jueves, 23 de agosto de 2012

Walking the south west coast path wanderland

What could be better after a long day’s hiking than a two-star hotel with a five-star welcome?

By Adam Lee-Potter

Hikers take the clifftop trail to Kimmeridge Bay in Dorset

Walking mile after hilly mile in the rain with a gammy leg, the prospect of a two-star hotel, empty but for a grieving family gathered to scatter their granny’s ashes, did not fill me with glee.

When we rang for directions, we were told we still faced two hours of tough yomping, and – worse – that we would be sharing a buffet with the mourners. Visions of two muddy hikers awkwardly trying to blend into a mournful wake sprang up.

Judith, the twinkly co-owner, did her best to calm my fears. “Don’t worry,” she said, “it’ll be a grand buffet. There’ll be meat... not just sausage rolls.”

This did nothing to cheer up my hungry vegetarian friend Reuben.

But our spirits rose when we finally tramped in at 9.30pm to find that we had our own little corner table, complete with a bottle of red. And the family were, in fact, incredibly jolly and welcoming. Theirs was more a celebration than a lament. Granny had been 93, a good life lived well.

The food looked promising too. We piled our plates with salmon, smoked trout and a green salad, little realising that our own buffet was yet to come.

Over the next 20 minutes, cook Judith and her chatty husband Kevin barrelled back and forth with plate after plate: shimmering mushrooms, sautéed potatoes, just-so carrots, hunks of beef and chicken curry, prawns and quiche. Apple cake. Cheese. More wine. On it went, a carousel of delight... delicious, honest food at its very best.

Bulstone Hotel in Branscombe

It is a testament to the preposterously friendly Bulstone Hotel that by the time we left – after a lip-smackingly tasty fry-up of Desperate Dan proportions – we regarded both our fellow guests and owners as new-found chums. They very sweetly lined up in the car park to wave us off as we trudged, somewhat reluctantly, towards Cornwall. Our walk, as it must, goes on.

I’ve always been a sucker for a challenge. As a last hurrah before starting a family, my wife and I cycled 15,000 miles around the world. We returned after 18 months, biltong-brown and buff, thighs as big as canoes.

Eight years on and two stone heavier, my body is still a temple. But, as a friend waspishly observed: “More like the Taj Mahal – big and round!”

Having had my fill of long-distance cycling, Reuben heroically hit on a plan that involved neither Lycra nor training but, more crucially, lashings of real ale.

The two of us are, slowly, walking the South West Coast Path, from Sandbanks in Dorset to Minehead in Somerset – 630 glorious miles dotted with pubs and divvied up into 16

long weekends.

Sandbanks Shell Beach in Dorset

My last hiking experience was very nearly that... my last. In my rush to descend from the high Himalaya for a buffalo steak and bottled Guinness, I opted for a yak-track shortcut that made even passing Sherpas suck their teeth with disapproval. Losing my footing in the half-light, I ended up tobogganing down a sheer cliff on my bottom, my fall broken only by a patch of scree that pushed me the last 20ft straight into a river.

The South West Coast Path is much more my kind of walk. All we need to do is keep the sea to our left.

The start of the 630-mile South West Coastal Path

And Reuben is, after all, a head ranger who lives on an island. He understands plumbing. He plays the banjo. He can take a bearing and grow a moustache. He’s even been on a chainsaw course. Aside from such handiness, one of the many joys of walking with Reuben is that, as a National Trust officer, he is (according to an age-old bylaw) allowed to camp on any beach. Sadly, he has stubbornly refused to invoke this privilege. Nor will he, much to my disappointment, wear a comedy sheriff’s hat, like Andrew Lincoln in The Walking Dead. But I still have 530 miles in which to grind him down.

Fuelled by beer and pummelled by rain, our trek – five days in – has not been wholly without incident.

We have, after misunderstanding the map, walked for a day without food or water, encountering a hermit from Halifax on the way.

But our most recent leg, from Charmouth to Branscombe, was the most painful. The 16 miles took twice as long as they should have because the day before, at my daughter’s sports day, I over-exerted myself in the highly competitive father’s 50-metre dash. To her dismay, I went down with a torn hamstring, in front of the assembled school... not a good look.

My daughter is only now preparing herself to forgive me after I promised, firstly, not to compete next year and, secondly, that I would treat her to a week at the Bulstone. With its four-acre garden studded with toys and the beach just moments away, what more could a child wish for?

In fact, this gem of a hotel, two-star on the outside but five-star within, which I am almost loath to recommend, was the surprising highlight of our walk.

As Yorkshireman Kevin said on our departure: “We’ll see you again. After all, we’re friends now.” And you know what? I rather think we are.