentally across the Channel. I digitally followed several hikers on their journeys, and suddenly, my cozy felt slippers at home started to feel too warm, too soft, too… fuzzy.
During these “mouse travels,” I also stumbled upon the SWCP again – the South West Coast Path – which had already piqued my interest years ago as a side character in a novel.
Noticing this, the best of all wives reached for her own mouse and – with modern efficiency – soon had Doris Hollbuchner’s „Immer links vom Meer“ (Always Left of the Sea) delivered to our mailbox.
It’s a charming, personal, self-ironic account of her thru-hike – a complete walk of the SWCP in one go.
And that was it.
The Sleeping Beauty slumber of my backpack in the basement ended. It now sits – months too early -in the living room, surrounded by an impressive collection of hiking gear.
Only the tent is missing, and then we’re good to go.

Dear reader, you can probably sense just how much – what’s the buzzword? – disruption potential lies hidden in such retirement daydreams!

But for now, we’re waiting for the tent to arrive. Then we’ll find out if it’s really as easy to set up and take down as the promo video suggests. Then, when the temperatures are right, we’ll do a test run under real conditions.

And then… maybe we’ll try to survive a week this summer in full backpacking mode.

And then… we’ll think again about the SWCP.

 

 

March 7, 2025
The tent arrived yesterday – well, technically, it was delivered – and now it stands proudly in the middle of my living room.
It looks smart: the inner tent cleverly suspended from a gracefully curved, four-legged aluminum frame. Aesthetically, it’s off to a strong start. The outer fly droops a little – it really should be staked out, but hammering pegs into parquet flooring seems excessive for a trial run.The setup, thankfully, is easy enough for even a novice camper to manage.
But no, it’s not Harry Potter-style magic. You crawl inside, and you’re not suddenly in the luxurious chambers of a safari lodge.
This tent is exactly as small on the inside as it appears on the outside.
One man, one word, one tent – and my comfortable 64cm inflatable sleeping pad nearly fills the entire space. Flexibility training may soon become part of my preparation; getting dressed or undressed inside will require either yogic agility or outdoor conditions. As for entering the sleeping bag at night – well, I may need to start after sunset just to be ready by midnight.
Honestly, I could almost head off right now – at least emotionally.
If I were fifty years younger. But no matter – I’ll stick to my sensible, age-appropriate “staged plan” and take it from there.

 

March 10, 2025
Well, I’ve done it – my “first time” in years sleeping in a tent, in a sleeping bag, on a mat!
No one had to coax me in or rescue me out, and even the nocturnal bathroom trip went incident – free.
Of course, this trial didn’t take place on a wind – lashed cliff in pouring rain, but in the comfort of my heated living room. Electric lights close at hand, modern plumbing within reach, and no wildlife (or wild humans) to disturb the peace.
And yes – sleeping in a proper bed is unquestionably more comfortable.
But comfort isn’t the goal here. If it were, I’d be booking a deck chair on a cruise ship, not contemplating coastal hikes.
By night two, things already felt less foreign. I’m optimistic it’ll all come together in the end.
The hiking boots, too, have emerged from retirement in the cellar. Years of dust have been scrubbed off, the leather nourished.

On the living room table, all kinds of long – distance hiking gear are now laid out – a colorful assortment, each item a portal to past adventures.
Memories resurface like spring rain, falling gently on the fragile seedlings of my current travel plans – and those plans are growing fast.
Why waste a week “training” for backpacking somewhere local?
Why not just go this summer?
Camping routines and self – catering can be practiced in a friend’s backyard. Walking with a loaded pack? Anywhere.
The salt – craving retiree is quickly convinced. Time to complete the gear: a few items replaced, a few new ones added. We didn’t have a stove or cookware yet – so, headfirst into the dazzling world of outdoor gear.

 
Thankfully, it’s all just a click away – an entire continent of camping gadgets to explore, compare, and acquire. Suddenly, my planning timeline has jumped forward by a whole year.

 

 

 

March 19, 2025
The gear is arriving daily now – the delivery driver greets me by name – and table space is becoming scarce.

In my dreams, the shiny new arrivals are forming mysterious bonds with the old, seasoned hiking veterans. A strange harmony emerges – a shared purpose, an unspoken understanding, a collective will begins to form. And from it, a pulsing, hypnotic message radiates in waves: „Pack us up and go. Pack us up and go.“

The spell begins to work.
“So… August, then?”
“Well, maybe…”
“Maybe what?”
“August is high season. The English south coast will be packed. Higher prices, more crowds – the Coast Path, too, most likely.”
“So…?”
“May might be better. Maybe I’ll wait until next year…”
“Next year? Why not this May?”
“Actually… yes. Why not this May?”

And suddenly, everything speeds up.
A quick check of the retiree calendar – May and June are blissfully free. The gear is almost ready. And just like that, over morning coffee in bed, a coach to Minehead is booked. One last night in comfort before stepping off into the wilderness.

Boom – it’s official.

Now there’s no turning back. The restless retiree has one thought, and one thought only: the journey, now just weeks away (April 27!).
Travel blogs and hiker vlogs, gear reviews and camping tips, nutritional advice and injury prevention strategies – this is now the world I live in.

What began as a whimsical idea has grown into a vivid, detailed plan.
And the adventure – the real one – is just around the corner.

 

 

March 23, 2025
From plan to practice: Today marks the moment of truth. For the first time in years, a realistically packed rucksack (13.5 kg) is to be hoisted onto its bearer’s back and carried from point A to point B. The distance is modest – 7 kilometers – but includes both a descent and a climb through the local city forest. Naturally, the hiking boots are coming along too, shaking off the dust of their Sleeping Beauty slumber.
And what can I say? This first test run works. Knees, back, and feet – key players in this weight – bearing business – do their jobs without complaint. Even the rest of my senior joints, muscles, tendons, and ligaments cooperate without a fuss.
The retiree is cautiously optimistic.

 

March 25, 2025
Today’s focus: testing self – sufficiency. The long – awaited gas canister has finally arrived, and from his trusted local shopkeeper, the retiree has sourced freeze – dried Asian noodle dishes. Lightweight, easy to prepare (just add water), and rich in carbohydrates – ideal sustenance for the future cliff – scrambler.
This marks the first deployment of the new ultralight cooking gear – and it performs flawlessly. A reassuring sign that even in the wild, far from civilization, I won’t be doomed to collapse from starvation.
And – just as crucial – it actually tastes pretty decent.

 

March 29, 2025 – “Only the Brave!”
By now, the South West Coast Path (SWCP) has completely taken over both headspace and living space. The retiree’s living room resembles a small outdoor supply store. To – do and to – buy lists multiply and shrink. The delivery guy now stops in for coffee.
The Electronic Travel Authorization for post – Brexit Britain has been granted. GPX trail data is downloaded to the phone. Questions of mobile data and roaming in the UK have been settled.
What remains is the first “open – air” test with the tent. So far, late – winter temperatures have held me back – my current sleeping bag is a lightweight model, i.e. not terribly warm. But with time ticking away, that excuse is wearing thin. In a moment of pragmatic generosity, my wife conjures up a sleeping bag from her cellar: thick, heavy, and rated down to minus 11°C.
Thanks to that, the first full – scale “wilderness camping” test is now scheduled for this coming weekend.
In the meantime, “normal life” shall not grind to a halt. Together with friends, I attend a local wine fair. And what do you know – turns out I’m far from the only restless retiree around. One acquaintance, also post – career, is about to set off on an 18 – month cycling trip around Europe. Not bad!
Naturally, the conversation turns to gear and travel logistics. And I find my hunch confirmed: my little one – person tent might just be too snug for the scale of the adventure ahead.
After all, this endeavor – Churchill might agree – will require courage, sweat, and sinew.
And the right equipment.
So, mid – discussion, I order the two – person version of my chosen tent model. The smaller one is returned without ceremony. Thanks to modern shipping logistics, the larger replacement should arrive before the weekend – nothing now stands in the way of the live field test.
Word of the impending adventure has, by now, inevitably spread. The reactions have been surprisingly warm and supportive – no one has (at least in my presence) tapped their temple and questioned my sanity. Quite the opposite: a few people are genuinely excited about the project.
“Only the Brave!” was a friend’s encouraging comment – and now it’s my unofficial motto for the road ahead. 😉

 

April 5, 2025
Last night was the dress rehearsal. Three weeks to go before the real thing.
The journey began in Kettwig, heading toward Düsseldorf through greenery and spring air: 20.6 km. Destination: a clinic with a sprawling green campus, where I intended to pitch my tent for the first time in the wild – or rather, in a remote, off – limits corner of semi – civilization.
The pack, now filled under real – world conditions, came to a hefty 16 kilos. That’s a lot.

Thankfully, it’s a quality backpack tailored to my frame, so it doesn’t feel like a sack of potatoes on my spine. But it still has to be carried – by feet, knees, muscles, ligaments, and tendons.
That’s where the real test lies.
After yesterday’s 20 km and today’s additional 11, I do feel fairly beat.
This may need to be a trip with plenty of rest days – what you might call a “retiree’s trail.”
The hike itself was mostly pleasant, through sun – drenched green landscapes. Nothing too strenuous in terms of endurance.

At the destination, I’m welcomed by two wonderful people with cold beer and hot grilled food – fantastic! This kind of reception likely won’t be standard on the SWCP, but here and now, it’s perfect. A long and lovely evening follows.

