Day 4 & 5: Fear, Friendship, and the Edge of the World (Lynmouth to Coombe Martin)

Today, I woke feeling well-rested and ready to take on the next phase of the South West Coast Path. According to Paddy Dillon’s guidebook, my next stop would be Combe Martin. That said—no offence, Paddy—but your six-hour Porlock Weir to Lynmouth estimate might be spot-on for a fit walker without a pack that weighs a ton. For the rest of us mere mortals, it’s a bit more of an ordeal.

As I left my accommodation, I snapped a quick photo outside. A man and woman nearby were adjusting their backpacks. “Which direction is it?” the man asked.“ I don’t know,” she replied, “whichever way this man is walking.” I laughed. “Don’t follow me—I’ve already made plenty of mistakes!”

We chatted briefly. They, too, had arrived in Lynmouth the day before, also from Porlock Weir—but had taken a few wrong turns and only just made it before nightfall. With the land train no longer running, they’d climbed the 500ft zig-zag ascent up to the same hotel. We talked about the coastal diversions so far on the walk. I mentioned that the coast path dropped down to the land train but eventually zig-zagged back up—but there was also a higher path from where we were, same route, just higher up.

The weather was stunning. The sea shimmered in deep blue, the sun was warm on my skin, and as I set off, I came across a series of laminated poems along the path celebrating the beauty of Lynmouth. One stood out:

This is the place where dolphins dance

Cliffs frown

Goats peer

And seagulls swoop

Where trees form fans

Over shadowy paths

Cormorants crouch

And small boats chug

And here I could stay

With the sun on my back

Where the ferns flutter

Till the night falls

And the constellations come alive

— Pam Brighton, 07.08.2014

Walking the Valley of Rocks was pure joy—flat terrain with cliffs to the right and lounging goats to the left, somehow balancing impossibly on ledges. A couple asked me where I was heading and assured me the route ahead was beautiful. They weren’t wrong. The morning went smoothly. I crossed cliffs, farmland, and even passed a religious site nestled in the richly green landscape. Soon, the path turned upward with steep climbs and staircases, before diverting onto the road due to erosion. At one point, I sat on a rock, pulled out an orange I’d bought the day before, and broke it open. The citrus scent hit me instantly. Slightly dehydrated, I savoured every segment—possibly the best orange I’ve ever had. As I sat, someone approached. “Hello Dan, how are you?” It was Juliet from Day 2! We chatted about the challenges of the walk, especially sticking rigidly to the guide.“You must enjoy it,” she said. “Take your time—no rush. Take it all in. ”She was right. But learning that lesson would take me a while. It was lovely to see a familiar face—four days in, and the path was already weaving a network of connections. Hello, Juliet, if you’re reading this!

The road eventually re-joined the coast path, and I passed a beautiful waterfall. The kind that tempts you to dunk your head under or take a sip—though I resisted. I met a couple who had turned back at Heddon’s Mouth, which lay ahead for me. “Do you have a zipline in that backpack?” the woman joked. Honestly, it might have helped. They were surprised I was attempting to get to Combe Martin.

Then came the climb up towards Heddon’s Mouth—though I didn’t know that’s where I was yet. I kept climbing, looking for somewhere to rest, eventually finding a dirt road that led to a bend and a bench beside a stream. I lay on my backpack, sipping water and checking the guide. A woman named Janet arrived with her dog Maisy. We chatted about the joys of walking, The Salt Path, and the luxury of experiencing nature freely. She was returning from lunch at the Hunter’s Inn which was down in the valley and confirmed I’d reached Heddon’s Mouth. I’d thought I was still in Woody Bay—delightful surprise. I descended into the valley, lush and flat with a river running through it, following signs for the coast path. One side of the sign said the climb was 1.5 miles shorter than the other. I shared this with a nearby family, and we laughed together.

The climb began. At first, I thought, “Not too bad.” But it twisted endlessly with relentless inclines. My calves burned, and gravity fought against me. I finally understood why people skip this part. A man named George passed me, heading the opposite way—walking from Land’s End to John o’ Groats and had reached our pint of meeting in just15 days! He’d already become something of a legend on the trail, I hope he is ok, it was nice to speak to someone doing a long hike in one go too.

As I rounded a bend on the upper part of the valley, thinking the worst was behind me, I was met with a jarring sight—one I hadn’t been prepared for. The path narrowed. Not just a little, but dramatically. To my left, the cliff face rose sharply, jagged and unrelenting, the rock pushing in toward the trail. To my right… was nothing. Just open air and a dizzying, vertical drop into the ocean below. There were no barriers. No rope. No signs warning of the danger. Just a sliver of earth clinging to the edge of the coastline.

The wind picked up as I stood there frozen for a moment, sweat trickling down my forehead and stinging my eyes. My legs were already weak, trembling from the climb behind me. My backpack felt heavier than ever—suddenly not just a burden, but a threat. It swayed with every movement, pulling me backward like a mischievous force daring me to lean the wrong way.

