Walking Cliffs & Coves

It has been raining still raining, and it's been a psychological and logistical challenge.  Even on mornings when it's not raining, the dew is so heavy that my tent is soaked and is still wet when crammed into its stuff sacks. If there's a good sunbreak later in the day I take everything out to dry, making my pack lighter for the rest of the day.  Unless it starts raining again. I have a waterproof pack cover, but it doesn't keep rainwater from going down the back of my neck. Most of it works its way down my legs and into my socks through Butt Crack Creek, but some finds refuge in my pack, redampening my tent and clothes and sleeping bag. And making everything heavy again. For Pete's sake. I can tell you that sleeping in a damp bag inside a wet tent is just a little less enjoyable than you might imagine it would be. So I've been spending some nights indoors. Rooms in the coastal villages, if you can get them at all, are quaint and cute, or posh and upscale. But ...

 I went nowhere today and am feeling a bit guilty about it. One of the things I learned hiking the PCT, was how important zero days are for the long haul. You know, those occasional days you take off trail going nowhere, washing and drying your gear, resting your knees.  My gear and my knees are thanking me, but I'm feeling restless. It will take me 20 more days to finish this trail if I follow the Southwest Coastal Path recommended schedule.  My flight reservation has me boarding a Boeing 777 for home in 20 days.  I can't fritter. I think I'll make it, though. The path's terrain seems to be getting more refined and less ridiculously rugged as it works it's way along the ocean back towards London.  A bit smoother, a bit wider, and crossing fewer unnecessary contour lines. There's been less need to leave the main trail and travel inland to save my feet, but I do it anyway once in a while so I can visit cows.  I escorted a retired fisherman through a herd tha...

I've been here a month now, and have been rained on each and every day. Sometimes it drizzles, and sometimes it pours between sunbreaks. There's usually sunbreaks, some days not but one thing there always is is wind. Breezy or blustery, the wind is. It's been nearly gale force the last few days, and I can hear it whistling and howling through the masts and riggings of the boats outside my hotel window in the Penzance harbor. If it's not raining. When there's water in the wind, all I can hear is pelting on the window panes. No matter, I just turn up the TV's volume. The forecast is for improvement next week, so I'll be off again onto the trail. It's forecasted that I'll still get rained on sporadically every day still, but that's ok as I've grown accustomed to it. The locals call it "proper weather". And really, I don't know what they mean. Last week I rounded the bend of the westernmost tip of England when the trail took me thro...

Well guess what? Poole has been experiencing a seven-week scorching stretch of a heat wave- until we showed up. It rained, hard. Some of the locals, who had been concerned about their gardens, thanked us. They are welcome.  So back on the busses and trains, this time to the Cotswolds and the home of Diddly Squat farm and its irrascible and sometimes cringey owner, Jeremy Clarkson. It turned out that there's a public pathway leading right through the farm, starting in a barley field, threading it's way between Jeremy's house and cattle barn, and then following his long driveway back out to the road. Matthew recognized his custom Land Rover and told me that Jeremy must be home. Later the fact was confirmed when I met one of his family, a charming and caring girl of about 20. I was sitting on some pallets next to their gift shop after hours ( a  couple miles from the farm) when she and her boyfriend dropped by for some artisan bread for their dinner. She was worried that I was...