The actual camping goes off without a hitch. I’d practiced pitching the tent, so only the guy lines needed attaching and tensioning.
Given the forecast for a cold night, the bulky, sub – zero sleeping bag had already been pre – delivered to the site. It proves its worth, gifting this outdoor novice a warm and cozy night at 4°C. My lighter travel bag would’ve had me shivering.
The only hardship? Crawling out of that warm cocoon in the morning. But really – it’s like swimming: once you’re in…

 

First order of business: coffee and breakfast.
During teardown and departure, the retiree moves clumsily – the process is still new, the motions not yet second nature. But in the end, all the gear finds its way back onto and into the rucksack, and I set off on foot toward my wife – this time just 11 km.
All on pavement, though.
By the end, my feet protest, loudly, and my iliotibial bands start questioning my mental health.

What was once a sneaking suspicion now seems certain: this will be a journey of gentle pace, short stages, and generous rest days. Whatever form it takes:
Only the Brave!

 

April 11, 2025
The less time remains until departure, the more respect the retiree develops for the venture ahead. Of course, the topic now looms omnipresent, and every now and then, an uninvited question sneaks up from the shadows: is this madness really the serious intent of an old white man?
So far, he’s been bravely answering yes – fingers crossed, of course – and quickly moving on.
Otherwise, all preparations are as complete as they can be. The ride on the green bus is booked, the gear is all packed, and the route is planned out in broad, flexible strokes.
In theory, he could leave tomorrow. But there are still two weeks to go, time that will be put to good use – among other things for a proper farewell supper with friends. If you’re going to do it, do it right!

 

Apri 20, 2025
Last night was lovely. Sitting around a big table with friends, eating and drinking well (and plenty), and projecting images of the coming journey on the wall.
The retiree received lots of encouragement and cheerful support for the long – distance hiking adventure that now lies just days ahead.
It fills nearly his entire field of vision. In the tunnel vision of pre – travel excitement, the green of the Flixbus makes the rest of everyday life fade into the background.
At the same time, there’s a growing awareness of just how comfortable life in modern civilization is – especially in contrast to the complete lack thereof in the coming weeks.
And so the retiree now lounges with particular appreciation on the couch, looks at his warm, cozy bed with newly respectful eyes, and pays quiet tribute to the variety of sanitary conveniences we so easily take for granted.
This must be – roughly speaking – what sailors of old felt like before setting off on their wooden coffins for long, uncertain voyages. Sort of ; – )

 

 

April 27, 2025
And that’s the countdown done. Days became hours, then minutes – and now, the retiree – turned – traveler stands with his beloved wife and an impressive backpack at the central bus station in Düsseldorf, scanning the crowd for the right green bus.
It doesn’t take long to show up. The familiar polyglot mix of budget travelers clusters around the large loading bay, stuffing luggage into the belly of the beast.
The driver quickly herds everyone on board – barely enough time for a proper farewell kiss.
The green chariot is fairly full, though the seat next to the retiree remains free, which makes for a more comfortable ride. The Wi – Fi promised by Flixbus? Doesn’t work. So, we begin with a bit of digital detox.
The weather is glorious, and so the ride through the spring – green beetroot fields of the Lower Rhine passes uneventfully en route to the first stop: Bruges, Belgium.
As the onboard toilet is also out of order, there’s a classic pee break after two hours – in that sense, the Flixbus isn’t much different from the old school trip coaches of yesteryear.
8:15 p.m. – Brussels Stopover
Many people stand up and grab their hand luggage. Everyone stands up and grabs their hand luggage. Everyone leaves the bus.
I’m sitting there barefoot – did I miss something? Hastily, I pull on my hiking boots, grab my daypack, and rush after the crowd.
Outside, I ask the driver why we all had to get off. “You didn’t,” he says. “Where are you headed?”
“London.”
“Oh, then you’d best get back on board – we’re continuing.”
And so, unbelievably, I have an entire Flixbus to myself and spend the drive to Bruges chatting in broken French with the driver. You couldn’t make this up.

From Bruges on, things settle down. A middle – aged Black woman is sitting in my reserved seat. She has foot problems, so we swap seats and I take the window.
Over the course of the ride, she shares quite a bit. She lives in the Netherlands, her daughter in London, and she visits her quite often. Much of what she says I struggle to understand – her English is thick with African inflections.
This bus, thankfully, has a working toilet and Wi – Fi. The journey continues smoothly – until we hit the border at Calais.
There, French customs decides it’s time to search our entire bus. Everyone out, with all baggage, for a full – blown security check. Only one X – ray machine is running, so it drags on.
When my bag finally rolls through, the scanner beeps. The customs guy perks up, and his colleague goes through my daypack. Inside – thanks to the strict UK rules – is a tiny knife, blade length barely 5 cm. “This,” she tells me, “has to be confiscated.”
I can’t believe it! No fixed blade, practically a toy – barely more than a letter opener. But she won’t be swayed by my irritation or sarcasm. Rules are rules. She fills out a formal confiscation slip. And off goes my tiny knife.
Later I read: in France, blades under 15 cm and not fixed are technically allowed. But apparently, the law is so vaguely written that every officer can just do as they please.
It’s not about the knife. That one was bait. My real Swiss Army knife – with all the tools I need – is safely buried deep in my main pack, tucked into the pot next to the stove, shielded from scanners.
What bothers me is this bloated and arbitrary show of state power. No wonder people lose faith in politics.
Fortunately, despite the ordeal, we make the ferry. Two hours of onboard relaxation.
Relaxation ends abruptly when UK border officials in Dover decide to copy their French counterparts: everyone out, again, with all luggage, security check!
As if we’d picked up weapons, drugs, or porn on the ferry ride over!
At least here, they only scan the bags and leave us otherwise alone.
The drive to London is uneventful. Most people doze, I nod off too and only wake up shortly before Victoria Station. The bus empties quickly.

 

I know this station – I passed through here on a 2017 trip to Scotland. The wait for the next bus, to Taunton, isn’t long. Apparently, they double – booked my seat, so I’m placed up front behind the driver – panoramic view!
We head out on mostly highways, first to Bristol, then farther south.

Eventually, we reach Taunton, and I’m dropped off at a gas station on the outskirts.
Turns out the local bus terminal is 45 minutes away on foot – too far to make the connection. So, my trek begins well: I order a taxi.
This last bus is something else. It’s already half full when I board. The designated luggage area is occupied by a stroller, a massive trolley, and assorted bags.
Big sign: If a disabled person boards, this area must be cleared.
At the next stop: an electric wheelchair the size of a small car rolls in.
So, they clear the space – with some effort – to fit him in. Then come two more strollers, another trolley, shopping bags…
By the end, the bus holds three strollers with their chatty toddlers, one massive wheelchair, tons of luggage, and a chaotic jumble of humanity.
Anyone wanting to get off has to clamber over all of it.
What really impresses me: the calm, matter – of – fact way everyone handles it. Back home, there would’ve been blood by now.
Finally, I arrive – Minehead.
To set the tone, it’s slightly uphill from the stop to the hotel. One of those old – fashioned British seaside hotels – past its prime, a bit frayed around the edges.
But perfectly fine for one night.

After checking in and unpacking, I take a stroll through town, enjoy a beer, and then settle in for my last night in a real bed – for who knows how long.

 

 

April 29, 2025  Day 1 Minehead  –  Porlock Weir
The next morning, things get serious: I pack up all my stuff and hoist my heavy backpack onto my back. Last decent breakfast for ??? days.

It’s not far from the hotel to the starting point of the SWCP, so I can soon ask a passerby for a photo of me in front of the sculpture.

And then I’m off! First, I walk along the beach promenade for a while, then the first climb through a forest, which only occasionally offers a glimpse of the sea through the trees. This is where the retiree starts to work up a sweat. The first few steps don’t take long to reach, and although the first stage is described as easy and a warm – up for the trail, I’m already sweating profusely (especially since it’s quite warm on this first day).

 

Soon, I leave the forest, enjoy fantastic views of the sea to the right, and continue through open pastureland.

Shortly before the finish, there’s another steep descent into the valley, and then it’s another 2 km to the first campsite.

First day done! Once the tent has been „erected“ for the first time under real conditions, I head to the nearby pub: There, a few pictures go out and a few beers go in, and then Day 1 is finally over.

 

 

April 30, 2025  Day 2  Porlock Weir – Woodcamp
I’m up early and, after morning coffee, I pack up. This is still new and cumbersome and takes time, so I still get off late. I probably won’t be able to complete today’s route suggested in Paddy Dillon’s guidebook; due to a lack of alternatives, I’ll probably have to do some wild camping for the first time. (By the time he suggests a route of 37.4 km (from Braunton to Westward Ho!), I’ll declare good old Paddy insane and ignore his recommendations.)
Well, I set off in good spirits. First, I return to the path to Porlock Weir and then follow the acorn, the symbol of the SWCP.

At first, the path runs through open land, but soon it disappears into the forest. And it stays in the forest, and it stays in the forest. Past picturesque little waterfalls, over steep detours where landslides have swept away the original path. That’s not uncommon.

Here I first meet Julie and Ian, as they will introduce themselves later. They have a strange technique for hiking the path: They drive to the destinations and then walk halfway in each direction and back. This way, we meet more often. The two are very friendly and point out to me that they’ve only been through „woodland“ so far.
Later on the trail, I pass Culbone Church, a venerable ancient church and, according to the information, the smallest parish church in England. It’s completely enchanted and situated in the middle of the forest, more suited to Arthurian tales than the present.