No one was around. I hadn’t seen another soul for ages, and the silence out here felt loud—like nature was holding its breath.

I stared at the path. Each step ahead looked doable, just about—but the margin for error was minuscule. A misplaced foot, a stumble, a slip, and that would be it. There would be no second chance. No soft landing. Just a sheer fall into the sea and jagged rocks below.

My heart pounded in my chest. My breathing became shallow. My mind spiralled.

I thought about my family—my mum and dad, my brother. I thought about my partner. I imagined the worry, the unanswered messages, the search that might be mounted far too late. I wasn’t panicking, not exactly—but I was scared. Truly, deeply scared.

I kept telling myself, Just one step. Then another. I leaned in toward the rock as much as I could, angling my body so if I fell, I’d go forward—not back. Falling forward might scrape me up, bruise me, break a bone. Falling backward would end me. There were points where the steps needed to be high, exaggerated, my thigh muscles burning with the effort. And all the while, the thought of slipping lingered like a shadow over every move. There was no room for clumsiness. No room for distraction. I wanted to look up, to see how far I had left—but I couldn’t risk taking my eyes off my footing. I wanted to stop, to rest my shaking legs—but stopping here wasn’t safe either. My body was caught between exhaustion and sheer adrenaline.

My thoughts were loud, but my voice was silent. I didn’t dare say anything out loud, like it would tempt fate. All I had was my inner voice:Focus. Just get around the bend. Keep your weight forward. Check your feet. Again. Again. Don’t stop. Not here. At last—finally—I rounded a corner and the path widened into open, grassy field. I stepped onto the firmer, safer ground like a man who had just survived something bigger than himself. My whole body exhaled. I didn’t even realise I’d been holding my breath for so long. My legs were shaking, my hands trembling slightly from the adrenaline, the fear. I looked back—not long, just a glance—and I knew that what I’d just walked could have ended very differently. It was a moment that will stay with me forever. Not because I conquered it, but because in that moment, I faced fear—and walked anyway.

Eventually, I rounded the corner into open land—relief washing over me. Not long after, a coast path sign appeared: “Hunter’s Inn, ½ mile.” I laughed—no, I howled.

“Half a mile?! HALF A MILE?!” (There were expletives.). I was not going back, not through all that.

I passed through a scorched field—blackened ground and charred gorse. I later learned a fire in February had devastated the area, likely accidental.

I pushed on, the light dimming, no signal, no data, no people—alone for hours. I searched for a discreet wild camping spot and found a hidden patch surrounded by tall grass. As I set up, the sun dipped below the horizon. Cold crept in fast. I wrapped up inside the tent, still no signal, not for hours, then decided to begin listening to The Salt Path until the audiobook reached the point I had now physically reached—surreal. I nibbled peanuts, stale garlic bread, and a few stale pain au chocolat from Exeter. Then at 10:05pm, my phone buzzed—signal! Two messages from my partner telling me he hoped I was ok and that he was proud of me, one on WhatsApp, one via text—just so at least one had a chance of coming through to me. My heart melted.

That night, a helicopter flew overhead a few times. In a dreamlike haze, I feared a search party had been sent. I really hoped not.

The next day...

Morning came. I peeked out of my tent to find a horse staring right at me. Unsure of its mood, I packed up and gave it a wide berth. I made sure to leave no trace, and restored the grass I had slept on, it was if no one had been there. The horse trotted ahead, using the coast path, then turned to look back at me as if to say, “You coming or what?”

I dunked my feet in a stream, icy and refreshing, and studied the guide. The path was still challenging, but I was glad I’d stopped where I did the night before.

Eventually, I reached Little Hangman, overlooking Combe Martin. I called my dad—feeling disappointed with my pace. He reassured me: “You’re doing great. Go at your own speed. Enjoy it.” and reassured me that if I needed to get back to Newquay at any point that arrangements would be made wherever I was. That helped more than he probably realised. It took the pressure off, and have me permission to enjoy and take the path at my own pace.

I descended the steep path into Combe Martin, passing struggling walkers groaning about the hill. I made it to the café on the beach and devoured a burger and chips—genuinely one of the best burgers I’ve had in my life.

A B&B called Newberry Beach Lodge awaited me at 4pm. I rested on the beach, soaking up the sun and an audiobook. It felt odd to be still. You crave rest on the path—but once resting, you crave the journey again.

Newberry Beach Lodge was perfect—bright, airy, colourful. “Looks amazing,” I said to the host. “Well, anything would after camping out last night,” we laughed.

The bath was heavenly. Hot water, bubbles made for tired muscles. I messaged my partner to say I could finally talk. “I’ll take you up on that,” he said.

Tomorrow, I head for Ilfracombe.

If you would like to stay at Newberry Beach Lodge, then click here, highly recommended for the SWCP traveller.