After that first night's wildcamp, I spent my second night in a Lynmouth B&B. I showered, then had a couple of beers and a fish supper at the Ship Inn. Lynmouth's a sombre little place in the rain. For yes, on waking the next morning, the weather had turned, and sporadic showers - sometimes heavy - were forecasted for the whole day. Thus the pattern was set for my complete trip: one or two days fine, one or two days rain, as successive fronts of high and low pressure hit England from the Atlantic throughout the month of August. Here's a view of Lynmouth's tiny harbour ...
Lynmouth - which huddles at the foot of cliffs at the confluence of two river gorges - was wrecked by a devastating flood in August 1952, killing 34 people. I felt, especially in the morning rain, that a morbid atmosphere still lingered on, so I put Lynmouth gladly behind me and tackled the back-breaking, zig-zag path up to Lynton. It was unexpectedly steep, and I kept stopping to catch my breath. Had I really become this unfit since my walk across Spain? At the top, I followed the Victorian-planned North Walk towards the Valley of Rocks, and on the way encountered some very docile feral goats ...
Here's part of the spectacular Valley of Rocks ...
And here's the coast path cutting through heather and hugging the cliff to Combe Martin, where I spent my third night, in the welcoming and reasonably priced Royal Marine Inn ...