Actually, I don’t mind hiking in the forest at all. It’s a fairly warm day, and the shade is certainly welcome. But as time passes, the need for a suitable spot for wild camping becomes more pressing. And it’s simply impossible to find one. Trees, trees, more trees, or dense bushes, or steep terrain!

Finally, I reach a strange structure: It’s a classic stone gatehouse for country estates, through which the path runs, standing completely alone, with no discernible connection to the area. Pitching my tent right next to the path, practically on display, is by no means a pleasant prospect. But in front of and next to this gatehouse is the only sufficiently open space to pitch my tent that I’ve seen so far. And going any further isn’t an option. I’m through, and there’s no end to the forest in sight. So, my wild camping activities begin with a grudging compromise. The ground is hard and rocky, the pegs are difficult to sink in sufficiently, and I have to secure some guy ropes to large stones.

Since there were few people on the trail during the day, at 7:30 p.m. no one comes by to disturb my restless first night. Contrary to expectations, I sleep well, get up early, and after a coffee, head for the stage destination.

 

May 1, 2025  Day 3  Woodcamp – Lynmouth
The path continues through woodland, it quickly warms up again, and my water supplies – not intended for two days – are dwindling alarmingly. Then the terrain finally clears, and the path soon becomes narrow and high again along the coast. Wonderful views of the sea, but you wouldn’t have been able to camp here either.
My tongue is now sticking to the roof of my mouth because I have to drastically limit my water consumption, and yet – will it be enough?
With these thoughts in mind, I turn another bend – and see a miracle!

There, in a wide curve, are a camping table and two chairs, with a large cooler on the table. I recognize this image from the numerous videos about the SWCP that I watched beforehand. It’s a so – called honesty box. These are placed by locals with a heart for hikers and filled with essential items. There’s water, soft drinks, sweets, bananas, and energy bars. The whole thing works on a trust basis: the person taking items out of the cooler places as much money as they deem appropriate into the enclosed money box. I’m completely overjoyed, drinking two ice – cold Fantas in a row – I’ve never enjoyed a drink more in months – and eating two bananas, my favorite „energy bars“ while hiking. Then I take some more supplies with me, pay generously into the box, and continue on my way, physically and morally strengthened.

Shortly afterward, I meet Julie and Ian again. A big „Hello“ and the not – so – welcome information that it’s about to get steep again before the relatively easy descent to Lynmouth. And that’s exactly what happens, but with the help of energy food and plenty of fluids, the climb is manageable, albeit, as always with that monster backpack on my back, very slowly. The last stretch of the path leads steeply, narrowly, and scree – covered down into the town.

Then I’m there, at Lynmouth harbor, and this stage ends here.

But I still have to go up to Lynton, at the top of the hill, where there’s a campsite.
Fortunately, in 1887, British engineers built the Cliff Railway between the two towns, a water – borne railway. Its two cabins move diagonally up and down the mountain in opposite directions, making passenger transport between Lynmouth and Lynton much easier. And even more so for tired hikers. I’m at the top in no time and then have to trudge for another 20 minutes until I finally arrive. The campsite is beautifully situated, the lady at the reception is very nice, and you can even buy cold beer!

There’s also a pub 100 meters away that has been converted into a Thai restaurant and is highly recommended. After setting up the tent and taking a long shower, we head there; the recommendation can be confirmed.
So, after all the hardship, this day finally comes to a relaxing end.
But before that, we spontaneously decide to take a rest day in this beautiful spot and recover from the slightly bumpy start to the adventure.

 

 

May 2, 2025  Day 4  Rest Day

After a quiet breakfast on the rest day, it’s time to take care of our clothes. Civilization with a washing machine and dryer is needed, and soon the retiree can dress presentably again. So, in the late morning, we head to the smaller town of Lynton, where we try a Cornish pasty for the first time, something we’d only known about theoretically. Delicious!

Then it’s back on the Cliff Railway, this time heading downhill. Lynmouth is larger and, as a classic seaside resort, naturally geared toward tourists. With the great weather, there’s quite a lot going on in the village, and free outdoor spaces are few and far between. But there’s no need for hikers either; apart from an ice cream to go – which is, of course, also overpriced – Lynmouth can’t make any money from me.

I then spend some time on the beautiful old quays by the sea; the weather is truly glorious, and finally, I set off on the not – so – far – distant walk home. I also do some necessary shopping along the way.

Back at the campsite, I update my current photos and start planning the rest of my trip. This evening, I cook myself a meal, using pasta from my emergency supplies, and at 10:00 p.m., the man lies in his sleeping bag, wishing everyone „good night.“

 

May 3, 2025  Day 5  Lynmouth – Sheepfold
According to Mr. Dillon, today’s destination is Combe Martin – let’s see. It’s Saturday, and so the path out of Lynnmouth is quite busy with walkers in the still glorious weather. It continues like this until the Valley of the Rocks, which is just around the corner, where a parking lot lets more people and dogs (of which there are quite a few here, by the way) out of their cars and into the countryside. After that, the crowds thin out, although some of the apparently very keen English still continue on the path.

The path then continues through a very English parkland, past the stately Lee Abbey.

Soon, however, the path leaves civilization again and winds its way back to the coast, initially flat, then increasingly into the popular ups and downs.

Today’s itinerary includes the highest elevation of the SWCP, the „Great Hangman.“ We’ll see where I end up on this tour.

But first, at some point, the descent down to Heddon’s Mouth begins. There in the valley, about 1 km off the trail, lies the Hunter’s Inn, an opportunity for the overheated hiker to enjoy a cool drink and refill the water supplies. But when the overheated hiker finally arrives in front of the Hunter’s Inn, instead of a cool drink, he finds only a sign reading: „Sorry, we’re closed until further notice.“ I won’t repeat the overheated hiker’s comments here, but it was pretty damned!
But since misfortune rarely comes alone, the subsequent climb out of the Heddon Valley turns out to be a real killer. Covered with loose boulders and scree and incredibly steep, this section of the trail is a true test of character and legs. Later, the ascent of the Great Hangman takes longer, but is considerably less challenging.

 

But I’m not supposed to get that far today. The 15 – kilo hump on my back, combined with the difficult terrain, results in such a snail’s pace that at 7 p.m. I’m still standing in the middle of nowhere, looking for a place to camp wild. Fortunately, after previously inaccessible terrain, I find one on a mountain pasture surrounded by sheep. They watch me calmly as I set up my tent; I’m probably not the first weirdo to show up here.
I choose a relatively flat spot next to one of the ubiquitous quarry stone walls, hoping it will provide shelter from the wind. It later turns out that I’ve practically built into a wind tunnel.
But for now, everything’s fine. After the tent is up and everything is in place, I have a pie for dinner and a sunset over the sea.

The average hiker tends to go to bed early, like with the chickens. What’s the big deal in the dark, anyway? Besides, it’s been a strenuous day. By the time I crawl into my sleeping bag, the wind has noticeably picked up, sweeping along the wall and over my tent. It gets increasingly fierce, the whole place shakes, and the tent walls flail wildly in and out.

But I’ve carefully guyed everything, and something gives me enough confidence or composure to fall asleep in the roar. And the tent does indeed stay upright.

 

May 4, 2025  Day 6  Sheepfold – Combe Martin
In the morning, the wind has died down a bit, but taking down and packing the tent still turns into a nerve – wracking battle with the element.
Then, with renewed courage, I continue, and this time even head straight for a while up on the cliffs, where the Great Hangman awaits. But first, I have to descend again – steeply, of course – and then I have the great hangman in front of me. Even though it’s the highest point on the SWCP, the climb is long and steep in places, but it’s not in the killer category. The summit is marked by a large pile of stones, and from here it’s mostly downhill to Combe Martin.

This is a small coastal town, and on this sunny Sunday, there’s quite a lot going on down at the harbor and beach.
I take time for a life – saving beer and discover that there’s a campsite nearby – bingo. I then drag myself and my massive gear there. Simple facilities, but everything’s there and the price is OK.

Set up, pack up, shower, do laundry – the usual hiking routine. Then a quick trip into town, a bit of shopping, and maybe my first fish and chips here in England. There’s quite a line in front of the fish and chips stand. Just before it’s my turn, they announce: „Fish is out.“ I could have scampi. For God’s sake, I’m starving, so I’ll just have sea worms (it’ll be a while before I get to my first fish and chips, by the way).
Then I carry my shopping home – sort of – fuss around a bit, and then get ready for bed. According to the hiking guidebook, tomorrow’s destination is Woolacombe – I’m a bit skeptical now.

 

 

May 5, 2025  Day 7  Combe Martin – Meadow Camp

It starts off quite well. A short climb from the harbor, and then the path winds fairly flat along the coastline, with ever – changing, great views of bays and beaches.

But nothing lasts forever; soon Julie and Ian come towards me again – „Hello!“ „Hello! Here we are again!“ and announce steep terrain ahead. So it’s up and down the stairs again, and not just once. The path then leads you to Ilfracombe – a lot going on there – with its striking sculpture in the harbor, and back out again.

Getting out isn’t all that easy, by the way; the „signage“ here is once again pretty lousy. This is what’s striking about the SWCP as a whole: Sometimes you come across a post, a sign, or a plaque with an acorn every 10 meters, and then again – even at critical points like intersections or junctions – there are no signs at all. Without the GPX data on my phone, I would have gotten lost several times.

