Day 8: You Are Not the Pope (North Morte to Braunton)

I hobbled down to reception the next morning, my ankle still aching from the previous day. “Can I please buy another night?” I asked, half-hoping they wouldn’t mind me clinging to my little safe haven of rest.

“Of course,” the receptionist replied kindly.

“Would I be able to stay another day or two if needed?” I asked, already dreading the possibility of a longer recovery.

“Oh yes, it’s quiet at the moment, won’t be an issue.”

Reassurance washed over me. At least I wouldn’t be forced out before I was ready. It wasn’t expensive, and the idea of simply resting seemed a lifeline, though not one I wanted to hang onto for too long.

The ankle wasn’t improving fast enough. I couldn’t afford to stay holed up for a week, not without power running out on my two banks, not with the idea of momentum fading. I debated my options: rest again tomorrow if needed, or perhaps try walking very slowly, lots of tiny steps, easing the pressure. Was it wiser to push through, or was rest the smarter path? I even asked myself the dreaded question: Do I need to go home?

But then… morning came.

After a torturously long, gloomy day, I awoke, stood up cautiously, and to my surprise, the ankle wasn’t too bad. Not great, but maybe just walkable. The rain came and went that morning, so I waited it out in the tent. Once it eased off, I packed everything up quickly and filled my water bottles before setting off once again.

The path down to the coast was slow going. My ankle twinged with every uneven stone, but I took it gently. A few short turns along the bottom, and... of course... the path wound sharply uphill again. It seemed to laugh in my face as it returned right back down again, practically parallel to where I’d come from. I found myself faced with a decision: cut out Morte Point, or commit. My body didn’t get to make the decision - my feet did. I was already descending again before I’d made my mind up. The journey was back on.

The coast was peaceful. Livestock grazed nearby, and the occasional jogger passed me by. One woman stopped to chat, saying she ran this route most days and that the view always changed. It struck me, this was her normal. She lived inside this beauty, immersed in it. For her, the coastline was an everyday backdrop; for me, it was a fleeting glimpse.

Morte Point loomed beneath a brooding sky, the sea below a rich, dark blue. I saw Woolacombe ahead, the beach stretching out like a promise. When I reached the upper town, it was clear I’d entered a very different world: expensive cars, boutique stays, posh people. I limped through it all in my smelly clothes, like a stubborn ghost.

Craving comfort, I found a pasty shop and it didn’t disappoint. Rather than face the bustle of tourists, I wandered into a quiet little estate, found a solitary bench on a patch of grass surrounded by houses, and ate in peace. I probably looked out of place. I didn’t care.

Soon, I needed to retrace my steps, funny how you can see where you need to go but not find the path to get there. I ended up walking through the grounds of a posh hotel hoping to find a cut-through, fully expecting to be asked to leave. I wasn’t, but the shortcut failed. Back through town I went. There’s something oddly disorienting about navigating built-up areas when following a long-distance trail, so much easier to get lost than in the wilds. When you spot a "Coast Path" sign again, it feels like being found.

Crowds of tourists surrounded me soon after, many clearly not accustomed to the terrain. People were stopping after just a short stretch to catch their breath. And there I was, eight days in, carrying a heavy pack, limping, yet overtaking them. Had I become stronger already?

I continued across the top of Woolacombe Beach, flat ground stretching before me, promising distance. That’s when I met Austin and Janet on their electric bikes. We chatted, about the path, the journey, the distance ahead. They warned me it was flat but long to Braunton. I hadn’t expected to make it that far. After all, I’d started earlier that day from North Morte. Still, I was making progress.

Eventually, I found myself at Croyde Beach, though not quite by design, I’d somehow missed Baggy Point. The signs had misled me, sending me in circles until I finally landed at the shoreline, despite trying to get there. I grabbed an ice cream and found a spot to sit for a while. The beach was buzzing with life, crammed with holidaymakers, most likely from the nearby campsites and holiday parks. Everywhere I looked there were signs of summer joy, families with sunburnt faces, beach toys clutched in sandy hands, the smell of hot food drifting through the air. Yet, despite the warmth and colour of it all, I felt oddly disconnected. I couldn’t quite place why, but there was a sense that I was just passing through a world I wasn’t part of, a quiet observer in someone else’s perfect day.

