Days 9 to 11: Drowned Rat Chic (Braunton to Westward Ho!)

Leaving Braunton, I set out along the trail with a certain kind of expectation. This stretch of the South West Coast Path is often overlooked. It’s less coast path and more estuary path, really. Many walkers choose to skip it entirely, hopping on a bus near Saunton and heading straight to Westward Ho. Something similar happens in The Salt Path too. But I could not quite see the reason for skipping it. While it is true that most of the trail is tarmac and built for bikes, I was curious. Curious to see what the landscape had to offer. Curious about the nearby towns. And very much appreciative of the promise of flat ground and a few days without any hills in sight.

The first stretch, from Braunton to Barnstaple, was mostly pleasant. The weather was holding up, the path was green on either side, and everything felt calm and quiet. But halfway through, disaster struck, my walking shoes gave up on me. The right shoe developed a gaping hole that let in water and pain in equal measure. I was lucky though. Had I been on a more remote part of the coast path, I would have had no chance of fixing the problem quickly. But Barnstaple was near, and so I pushed on, soggy and uncomfortable.

Once in Barnstaple, soaked through and a bit grumpy, I managed to find a shop with walking shoes. For around £25.00, I picked up a waterproof, slip-resistant pair that were exactly what I needed. I took a detour to the shopping centre and swapped out my absolutely rancid old shoes for the new pair. For a while, I carried the smelly ones around, unsuccessfully hunting for a bin. A visit to Poundland solved the problem, a kind staff member offered to dispose of the shoes for me. With food and drink in hand, I headed to my accommodation.

That night, I stayed in an ensuite room booked for £50.40. It was self-check-in only, just two codes, one for the building and one for the room. Not a single person in sight. It felt strange, like stepping into a ghost hotel, but the warmth and dryness made up for the loneliness.

The next morning, I began the stretch to Bideford. The rain had not just returned, it had set in. Relentless, sideways, icy rain. I had picked up a meal deal to eat along the way, but about a mile in, I ducked into a small vandalised hut just off the path. It offered a few precious minutes of shelter. As I stood there, dripping and tired, a man in a blue raincoat approached from the opposite direction. He carried two walking sticks and handed me a card. He was doing a long-distance walk to raise money for a mental health charity, and he was absolutely motoring along. After a brief chat, he pressed on. I left a few minutes later, promptly hitting my head on the frame of the hut on the way out... a sign of the day to come.

The miles that followed were bleak. A long, grey path stretched ahead of me, barely visible through the mist. The rain did not stop. The sky was heavy and lifeless. There were no hills, no coast, just rain and more rain. I listened to an audiobook, the only comforting sensory input in an otherwise miserable walk. I could not help but ask myself how it was possible for the sky to cry this hard for this long. Where were the shelters? Why was I walking instead of cycling like the people who sped past me with smug ease? They would be in Bideford before I was even halfway there.

Eventually, the path led me through what looked like an old fishing zone. Boats lay scattered about, some seemingly abandoned, others still seaworthy. A bus shelter appeared like a gift from the heavens. I sat there for a while, letting my legs seize up and my shoulders relax, just grateful to be out of the rain.

I pushed on. In the distance was a large bridge that never seemed to get any closer, no matter how fast I walked. After that one, I knew there would be another. When I finally arrived in Bideford, I was cold, soaked, aching, and in desperate need of food. I stumbled into Wetherspoons, ordered something hot, and checked my phone. My next destination was Ellerton B&B for £63.00, and I was more than ready for it.

At the Ellerton B&B, I met my host Annette. She already knew I was arriving soaked through and had kindly prepared for me. She took my dripping coat and backpack, gave me extra racks to dry my clothes, and made me feel truly welcome. I was beyond grateful. The bed was comfortable, the heating was on full blast, and even though I could not shake the cold at first, a hot shower with lovely toiletries brought me back to life. That night, I slept like a stone.

The next morning, Annette served up a flawless breakfast with a lovely view outside. We spoke about the coast path, about what I was doing and why, and she gave me directions to rejoin the trail, conveniently just around the corner. With my clothes dry and my spirits much higher, I was ready to take on the final leg toward Westward Ho!.

The walk that day was a welcome change. It offered a mix of everything: grassy paths, beachy stretches, a bit of road, quiet residential areas, and refreshing patches of nature. I passed through Appledore, a charming little town where I just about resisted the temptation of an ice cream. From there, I wandered into Northam Burrows Country Park, a fascinating place where sheep grazed alongside golfers and tourists, all set against a backdrop of beach and lush green land. The land stretched wide and open, deceptively vast, making every step feel light and easy compared to the previous days.

Finally, I arrived at The Waterfront Inn, my accommodation for the next couple of nights. I would be working from there, so comfort was essential. The room had everything I needed, a cozy bed, a lovely bathroom, and a peaceful space to both rest and get things done. It was the perfect end to a long, wet, challenging few days. I went to the local shop to get some supplies, settled down with a meal for the night, and went to bed.

From drowned rat to dry and warm, these days reminded me that not every step of a journey needs to be postcard-worthy. Sometimes, the rain teaches you more than the sunshine ever could.