After Ilfracombe, it’s uphill again (and down and up…). Woolacombe is still a distance away, and there are still some tough climbs to come along the way. So I admit defeat and start wild camping again. I even leave the path for a small village 1 km off and stop at the quaint pub there. Apart from a pint (very welcome), there’s no helpful answer to my question about a possible campsite. So I trudge back to the path and continue along it with my head down. It leads through Lee Bay and then up a very steep road before the path turns right into the meadows.

. After a few twists and turns, there are steps down again, and lo and behold: At the foot of these steps, a large, flat, grassy area spreads out before the panorama of the azure sea. This is my spot, a true dream!

Cheerful, indeed, quite inspired, I set up the hut and eat my dinner with a view of the setting sun over the sea. No wind, no sheep, nothing disturbs my peace here, and I spend a pleasant night on this wonderful piece of earth.

 

 

May 6, 2025  Day 8  Meadow Camp – Woolacombe
Now, off to Woolacombe, it’s all for nothing. The aforementioned inclines appear reliably, and I haul my self – imposed load uphill, panting and puffing.

I pass the Bull Point lighthouse and later a part of the coast where seals apparently hang out. The British are always excited about those creatures. Everyone points it out to you with great enthusiasm – even with glasses (which I never wear while hiking), from up here, I’d only see brown dots. But I obediently look in the direction pointed to and murmur appreciatively – that’s a necessary level of politeness.
Meanwhile, I’ve already come very close to my destination. On the outskirts of Woolacombe, I consult Google Maps and identify a holiday park not far from the town center. Just to be safe, I call there; some don’t accept campers. But that’s no problem there, so I trudge another 20 minutes to my evening accommodation.
It’s a truly large, full – on British holiday park with all the bells and whistles. Kids‘ entertainment, adult entertainment, a giant food court, its own swimming pool, a shop, of course, et cetera, et cetera. But I don’t care. The pitches are, like everywhere else, short grass – that’s it.

I meet a young German girl here whom I already met in Combe Martin. She actually wanted to walk the entire trail, but she’s overextended herself physically (and mentally) and now wants to make it to about Land’s End. But first, she’s taking the bus to the next destination tomorrow and has already booked a B&B there. That’s sensible.
I treat myself to a beer (regular) and a pizza (not so regular) in the giant food hall. I haven’t had much hot food in my stomach in the last few days. It tastes accordingly good.
Afterward, I’m in my sleeping bag early, as usual. My shift ends around 9:30 p.m., when it’s already getting dark, and I can get up accordingly early.

 

 

May 7, 2025  Day 9  Woolacombe – Croyde
Woolacombe has – for the first time on this coast – a sandy beach. Quite deep, quite wide, and the surfers have a blast here. All well and good, but the path runs partly along the beach and through the dunes, once again with virtually no signs. Tramping through the soft sand, especially under weight, is disgustingly exhausting, and not for the first time, I curse the sadists who laid out the path.

Eventually, you work your way out and up, slowly climbing to a cliff, over which you continue for quite a while on a pleasant, almost flat surface.

Later, it becomes a rocky path above the coast again. Today, my bones aren’t quite coherent. My right hip won’t shut up, and everything else feels heavy and unwilling, too. So, when a campsite appears after 10 kilometers directly to the left of the trail, I declare the day’s journey over without further ado, and before my inner laziness can say „squeak,“ I’ve already checked in and unbuckled my backpack.

The location right on the seafront, practically separated only by the path, makes the site worth the price: A pitch is supposed to cost £30, but the young man at the reception desk generously offers a backpacker discount, so I only have to shell out £20 – still on the upper end.
The tent is quickly pitched, showering and washing are routine, and soon I’m on my way to the supermarket around the corner for the necessary shopping.
The rest of the afternoon is wasted away. In the evening, I go to the seaside – again, a wide, deep sandy beach – and experience a spectacular sunset. It was practically half a day off.

 

 

May 8, 2025  Day 10  Croyde – Braunton

This is indeed a truly flat stage, without a single notable up or down (which is probably why Paddy Dillon included it in a completely absurd, over 37 km long route suggestion).
Well, I’ve „tailored“ the route to my liking, so today we’re supposed to reach Braunton. The path stays by the sea for a short time, then turns inland and later crosses a golf course. There’s a clear warning about flying golf balls. A slightly marshy area with medium – high trees follows – lots of blackthorn and hawthorn grow here – before a long stretch of wide gravel path leads through a heathland. To the right lies an endless dune landscape. Here in Braunton Burrows, probably the largest dune area in Great Britain, American soldiers trained for the invasion of France in 1944. Even today, this is still a training area for the British Army.

A flat stretch is pleasing to the legs, but often not particularly pleasing to the eye. This is no different here. After a few kilometers, the path turns left and leads another three kilometers inland along the estuary of the River Caen.

It’s a long walk, but eventually you reach Braunton at a roundabout and, to the delight of the thirsty hiker, find the Quay Cafe. Over a reviving-beer, you check the campsite location: there’s something two kilometers further on. So you pack up again and set off.

The lady at the reception is very nice, the site itself rather simple and – yes, somewhat unloving, even if that sounds strange. But campsites also have their characteristics – depending on the operators. You can sense whether they’re just there to make money or whether there’s some kind of „host mentality.“ But of course, the „core parameters“ count: hot showers, electricity, and drinking water. A small shop is certainly an upgrade. Anyway, it’s enough for one night, and we’ll continue the next day.

 

May 9, 2025  Day 11  Braunton – Instow
The path continues on the flat. It goes around the estuary of the River Taw, entirely on a paved path. This gets you moving, but it gets a bit monotonous in the long run. Along the way, I strike up a conversation with a cyclist who recommends a campsite just before the destination. That’s very helpful. I often strike up conversations with passersby, walkers, and other hikers. Many of them show a friendly interest. Sometimes just a quick word, good wishes for the route, sometimes inquiries about where we’re coming from and where we’re going. And occasionally, even tips and recommendations, as in this case.

It turns out that the campsite mentioned is one of the „good ones.“ Friendly welcome, excellent toilet facilities, good price, the whole complex rather small and intimate. Bingo!

Shopping is out of the question here; Instow is still a good three kilometers away. The hiker has to live off his supplies. This does mean a rather unusual breakfast (1 banana and 2 Babybels with coffee), but it’s no big deal.

 

May 10, 2025  Day 12  Instow – Westward Ho!
The three kilometers to Instow are quickly covered the next day on flat asphalt and in persistently good weather. The weather in general: Unbelievable how lucky the retiree is. Pure sunshine and the bluest sky since day 1 of the hike, plus a light breeze most of the time! St. Peter is still a good friend!In Instow, a decision is due: Will the hiker walk around the wide estuary of the River Torridge or board a ferry that will take him comfortably directly to Appledore on the opposite side?
The numbers 70 and 15 (age and backpack weight) answer the question and give the senior citizen plenty of leisure time until the tide – dependent ferry departs.
The time is used for a second breakfast in the form of a delicious Cornish pasty and later a relaxing beer (or was it two?) at the Quay Inn. We also check out the accommodation options at the day’s destination, Westward Ho!

That doesn’t look so great. Two nearby holiday parks are too proud to offer tent pitches, and the nearest campsite – another farm – isn’t really close.
Wild camping isn’t going to happen today, so the backpacker is looking for a B&B for the first time on this trip.
And one can indeed be found – at an outrageous price.
Westward Ho! – the exclamation mark is actually part of the name – is a somewhat larger coastal town and is obviously proud of the fact that Rudyard Kipling lived and worked there.
Anyway – at 3:45 p.m. we board the small ferry, which saves us several kilometers on foot in 15 minutes.

Appledore has a lively little harbor and a picturesque old town center. The hiker notices both as he passes by and quickly leaves the town for the final section of today’s stage.

Der Pfad führt dann hinaus auf eine von flachen Dünen durchzogene Landzunge und im weiten Dreiviertelkreis an deren Rand entlang. Wieder beschwerliches Laufen im Sand bei mäßiger Beschilderung.

The path then leads out onto a headland crisscrossed by flat dunes and continues in a wide three – quarter circle along its edge. Again, arduous walking in the sand with mediocre signage. This doesn’t exactly improve one’s mood, and when one finally reaches the quay at Westward Ho!, it turns out to be a classic British seaside resort fairground with lots of hustle and bustle and crowds of people. Great!
The app then tells me that I have another 30 minutes to walk to my accommodation, and a glance ahead reveals that most of the residential areas here are located on hills. Both are true, and I work up a good sweat in the „last few meters.“
Then I finally reach my destination. The landlords are out, and the door to my current residence is unlocked. It bears – how original – the name „Kipling.“
But – and this somewhat reconciles the accumulated adversities of the day – it contains a wide king – size bed, equipped with plenty of pillows and blankets. The rest of the amenities also leave nothing to be desired, and so the hiker decides to enjoy the expensive luxury and put the grumpy person on leave for the evening.

After extensive cleaning procedures of man and laundry, it’s time for dinner – pasty is always good and tastes good cold, too.
And then the luxurious bed is climbed – a very special experience after 11 days of sleeping in a bag on a sleeping mat. The night’s sleep is – how could it be otherwise – excellent, and the next morning a continental breakfast is enough to make the hiker optimistic about today’s stage.
Before tackling that, however, there is a small detour to the supermarket, where supplies need to be replenished.
After that, it’s back on the trail towards Clovelly. Will my backpack and I make it there today? We’ll see.

