Day 7: A Beautiful Day with a Rough Ending (Ilfracombe to North Morte)

After a couple of days of work, I was genuinely looking forward to getting back on the trail. The goal today was to aim for Woolacombe, though I had a feeling I’d need to camp before getting there — prices in the area were high, and wild camping wasn’t likely.

Leaving Ilfracombe turned into a bit of a maze. It’s always a bit of a mission finding the path again after staying in a larger town, and I took a few wrong turns before eventually making my way uphill to where the trail properly begins. That’s when I realised I hadn’t put any sun cream on, and the sun was already beating down. I stopped to slap some on and then ran into two problems with my backpack: one strap wouldn’t tighten, and the elastic drawcord had come loose. Sorting that out took patience, and about 30 minutes.

As I was sat fiddling with the straps, a woman walking past with a group called out, “Nice resting spot you have there.” I wasn’t sure if she meant it, or if it was a subtle dig at me sitting down before even starting the real walk. Trail thoughts... you’ve got too much space to overthink everything right? Might have to start collecting the pine cones to literally throw at people.

Once I got going, the path wound its way up the cliffs. It was steep but worth it, with sweeping views in every direction. At the top, the trail curved around and began to drop again, cutting across the cliff edges. The photos don’t quite capture it, but it was one of those stretches where the effort feels totally worth it.

Eventually, I reached Lee Bay, two words 'absolutely stunning'. A river met the sea, and despite the nearby construction of new, modern homes, it still felt peaceful. I took off my boots and waded barefoot through the cool river water. Bliss. A nearby family told me I could avoid the road by crossing the beach and climbing up some steps carved into the rock. It sounded risky but worth it, and I gave it a go. The rock ledges were steep and a fall wouldn’t end well, but I kept my balance and made it across. The beach was lovely, a little hidden piece of heaven that only a couple of people had found, much better than the road.

On the other side was a hidden little cove — quiet, calm, with just a handful of people sunbathing. The waves lapped gently against the rocks, and the whole area smelled like spring and salt. It was one of those moments where you could happily stay all day.

Climbing out of the cove, I stopped at a bench overlooking green countryside fading into the sea. In the distance, I could see two groups in rowing boats, laughing and drifting the same way I was walking. I imagined them spotting me up high just as I could see them below.

Further along, the trail offered more incredible cliff views, looking back towards where I’d come from. Gorse bushes were becoming a more familiar sight — a bright yellow reminder of home.

I eventually reached Rockham Beach, another lovely spot, and noticed there was a campsite nearby. That felt like a good shout. I worked my way up the hill towards North Morte Farm, looking for a reception. When I reached the top, someone told me reception was actually down the other side. Typical.

And then — out of nowhere — I fell.

One minute I was walking, the next I was on the ground with people standing around me. A few asked if I needed help getting up, but I needed a moment to check if I’d done anything serious. My ankle felt tender but okay. A couple of people went ahead and took my backpack off — “Christ mate, this is heavy. What have you got in here?” one of them asked. “My whole life at the moment,” I laughed.

Someone pointed out a flat patch of grass nearby. “Perfect spot for a tent. Leave your pack here and head to reception to pay. You’ll be coming back this way anyway.” Sounded good to me.

I limped my way down to reception, ankle sore but manageable, thinking I’d mostly gotten away with it — until I noticed my shorts were wet. I looked down: blood running down my leg. I lifted my shorts and found my knee was properly grazed, bleeding quite a bit. Hard to tell how deep it was.

I paid £12 for the pitch, and the woman at reception said I could extend my stay tomorrow if needed — checkout time was generous. I grabbed some supplies and paracetamol from the shop, filled my water bottles, and made my way back to my bag. I just wanted to quickly get everything I needed sorted, tent up, so I can sit and recover if needed.

Setting up the tent took effort. I limped around trying to get everything sorted so I could finally sit down and sort my knee. It was a mess — blood everywhere. I cleaned it with alcohol wipes and disinfectant, slapped on the biggest bandage I had (which only just covered it), and sat back, feeling glad I had what I needed, "I should get away with this just about" I thought, luckily not bad enough to go to hospital or need stitches... that nurse training I did obviously somewhat paid off.

Later that evening, I hobbled to the bathroom as the sun was starting to set. What had earlier been “tender” now felt bad — really bad. I could barely put weight on it, and every step felt like my ankle was about to twist again. The short walk to the bathroom felt like a mile, one small step at a time, an eternity, frustrating, "Why could you not look where you were going you idiot?".

Back in the tent, ankle throbbing, I lay there wondering: did I sprain it? Twist it? Google said potentially three weeks to heal. Damn. I cannot stay here for three weeks.

I looked at the map — next few sections were mostly flat. Could I push on? Should I rest here for a few days? What if I made it worse? How long do I really want to sit this out for?

And just like that, a new question settled in: Is this the end of the journey?

I didn’t have an answer. Not yet.

Wait and see.

Wait and see.

Wait and see.

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