Day 1: Minehead to Bossington

Staring at the monument in Minehead was surreal. This was the very spot so many before me had begun their journeys—some life-changing, others soul-defining. And now, it was my turn. I set out with confidence in my stride. This was really happening. The smell of sea air mixed with springtime sweetness was intoxicating, a perfect blend to mark the beginning.

A man near the sign chuckled as he saw me staring at the 629 miles marker. “It’s a long way to Cornwall,” he said. “You might be a bit late for work.” I smiled and replied, “I’m sure it’ll only take a couple of hours.”

From there, I began the slow, steep climb up the path—a notoriously challenging start. And wow, they weren’t kidding. It felt like the trail was testing me right from the beginning: If you can do this, you can do the rest. If not—turn back. But turning back was never an option, even as the doubts crept in.

With breaks and sheer determination, I reached the top, thinking that surely the worst was over. Spoiler alert—it wasn’t. A man passed me in sleek workout clothes and a small rucksack. I asked which way the path went next. “Just heading back from Porlock Weir,” he said casually, "and I came from this way". Had he really walked to Minehead and back in a single day?

As I continued, the path grew more isolated. Wildlife grazed freely—ponies, sheep, and others, completely uninterested in my passing. A sharp valley lay ahead, bursting with bright yellow gorse, the sea ever-present on my right.

Going downhill was just as brutal as going up. My heavy pack shoved and dragged me with every step—a real treat for the shoulders. At one point, the trail veered off onto the rugged coastal route, adding an extra mile and over 600ft of ascent. My guidebook had warned me about it. I hadn’t planned to take this path—but trail conditions gave me no choice.

It was exhausting. The terrain rolled up and down relentlessly, and though it was only 11-12 miles, it felt like double that on this landscape. This stretch—from Minehead to Bude—is considered one of the hardest of the entire 630-mile route. Some hikers even choose to start at South Haven Point instead. I now understood why.

I met a kind man along the way who asked about my journey. “Porlock Weir today, but doing the whole SWCP,” I told him. He gave me some helpful advice: keep your energy up, stay hydrated, wear sun lotion. Then, generously, he offered me some nougat. “I have loads,” he said. “It does the trick.” He handed me three individually wrapped pieces—like receiving gold. Walking along I wondered if I must have looked sun burned. I sat on a rock, loosened my straps, and enjoyed every bite.

A few hours in, I checked the map. Surely I was close? No—I was only halfway. It was hard to fathom. But then I reminded myself—this was new. I wasn’t used to this kind of daily trekking, especially not with a loaded backpack. My body needed time to adapt.

I pictured myself arriving at the Porlock Weir Inn, fish and chips in front of me, a cold Coca-Cola in hand. That would be my reward—if I made it.

The trail eased a little, the views grew more breath taking, but my stamina began to fade. The SWCP signs were deceptive: one minute I was 6 miles away, then 5.5, then somehow back to 6. It was enough to provoke an internal tantrum.

Eventually, I reached a crossroads: inland, to the beach, or continue the official route (not that I knew that at the time). The beach route looked steep—a mistake I couldn't afford. I walked around instead.

What I saw next felt like a movie scene. The whole of Berrington lay before me, and in the far distance—Porlock Weir. I sat on a bench, trying to capture the view with my phone, but no photo could do it justice. I wished I could share this with my friends, my family, my partner. In that moment, the world felt small and the everyday noise faded. No stress. Just peace.

The path began to wind inland, away from Porlock Weir. My legs ached. My feet throbbed. Every stone underfoot felt like a punishment. I began to consider wild camping—but the light was fading.

Then—a field blocked by cows. They stood at the river’s edge, directly in my path. No way around. Just through. I moved forward cautiously, hands low, avoiding eye contact, muttering: "I mean no harm, I mean no harm…" Passing close to a calf (something you should never do), I braced myself. One horned cow stood directly in the path, watching me. I tried to sidestep—but tripped. To my relief, the cow ran off. I got out of there fast and entered Berrington.

I wondered if I’d gone the wrong way. Maybe the beach route would’ve been quicker. Berrington was charming but tiny—no shops, no pubs, no obvious options. A bit like stepping into an episode of Goodnight Mr. Tom. Anyone else seen that?

I turned to Booking.com. Two listings. One had a bed for £65. With night approaching, I booked it and walked ten minutes to Bossington Bunkhouse. The host greeted me kindly. They didn’t serve food but had a storeroom with frozen pizzas and essentials. I bought a pepperoni pizza, garlic bread, and two bottles of Coke—total: £7.50. My room was on the top floor, part of a shared flat with a lounge, kitchen, and bathroom. But as the only guest—I had it all to myself.

I replenished my water, cooked my dinner, and settled into bed.

Day 1 was done.