 

 

May 11, 2025  Day 13  Westward Ho! – Stroxworthy Farm

First, we walk along Westward Ho!’s seaside past numerous colorful beach huts and then out of town. At first, the path runs to the left of the sea again without any major inclines, later climbing up to green meadows at the height of the cliffs. And then up and down again.

And then, suddenly, it’s there: the rain! Sure, there had been a few clouds in the sky, you could even say it was overcast, not at all unwelcome, no sun for a change. But now, without much warning, it starts to pour. I hastily put down my backpack to dig out my poncho. It’s designed to cover both man and backpack and protect them from the rain. However, this slightly bulky fabric requires a special wrapping technique if you’re traveling alone. I’ve mastered this technique in the past, but haven’t refreshed it before this trip. Accordingly, I’m clumsily positioned and already half – soaked before a passing jogger pulls the rain cover over my backpack with a friendly flick of the wrist.
It’s only a brief shower, however, and I’m soon peeling myself out of this tent – like, sweat – inducing cover.
The bright red thing is rolled up and strapped under my backpack. Will it hold?
I continue on; the path becomes quite narrow and densely overgrown on both sides, with blackthorn, hawthorn, blackberries, and stinging nettles growing wildly.
Then it happens: On a three – step staircase, my hiking pole, which I’m using on the right side, suddenly hits the empty space next to the staircase, and man, backpack, and pole slide into the prickly and burning flora.

Which – fortunately – is quite dense at this point and prevents me from falling further. Disadvantage: The hiker, half – landed, beetle – like, can only extricate himself and his ton – heavy hunchback from the prickly surroundings and hoist it back onto the trail with great difficulty. Not to mention extensive nettle welts, numerous welts, and bloody scratches. But ultimately, apart from the shock, no major damage was caused, and now it turns out: the poncho’s fastening didn’t hold; the thing has come apart somewhere along the trail. After a tentative 20 – meter retracing proves fruitless, the hiker bids farewell to this already rather unwieldy/unusable item. Further retracing on this jungle – like, overgrown, arduous path is out of the question. So, after first aid treatment for the injuries, the backpack is reattached and the trail continues.
A glance at the watch and the current mileage (and the remaining climbs) suggests that I won’t make it to Clovelly today. Six kilometers ahead lies the hamlet of Bucks Mills. I’d have to find a place to camp there, as the path to it leads entirely through unsuitable woodland.
Indeed, there are still some steep ups and downs to come. The ups regularly provide breathtaking views and a racing heart, the downs aching knees and the hope of a flat section ; – ) .

So I work my way forward, bit by bit, and eventually I see the white of the first houses of Bucks Mill shimmering through the trees. As I finally descend there, it becomes clear that it’s actually just a handful of buildings, huddled together in a narrow valley. All the halfway flat areas seem to be in private use, no way to wild camp.
But it’s no use. Two ladies come strolling down the narrow road. I chat them up and ask if they have any ideas for a place to camp. Unfortunately, they don’t. A couple approaches from the other direction. Same procedure, same text. But they’re just here for a walk. „Sorry.“ They’re coming from a campsite 5 miles away. Do I want a lift? Of course I want a lift before I sleep standing up here leaning against a tree! So the two of them pack me into their van and take me with them.
Lucky me, that was close. A pleasant conversation ensues on the drive: where from, where to, etc. We then end up at a small farm campsite inland, where I can set up my hut and spend a peaceful night to round off this tiring day – but not without properly thanking my „benefactors.“

Then, in the middle of the night, a noise wakes me up – raindrops on the outer tent canvas! Oops – is my lucky streak about to break? If it rains – that’s for sure – it’ll be raining out, I won’t be swimming along this trail!
The idea of a possible weather – related interruption doesn’t particularly scare me, though, as I’ve already been thinking about it over the past few days. My journey was, as will have been obvious to everyone, significantly slower than planned and desired in advance. The constant, often steep ups and downs, often involving many steps – occasionally carried out at a height of up to 50 cm to save labor – combined with an (overly) heavy backpack, degenerates into miserable drudgery and limits progress to the proverbial snail’s pace. In this way, it would take the retiree approximately three months to hike the entire SWCP, if he didn’t collapse or throw himself off a cliff beforehand. None of these options appears promising in the long run, and so the plan was born to rename the project: Instead of „Hiking the Salt Path,“ it will now be „Hiking on the Salt Path.“ In this way, the undertaking is, so to speak, turned on its head: No longer a de facto unrealistic target defines the course of events, but the hiker’s actual possibilities (and desires) determine the further path and its outcome. Therefore, the thought of an additional, weather – related rest day doesn’t cause much excitement. But then, the day isn’t necessary. The rain stopped in the morning, and the tent is barely wet, so nothing stands in the way of continuing the hike. Nevertheless, the retiree will inform about the aforementioned change of course in the evening’s photo report.

 

 

May 12, 2025  Day 14  Stroxworthy Farm – Clovelly

First, however, the app leads him back to the SWCP. At the campsite in the morning, a veteran „nomad“ had a tip for a suitable campsite near yesterday’s destination, Clovelly. It’s six kilometers to get there. It would have been that far from Bucks Mill, too – albeit over hill and dale. Today, the journey there is entirely comfortable by road, through the British countryside and tranquil little villages along the country road.

Then he reaches „Roey’s Retreat,“ a campsite 2 kilometers from Clovelly. A large lawn, a spacious glamping tent, several covered seating areas, the usual facilities – but no one on site. At least I manage to reach Roey by phone. I can pitch my tent anywhere, and he’ll be over right away. All right. The hut’s barely up when Roey arrives. Apparently, he and his wife run the site part – time. He’s really nice, and there’s a very well – stocked little shop on an honesty basis; the man is trustworthy! The bathroom facilities are simple but adequate. There are nice little decorative items everywhere; there’s definitely a friendly, welcoming atmosphere here.

Jaana and Pekka arrive shortly after me. I met the Finnish couple at the campsite outside Instow. They’re doing the SWCP in stages, working their way against the „normal“ direction from south to north. They’re hampered by problems with Pekka’s Achilles tendon. Therefore, they’re currently practicing a combination of bus travel and hiking. They’ve rented the lavish glamping tent for today – for their 25th wedding anniversary – but will be using their own tent tomorrow.
After completing my routines, I head to Clovelly. This picturesque old village stretches from the top of the cliff down to a small harbor. The narrow streets are paved with large, dark cobbles and are so steep and narrow that, since time immemorial, loads have only been transported on sleds pulled by donkeys.

Of course, Clovelly is a tourist magnet, but now, at 5:00 PM, all the shops and restaurants are closed, and the place is correspondingly empty. In fact, the steep road back up from the harbor is no problem for me – without a backpack. I’m practically floating…
Back at the campsite, the Finns invite me for a beer, and we discuss their and my possible routes and best possible strategies. I then buy another round, and we sit together pleasantly until it gets dark. I have to leave on time tomorrow. Roey has offered to drive me down to the trail. That saves me 2.5 kilometers of walking with my pack, and he’ll be there at 8.

 

 

May 13  Day 15  Clovelly – Hartland Quay
He arrives at 8, and I’m ready with my Sisyphean hump. In five minutes, we’re down at a Coastpath signpost, whose distances are usually to be taken with a grain of salt. I politely thank him, strap on my backpack, and off we go.

First, a fairly moderate walk through a classic English parkland.

Before things get boring, however, we descend to sea level, only to immediately leave it again on a steep zigzag path uphill.

After two and a half rollercoaster sections, the path then stays at the same level and runs for a considerable distance over meadows and through several kissing gates along the edge of the cliffs. This is what the hiker likes.
At some point, the white ball of a radar station comes into view. That’s Hartland Point. There’s a lighthouse on the seaward side, and from there it’s not far to Hartland Quay, today’s destination. There’s also talk of a tea room there, which is said to offer exhausted hikers refreshment in a variety of culinary forms. Hopefully, if it’s open.

It takes a while before the radar station is circumnavigated and a first glimpse of the ground is possible. Hallelujah, the tea room is open, and the retiree’s steps quicken as if by themselves.
There’s a fat slice of cake, a Coke, and a pasty for the evening. Then it’s almost done!
Amidst this sugar euphoria, two women at the next table announce that, according to their information, the remaining four kilometers are supposed to be the worst of the entire stage. Yes, thank you very much!
But it’s no use, bad or not, I have to get there. So, bravely, I strap myself back on and off I go. At first, however, the path seems quite moderate. A little up, a little down, could the girls have been kidding me?
No, they weren’t. Unexpectedly, I find myself facing a steep descent with a view of a hundred and… steps back up again – nice to meet you! This repeats itself twice more, with the middle section actually having to climb about a meter and a half of rock face high above the sea before a path becomes visible again. For the first time on this path, I feel a little queasy, but I manage without falling and struggle along the still steep and narrow path to the summit. The final stretch is a long, steep, grassy hill, at the foot of which I treat myself to a break and a banana.