Crossing flat roads was a different kind of challenge. No steep hills, sure, but the pavement punished the feet in quick succession. I passed a beautiful bench area by the sea near a modern “Grand Designs” house, then crossed the main road and pressed on. Each mile felt like a small victory.

Eventually, I reached the beach near Saunton Sands. Here, the path became unclear, nearly invisible in places. I had to push through overgrowth, scratching arms and legs, just trusting the map and hoping I wouldn’t have to turn back. I made it, barely, and popped out onto a frustrating stretch of road, narrow and with no pavement, constantly stepping aside for cars.

Then I saw it, St Anne’s Church of Saunton, tucked quietly on my left. I wandered in through the gate, found a bench, and sat. Out of nowhere, I was surrounded by peace: wildflowers in purples and pinks, a backdrop of trees, a simple church. It felt sacred, in a subtle kind of way.

That’s when I saw it, my route ahead would take me all the way out to Crow Point and the estuary before looping back toward Braunton. I’d heard that many people skip this part, by bus or detour. Even the couple from The Salt Path skipped it. I was debating whether to do the same when a group of walkers rounded the corner.

"St Anne’s is in Saunton on the main road from Braunton to Croyde and opposite the entrance to Saunton Golf Club. It looks across Braunton Burrows and the golden sands of Saunton Beach. Saunton is one of a number of hamlets that make up the Parish of Braunton. The original chapel dedicated to St Anne was recorded in the C17th nearer the sea and was one of the five ancient chapels in the Parish. The present Chapel was built by local families with the foundation stone being laid in 1895 and the opening service was held on Wednesday April 29th 1896. It was intended to be the Chancel of a much larger building which was never built." - https://brauntonparishchurch.org.uk/st-anne

“Sorry, just resting a while before I carry on,” I said sheepishly.

“That’s what the benches are for!” one of them replied with a smile.

We talked. I told them I was heading to Crow Point and then into Braunton. They looked at me with concern. “It’s flat, but it’s a long, long walk,” one said. “And the road ahead, dangerous, no pavements, fast cars…”. Then Patrick shared something that stayed with me:

“You know, we walked the Camino Way. Determined to do every step. But one day, exhausted, we were debating whether to take a shortcut. And a man said to us, ‘Do you think you’re holier than the Pope?’ This is your journey. Don’t make yourself suffer trying to prove something. If a shortcut helps, take it. Don’t be holier than the Pope.”

I laughed. The message was clear. And somehow, it made it easier to say yes when they offered me a lift into Braunton. My stubborn pride grumbled, but my body sighed with relief. And as we drove off, Sarah behind the wheel, Patrick beside me, I saw just how dangerous that road truly was.

Ten minutes of kind conversation, a gesture of generosity, and I was safely dropped off in Braunton. I thought back to Day 2, standing hopelessly with my thumb out, exhausted, with not a soul stopping to help. And now, this.

Maybe St Anne’s really is a magical place.

Braunton is a charming North Devon village steeped in history and surrounded by breathtaking natural beauty. Nestled in a valley cradled by Chapel, West, and East Hills, this vibrant community offers more than just picturesque lanes lined with thatched cottages, it’s the gateway to some of the Southwest’s most stunning landscapes 

I checked in at The George Inn, a warm and modern room above the pub, £73.80 for the night. It was perfect. I dropped my bag, sprayed some much-needed deodorant, and headed down for food. The woman behind the bar was lovely, set me up with a table, and I ordered the ultimate reward: burger and chips.

I went to bed feeling full, both in stomach and spirit. I had made it to Braunton. My journey wasn’t perfect, but it was mine.

And the lesson lingered:

Don’t be holier than the Pope.

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