Once all these obstacles have been overcome, the path slowly leads back down to the sea, and I wait, increasingly impatiently, for the houses of Hartland Quay to come into view.
But they don’t. Because Hartland Quay is, as the name suggests, a quay. A quayside with a pub with an outdoor seating area – and nothing else!
God knows what led me to believe it was a place with shops and accommodations.
As I creep somewhat sheepishly slowly through the busy beer garden, I see the two girls from the tea room again, who, of course, finished the stage much faster. They say, „Hello, come sit down.“ And so I do. And get myself a pint; the rest will work itself out.
And it does. When I ask the landlord about camping options while getting my second beer, my problems suddenly disappear. „Camping? Sure, a mile up the road, right across from the church, you can’t miss it!“
The beer tastes twice as good, and we hang out for a while with two Belgians who are also hiking the trail and have booked into the pub for the night.
Then the girls are picked up. They’ve booked accommodation inland with a pick – up and drop – off service, and I set off on the last stretch of today’s journey.
It’s impossible to miss it; the church is visible from afar, and only a single road leads toward Stoke Barton, as the town with the campsite is called.
It’s another farm campsite. The farmer isn’t there at the moment; there’s a sign telling us to spread out, he’ll be there eventually. There’s a map for orientation, and so the campsite is quickly identified and the tent set up just as quickly.

Showers, washing – the usual. There’s plenty of food and drink in stock, so dinner is served in a large, comfortably furnished common room, which also has a freezer and places to charge electronics. I’m the only one in the place, and overall, I don’t see many vacationers/tourists this time of year. That’s fine with me.
Since the next stage is considered the most difficult of the entire SWCP, I will firstly split it and secondly allow myself a rest day before starting. That means I’ll spend tomorrow here, head to the village of Hartland, 2.5 kilometers away, do some shopping there, and otherwise relax my feet and mind.
But first, it’s time to relax in bed, or rather, in my sleeping bag, and tomorrow morning it’s time to sleep in!

 

 

May 14, 2025  Day 16  Rest Day

It’s not really possible to sleep in anymore – going to bed early and waking up early has become a routine – but lying lazily in my sleeping bag and letting my thoughts wander is still a good thing.
Then I’ll have my first coffee and breakfast in peace before, after my morning toilet, it’s time to do the laundry. The hiker had already spotted some massive, trustworthy washing and drying machines the day before. Almost all of the clothing I’ve brought with me is fed to them, leaving only shorts, a T – shirt, and a rain jacket for the retiree’s minimally decent cover – up. But in the absence of any kind of publicity, that doesn’t matter, and the sheep next door clearly don’t care either.

Then the stay – at – home part is done, and in spotlessly clean clothes, I head towards Hartland. The weather is still as undaunted as it is incredibly – and un – English – brightly beautiful; the way into the nearby town turns into a walk. There’s an above – average range of shopping options, with two stores to choose from! First, a classic corner shop, the kind that have virtually disappeared here but are still flourishing, and then the Post Office, which is another corner shop with a post office corner. I take a leisurely look at both and then buy something in both. This stems more from a sense of fairness than genuine price consciousness.

I then eat one of the pies I bought on a bench in front of the church. The war memorial next door stands in full regalia of poppies, and the village hall opposite is also still decorated with Union Jacks and St. George’s flags. May 8th was the 80th VE Day (Victory in Europe), and that still holds considerable significance here.

Hartland doesn’t have any other sights to offer – the two pubs don’t open until late afternoon – so I head back to the farm.
After putting the relevant parts of my shopping in the refrigerator, I decide to take a look at the local St. Nectan’s Church, which towers quite impressively into the sky. No wonder – as I later learn, its steeple is the tallest in all of Devon. What remains astonishing, however, is the size of this place of worship – also known as the „Cathedral of North Devon“ – for such small communities as Hartland and Stoke Barton.

The patron saint was probably a local hermit in the 5th century. When he tried to convert the thieves who had stolen his two cows to Christianity, one of them unceremoniously beheaded him. The hermit is said to have then picked up the head and placed it on a large stone in front of his hut. Thus, he had conveniently already performed the miracle necessary for his canonization.

I eat dinner again in the common room; seating is a rare luxury for backpackers. Then, indeed, another human being appears: an old Englishman. We get chatting. He is apparently originally from the area and used to vacation at this campsite often with his now deceased wife. Now, he visits once a year for a few days, as if in remembrance of his wife. Furthermore, he is clearly interested in a wide range of interests and has traveled extensively; he has a sarcastic and humorous view of his fellow countrymen and Great Britain. It turns out to be an interesting conversation, and I stay longer than originally planned, as tomorrow marks part 1 of the dreaded stage 9 of the SWCP. Then I stumble in the dark to my overnight camp – no teeth brushing today – and crawl into my sleeping bag (which, incidentally, has long since proven to be a mere hut sleeping bag, far too thin for the sometimes still chilly nights, so I have to sleep in my clothes and sometimes still shiver).

 

 

May 15, 2025  Day 17  Hartland Quay – Morwenstow
Now for the killer stage! The entire route consists of nine steep to very steep climbs and descents, spaced at varying intervals, which I can’t manage with my „load.“ So, the route is split. About halfway through, after the first five valleys, one kilometer off the trail lies Morwenstow. There’s the Bush Inn, well – known among hikers, with an interesting offer: You can pitch your tent in their garden if you eat there in the evening. That sounds like a clear win – win – win situation to me – two wins for me (camping and eating), one win for them. But first, I have to get there.
I’m already on the road quite early. At the expected pace, I’ll probably be hooted off the trail again by impatient snails, and I don’t want to arrive in the dark.
After a cautious start – the SWCP likes to do that – the first elevation changes/switches to panting mode reliably occur. And then again, and then again, and then again…

But since the weather remains brilliantly beautiful, but doesn’t get too warm, the hard work is manageable in the end, with countless breaks and pauses, of course.

In between, I pass a small stone hut halfway up a cliff. The writer Ronald Duncan built it in the 1960s and probably climbed there every day to work. The location and the view of the coast and sea are certainly spectacular. Immediately afterward, at the foot of another climb, we leave Devon and cross the border to Cornwall/Kernow.

Up and down goes on in Cornwall.

And then it’s there, at the top of Vicarage Cliff, the turnoff to Morwenstow.
Now just a good kilometer more – on a flat path – and the first half of this monster stage would be complete. On the way, I get chatting with a charming, super – British older lady, and finally I arrive at the Bush Inn, and I can already see the pint with my name on it in my mind.
Once I arrive, everything goes as planned, hoped, and promised: The friendly landlady shows me the spot where I can pitch my tent, reserves me a table for the evening, and the pint with my name on it arrives.
Only then is the tent set up. Besides me, there’s only one other backpacker there, whom I had also seen the day before in Stoke Barton.
All in all, it didn’t take that long today. It’s only 5:00 p.m., so I can relax in the beer garden with another cold drink, send the day’s photos on their way, and think about the next day.
My table is reserved for 8:00 p.m., and I finally choose the fish I’ve been missing until now from the menu – with chips, of course. Of course, not ordinary fish and chips, but haddock breaded in beer sauce and so on. A truly magnificent specimen arrives, and for the first time since my stay here, I eat really well and in abundance.

On this basis, the evening ends feeling full and satisfied, and a pleasant night’s sleep follows.

 

 

May 16, 2025  Day 18  Morwenstow – Bude
The next morning, I get chatting with my tent neighbor. Last time, he was well ahead of me, but today he ordered breakfast at the inn, and it’s not served before 8:00 a.m. He turns out to be a nice Londoner who has been hiking the trail for a week. Tomorrow, he’ll be driving home from the end of today’s stage. We exchange a bit about our hiking experiences. Then I pack up my stuff and say goodbye to him and the Bush Inn.

Back at the SWCP, a sign comes into view after a short while: HAWKERS HUT.
I read about it in the guidebook: Robert Stephen Hawker was vicar of Morwenstow parish from 1834 until his death in 1875. He built this small hut out of driftwood below the cliff edge. He is said to have often sat there, smoked morphine, and written. Apparently a somewhat eccentric figure in a burgundy frock coat, blue sweater, yellow poncho, and high fishing boots, he is said to have excommunicated his cat for mousing on Sundays and to have had a pet pig. His works certainly don’t seem to have been unknown to the public at the time.

When Hawker arrived in Morwenstow, there hadn’t been a priest there for over 100 years. Smugglers and beachcombers populated the area, and the local beachcombers were notorious for watching shipwrecked sailors drown without lifting a hand to rescue them. Hawker then at least ensured Christian burials for the drowned, who had previously often been buried on the beach or left to die at sea. Furthermore, the vicar increasingly committed himself to rescuing men in distress at sea and gradually put an end to the worst excesses of beachcombing. So we won’t begrudge him his pipes in the hut.
After this brief excursion into local history, it’s back to the harsh reality: four of nine valleys and heights still have to be conquered, and they are in no way inferior to their predecessors, neither in terms of breathtaking views nor in the sometimes terrifying ascents and descents.
The barometer – just for the sake of form – remains fixed at „High.“ So, the conditions are still optimal for lugging heavy loads up many steps and up steep climbs.

It’s not long before unusual silhouettes appear on the horizon. As I get closer, I notice: large space telescopes and white radar balloons are spread out over a vast area near the cliffs. „The Big Ear“ immediately springs to mind. What could it be listening for?

When I finally pass the facility, it’s actually not that far to the day’s destination, Bude. At some point, I make a final descent, and then I’m standing on the beach, lined with summery, colorful beach huts of all colors.

A little further on, I find a nice spot – „life is a wave“ – where I buy a welcome beer, overpriced for the location. While enjoying it, I do the usual campsite check: Yes, I find one not far from the town center – very nice!
Then it’s another twenty minutes to the campsite, with a nice pub and a large beer garden around the corner – promising prospects. The site itself turns out to be rather disappointing: There’s the bare minimum of hot showers, toilets, and basic dishwashing facilities, but the electricity is the last straw. There’s no electricity, and charging electronic travel companions is only available to the lucky ones with their own power bank – assuming it still has any power. In this case, that includes the retiree: Despite its considerable weight, he’s brought a model with solar cells, which is paying off – not for the first time.

Once the tent is set up, after laundry and personal care, it’s time to do some shopping. It’s already 7:30 a.m., and the COOP we found online closes at 8, so we’re starting to get a little worked up.
Bude is a small, but quite nice town in the center, with a few quaint pubs and the usual small shops and restaurants. It’s Friday evening, and the British weekend is just getting started. The pubs with their beer gardens are busy, and the town’s youth are displaying their usual courting and showmanship in the usual places.
It’s not far to the Coop, and the usual supplies go into the shopping basket: bananas as a quick – acting and non – stressful energy booster, Babybel and Bifis for snacks, sandwiches and instant coffee and milk sachets (breakfast), pasties (dinner), and – today’s pub visit was canceled – a four – pack of beer. All of this is then carried back to the campsite at a more relaxed pace, where some of it is used immediately. Then the exertion of the past two days takes its toll, and an early night’s rest is called.

 

 

May 17, 2025  Day 19  Bude – Crackington Haven

It was certainly irrational, not to say stupid, but somehow I had assumed that after the „killer“ stage 9, a little peace and quiet would return in the sense of – well, less elevation gain, a bit of flat land. That’s exactly how it is: Stage 9: 1134 meters of elevation gain, Stage 10: 701 meters of elevation gain. But since these 701 meters of elevation gain are spread over only 3.5 ups and downs, the frustrated hiker can once again expect „tough“ ascents and descents, as the guidebook puts it with barely concealed glee.
Departing from Bude, you cross the Bude Canal in the harbor and then climb to the first cliff.

From green meadows high above the sea, you soon descend back into the valley, through a hamlet, and then follow a steeply ascending road for a while. At the top, the path turns right into the bushes and takes on a jungle feel again for a while. After this clears, the trail crosses the next meadow, descends slightly, and then, for a change, plunges into a fairytale forest. This is quickly traversed, however, so that the next steeply ascending pasture can be tackled. For a breather, we hike on a fairly flat surface for a while at the top before the inevitable next descent opens up. Halfway up, a woman approaches me and readily informs me that this is not the last, nor the penultimate, uphill and downhill stage to Crackington Haven. Ah yes!

Now it gets truly spectacular: The path runs narrowly along a cliff ridge that is also not wide, straight towards the sea, before finally making a sharp left turn high above the sea and then winding its way down the slope in a steep (as usual) zigzag course.

After another steep climb up to a meadow with plenty of cows, this is the last cliff to be tackled, and below, at a sandy cove, you can see a few houses: Crackington Haven.
The fact that there’s a pub there (the second part of the above information) somehow speeds up the descent, and soon I’m standing in front of the Coombe Barton Inn, classically located on the quay with a large beer garden. It’s Saturday evening, and the bear is just putting on his tap shoes. Inside, a live band is setting up their equipment.
Over the end – of – stage beer, I ponder how the evening will unfold. There are no official camping facilities here, there are no rooms available in the pub, and the friendly waitress has no idea where one could camp. „A little way up the path, perhaps?“
Since it’s already quite late, „perhaps“ isn’t a particularly reassuring prospect. Nevertheless, after a beer and a small snack, I strap on my mobile home again and leave the village towards Boscastle.

Then, just beyond the edge of the village, right next to the SWCP, is the local tennis club’s court. And next to it, a little off the path, is a beautiful green, flat grassy area! No houses around, no animals, bingo! This is it, my wild camping spot for the night!

The mobile home is pulled up and set up quickly and routinely, then it’s time for a relaxed dinner and even a beer, which has found its way over hill and dale to this cozy spot. And as the icing on the cake, there’s a postcard – perfect sunset right outside the tent/front door.

 

 

May 18, 2025  Day 20  Crackington Haven to Boscastle

Let’s get it straight: With 850 meters of elevation gain, it won’t be a boring day. High Cliff, Cornwall’s highest cliff, will take me to 223 m above sea level on this stage.

I’ll get lost once and then (thanks to the GPX data on my phone) fight my way back to the path through gorse and scrub. I’ll meet friendly locals and fellow hikers, an inquisitive pony, Bavarian cows, and wild goats.

I’ll take a shortcut and still end up standing in front of the 200 steps that conclude the stage, leading to the top of Boscastle. And to top it all off, I won’t even make it to Boscastle today. Because after the aforementioned 200 steps (not figuratively, really 200), you soon pass a farm that, in addition to a farm shop, also operates a farm café that this jaded retiree can’t resist. There you’ll find the most magnificent cakes, tarts, and pies. A raspberry and cream concoction wins the vote and is inhaled, quite unstylishly, with a cold Coke outside in the sun. Having already settled the question of today’s accommodation the evening before – a farm campsite not far from Boscastle – we now take a closer look. And lo and behold, the opulent farm café is located right on the country road leading to the farm, and from here, we’re already halfway there. So, after consuming this delicious sugar fix, I naturally don’t return to the path, but take the country road under my dusty hiking boots and reach my destination after just under a mile. A „working farm“ with camping as a sideline, like most farm campsites. There’s still not much going on here either; apart from me, there are only two or three campervans in the entire field. Very nice new facilities, a friendly farmer’s wife who checked me in, a great price (10 £), and the farmhand got me an adapter for charging my devices at one of the RV electrical outlets. All good!
The tent is now quickly set up and packed away, and after showering and washing, I head off to Boscastle after all. I’d like to do a bit of shopping, especially since I’ve decided to take a rest day tomorrow.
There’s one of those classic corner shops there, which these days still tend to belong to some kind of chain. Directly across the street is the Cobweb Inn, one of the two village pubs. There’s live music there, too; an old – time rocker is performing a ton of old hits as a one – man show. The atmosphere is good, and so is the beer.

While I’m back at the campsite enjoying a relaxed dinner, I’m thinking about the immediate future. How and for how long will I be able to continue with my backpack and the SWCP?
For a long time, my bones, especially my knees – bearing most of the stress – have endured all the strain without complaint. The bandage on the left and the Mueller band on the right have obviously served as good support. But for the past two days, my right knee has been bothering me. Not severely and not constantly, but noticeable. And while my right hip/iliotibial band needed the support of my walking stick from the very beginning, the left side is now also making itself felt during particularly strenuous sections. In short, while my muscles have obviously adapted to the significantly increased demands and my feet are also „playing along“ without complaint, my skeletal system seems increasingly less tolerant of the constant additional load of 15 kilos, especially with constant ascents and descents. And without a doubt, the constantly high physical strain combined with extremely slow progress also leads to a certain mental fatigue.
Considering all of these things, I want to use tomorrow’s rest day as a time to reflect („No decisions while climbing!“) before deciding on my next course of action. Otherwise, I’ll give my old white man body some rest and put my feet up.

 

May 19, 2025  Day 21  Rest Day
In the absence of any seating – the better campsites sometimes set up some of those classic bench – table combinations for the „wooden class“ (tent dwellers) – I spread out my sleeping bag on the lawn in front of the tent and basically lounge around on it all day. In between, I take a walk to the farm shop; I couldn’t find any pasties at the SPAR in Boscastle. Unfortunately, they’re now out of stock here too, so I leave the store with only a sausage roll, bread, and a Camembert.
Back on my sleeping bag, I spend a lot of time thinking about the next stages of the SWCP. I study their characteristics and the suggested route lengths, consider intermediate stops, and check accommodation and camping options. Reviewing and weighing all the circumstances, sensitivities, and ifs and buts, I ultimately come to the conclusion that the SWCP venture should now be brought to a temporary end. In plain English: There’s still hiking to be done this week, then it’s time to call it a day. The decision will be communicated to interested viewers along with the day’s pictures.
When I then start planning my return trip in detail, it quickly becomes clear: Starting Friday, the Flixbus rides will be significantly more expensive, without being any faster or better coordinated. The departure point is in Newquay, so you have to take the local bus first. If I add a possible, somewhat realistic hiking plan beyond Thursday to that, it doesn’t add up at all.
So, another way: The next stop is Tintagel. I’ve managed to get a bed in a backpacker hostel there. I’ll stay there for two days. Because the following leg to Port Isaac a) is again tough and b) there’s once again no campsite in the „famous“ town (which has often served as a film set), I’ll walk to Port Isaac on Wednesday without a backpack and take a taxi back to Tintagel from there. On Thursday morning, I’ll take the local bus to Newquay, and from there, at 2:15 p.m., the Flixbus to London, Paris and Düsseldorf. Decided and announced!
Now that the decision has been made and everything is in place – the hostel and green bus booked, local bus connections sorted and wife and the other interested spectators updated – the retiree stretches out on his sleeping bag and leans his face in the sun.

The most exciting part of the rest of the day is a procession of the local sheep herd. In the past, the shepherds swung their sticks; today they sit on quads and honk their horns…

 

 

 

May 20, 2025  Day 22  Boscastle – Tintagel
Last night in the tent. The weather is unwavering and in bright sunshine, I head back to Boscastle in the morning, back on the trail. Through a charming little town center, the hiker comes to the tiny harbor with a very narrow entrance, where a café and the local youth hostel are housed in two picturesque old buildings.

From there, I climb again – what else? – and soon I’m high enough for beautiful views of the harbor, the town, and the coast to the right and left. During a breather, I get chatting with a friendly dog walker. He moved here with his family and raves about the area, without being blind to the disadvantages of country life. He also hikes the trail, in stages with his daughter, and knows the challenges. Therefore, they have their luggage transported – what a luxury.
Then it’s on. The ascents and descents initially remain moderate, with much of the trail crossing meadows and sparse undergrowth.

Then I reach an archaic crossing over one of the typical quarry stone walls made of zigzag layers of quarried slate. This original crossing is featured in every one of the numerous videos about the SWCP that can be found online.

Continuing on to Tintagel, there’s another cyclopean – looking „kissing gate“ structure, before the Rocky Valley begins its serious descent and ascent.

That’s it for this stage, though; the rest of the trail leads fairly flat to the nearby „Arthurian town“ of Tintagel. The path bypasses the town and instead winds past the ruins of Tintagel Castle. So I leave it and head straight into the town. It’s not big, and I quickly find „Dolphins Backpackers.“

Check – in starts at 4:00 PM. It’s now 2:30 PM, but a friendly resident comes along, and I can leave my backpack inside. The „check – in“ person is also there at 3:00 PM, and then I can stretch out to my heart’s content in the cozy 10 – bed dorm, as I’m the only guest here today. May as a travel season definitely has its advantages. The accommodation reminds me of the albergues on the Camino. I don’t have a problem with dorms like that.

The hostel itself feels less like a professional lodging establishment than a shared apartment from the 1980s. Housed in a winding two – story building with numerous extensions and a winter garden surrounding a leafy courtyard, it’s also the permanent home of several residents, all of whom seem pretty chilled and a bit quirky. „Good“ music plays (= suitable for old white men) and it’s truly like a trip back in time; I feel noticeably rejuvenated and completely at home.

Today, I can get to the shops faster, as I don’t have to set up a tent. As I said, Tintagel is small, with SPAR around the corner. Otherwise, the place is, of course, full of tourists and an esoteric metropolis. Arthur and the Round Table stories are THE business model here.

Later, as I’m lounging on one of the numerous sofas in the communal conservatory with a beer, other guests arrive. A biker with his girlfriend; it’s obviously not their first time here.
Marcus, as he later introduces himself, 100% fits the stereotype of a rocker: quite a tough guy, pirate headscarf, military gear, combat boots, loud and quick a can of beer in his hand.
Beer and beer go well together, and we get chatting. It turns out that he’s a veteran of the British Armed Forces – a month older than me. He served in the Royal Navy, including Afghanistan, where they shot off a few of his fingertips and put some impressive holes in his stomach. He talks a lot and likes to talk, but seems to have his heart more or less in the right place. His girlfriend Nell is the complete opposite, a small, slim woman who speaks little. We spend a boozy evening with more good music, and I even smoke a cigarette late at night, for old times‘ sake ; – ) .

The first night in a bed for – I don’t know how long – naturally brings a wonderful sleep, which is, however, rudely interrupted around 5 a.m. by the drumming of rain on the roof. This change in the weather isn’t entirely unexpected, or unforeseen, but I had expected a mild drizzle and had stuck to my hiking plan for today. In light of this veritable downpour, however, that plan is canceled without replacement. Firstly, the wet and slippery path is at least more difficult than it already is, even manifestly dangerous, and secondly, I didn’t hike for 3.5 weeks in brilliant sunshine just to swim to my destination on the last day. Without much regret, I turn over in my warm bed after this decision and fall back asleep.

 

 

May 21, 2025  Day 23  Rest Day

My latest change of plans leaves me enough time to sleep in as long as possible and then have a leisurely breakfast in the shared kitchen.
Afterward, I fine – tune my return journey, look for the bus stop (only 150 meters away) and check the connections. I’ll have to change buses twice to get to Newquay, with sometimes very little time between bus changes. Then we’ll just hope the local public transport is on time.
Gradually, some of the permanent residents show up. One of them wants to know if I’ve seen the local parish church, St. Materiana. When I say no, he strongly recommends I visit.
Since the weather has completely „recovered“ by midday and a blue sky is once again stretching over Cornwall, I take up the recommendation – at least for a bit of exercise today – and set off.
St. Materiana lies outside Tintagel on the cliff, its Union Jack – adorned tower is visible from afar. It’s not far; a footpath through meadows and then a short stretch on asphalt brings me to the church in the middle of an extensive cemetery. A church site for 1400 years, the current building is venerable, and inside, you can feel the breath of the centuries.

If you walk a short distance along the edge of the cliff, Castle Island comes into view. A modern footbridge connects it to the mainland, at the island end of which rise the ruins of Tintagel Castle. Destroyed since the 17th century, this is said to be the birthplace of the legendary King Arthur and enjoys corresponding tourist interest. However, a distant view is enough for the retiree before he leisurely makes his way back to his „shared apartment“.

On the way, he stops at the SPAR supermarket; he needs suitable provisions and drinks for tomorrow’s 32-hour drive home.
The evening then passes much more quietly and less boozily than the previous one. Even though the bus doesn’t leave until 10:27 tomorrow, I still want to be out of bed and on my feet in time to avoid any hint of stress.

 

 

May 22, 2025  Day 24  Tintagel – Düsseldorf

I manage to do just that, too. Two hours early, I’m sitting in the kitchen, booted and spurred, for one last breakfast on Cornish soil. We chat a bit – Marcus and Nell also slept in the dorm last night because of the weather – and then it’s time. Backpack on, hiking stick in hand, a friendly „Farewell, take care!“ from everyone, and the journey home begins.

The first bus, number 95, is only three minutes late, but there’s only nine minutes to change to the 94 in Wadebridge. At some point, I approach the driver and ask if the connecting bus might wait. The friendly reply tells me not to worry. In Wadebridge, the 95 would become the 94, so I wouldn’t even need to change. What good news!
There’s half an hour for the subsequent bus change, so I’m completely relaxed. Then, in fact, the journey continues to Newquay, where the Flixbus isn’t due to depart for another hour.
Newquay is Cornwall’s party capital and notorious for its stag and hen parties. It looks like that; „Little Ballermann“ would also be a fitting name.
The Flixbus is also a few minutes late. But with their transfer times, all four wheels would have to fall off to seriously stress the passengers.
And then the 32 – hour return journey begins, with a six – hour layover in Paris alone. But the bus is modern with plenty of legroom, Wi – Fi, air conditioning, and a working toilet. The journey to London will take eight hours. First, it heads north via Exeter and Taunton to Bristol, before turning west via Reading to London. We arrive there on time at 10:15 PM, and the journey is scheduled to continue at 11:59 PM. It’s meant to be. Around 11:00 PM, my cell phone beeps with a message from Flixbus: Unfortunately, the departure will be delayed by 61 minutes. Bingo! Half an hour later, the next act: Instead of Quay 17, the bus now departs from Quay 7. „Please follow my colleague.“ And the stove begins to move. Real joy is slowly building.
What can I say? In the end, we leave Victoria Coach Station at 1:35 AM, on a bus operated by a Flixbus subcontractor, which is showing its age, has a broken toilet, and a driver who acts like a gravedigger.
At least the French customs in Dover saves us the hassle of the outbound journey and only conducts a passport check. We then doze off the crossing in the lounge.

At 11:10 AM, we finally arrive in Paris.
Contrary to my expectations, the huge long – distance bus shelter is not on the outskirts of the city, but rather centrally located near the pretty Parc de Bercy.

The delay in London saves me an hour of waiting here. Leaving the bus station, I’m unpleasantly struck by the rather cool temperature there; yesterday in England it was 25 degrees. I while away the time in the park for a while, then explore the surrounding area a bit. I come across a typical French bistro that looks good. It is; the croqu’elle and café creme are excellent, although the Parisian prices aren’t quite as good.

Afterwards, I find a spot in the sun next to a pretty antique carousel and strike up a little chat with a tall black Frenchman. Time passes quickly, and soon I see that the departure point for my next bus has been set; I pack up again and head there. This time it’s a double – decker, and I have a seat upstairs. This bus, with the final destination of Copenhagen, is fortunately another Flix original and fairly new, so everything’s fine.
It’s another eight hours to get home. The weather is sunny, but the landscape of northern France is still pretty dull, not to mention Belgium. So there are more or less successful attempts to sleep/doze, followed by a refueling/smoking/leg – resting break at the German border. Later, there are stops at Cologne Airport and Leverkusen Station before the big double-decker bus finally turns into the entrance to Düsseldorf’s central bus station.

And with that, this remarkable journey comes full circle. Just as the wife said goodbye to the retiree at this very place four weeks earlier, she now welcomes him back here, and long after midnight, this journey finally comes to an end.

And, have I learned anything from this trip? Well, I now think, for example, that backpacking as a form of travel is probably better suited to an age group in which physical fitness is still combined with enthusiasm and a certain carefree attitude. Accepting rather spartan travel conditions shouldn’t be a problem either, as this is the only way to keep the weight of the backpack within (tolerable) limits.

I also learned that ignoring the above has consequences  😉  .

And last but not least, the world won’t end if you overestimate yourself…

… but a certain amount of caution when adding salt isn’t a bad idea either 🙂.