Day 2: Bossington to Countisbury – Through the Woods, the Blisters, and the Beasts

Bossington Hall

I woke up feeling surprisingly refreshed—only to check the time and realise it was 2am. Still, I felt revitalised. After a few more hours of rest, I rose at 7am, packed up my things, stashed the last of the garlic bread from the night before, topped up my water, and headed out. My lovely host wished me well as I set off for Lynmouth, remarking that the weather would be a bit cooler today.

Leaving Bossington Hall, I took a moment to appreciate the peace of the area. Bossington has maintained its historic charm, largely thanks to the National Trust. Originally built in 1911 by Allan Hughes and donated in 1940 by the Acland family, the estate has been preserved as part of the Holnicote Estate, with work including floodplain restoration and sustainable grazing. You can see the Trust’s impact—especially on the beach, where significant flood prevention work has taken place.

I retraced my steps back to the SWCP sign—3 miles to Porlock Weir. Fields, streams, and farmland flew by underfoot, and I felt great. I passed two men walking from Porlock Weir who I told about the previous night’s unexpected detour. They commended my choice and gasped when I said I was aiming for Lynmouth. “You’d better get a move on—there’s nothing between here and Lynmouth!” they warned. How bad could it be, right?

Bossington Beach

I soon found out. The rocky beach before Porlock Weir was a slow and punishing crossing. The massive stones twisted and shifted beneath every step. No sunbathers here—just me, trying not to sprain an ankle.

Once in Porlock Weir, I felt strong. I’d made good time and spirits were high. But then came a tricky moment: a coast path sign that wasn’t clear. Should I go up the steep zigzag path or continue forward? A man on a bench told me, “That’s the right way. We went the other way—cost us a mile and a half.” Minutes later, I watched him and his friends trudge up the zigzag, each lamenting their misstep. A reminder that even one unclear sign can cost you dearly.

"It's a dangerous business, Frodo, going out your door. You step onto the road, and if you don't keep your feet, there's no knowing where you'll be swept off to" – Bilbo Baggins

Culbone

The path led me into the woods toward Culbone, a fairytale-like place with England’s smallest parish church. Only accessible by foot, it sits hidden in a glade two miles from Porlock Weir. A little stone bridge over a gentle stream completed the scene—peaceful, enchanted, timeless. I stood quietly, reflecting on how serene this resting place must be for those buried there.

Past Culbone, the path darkened. Tall trees blocked most of the light, and the sea disappeared behind dense growth. The path stretched endlessly, with waterfalls providing occasional relief. Most day-walkers turned back at Culbone—only fellow backpackers remained.

Up a particularly steep and rocky hill, I met Juliet and her partner. “You’re doing the whole thing?” she asked. “Where will you stay?” When I showed her my pack and said I’d be mostly camping, she was taken aback. “It’s all in there?” Yep—tent, food, water, everything. We laughed about the difficulty of the valleys. Her partner added, “That was the one we did on your birthday!” It was a lovely moment. (If you're reading this—hi again!)

Hours passed without a good resting spot. Eventually, I found two flat rocks to sit on. It wasn’t much, but it was dry, and I needed the break. A couple came by, also heading to the Blue Ball Inn in Countisbury. I offered them the seat and said I’d likely see them again—they soon passed me later in the day.

By now, my feet were blistered, my shoulders aching. I was desperate for a beach, for soft sand underfoot, but every time the trail dipped, it went straight back up. At one point, I descended a steep path thinking it might lead to the beach—only for it to snake right back uphill again. Of course it did.

Back at the top, the same couple passed again. The man asked, “Any more hills?” “Probably” I replied, though I had no idea just how many.

As I walked, doubts crept in. Was I close to Countisbury? Would I make it? Would I be sleeping in a tent? Did I have enough water? These thoughts circled with every laboured step.

As it began to get increasingly darker, and more isolating I struggled to find anywhere to camp. Eventually, I came across a sign that offered to follow the coast around to The Blue Ball Inn, or take a left into Countisbury. I went left. The hill was unrelenting, the gorse continued, until I came t the top of the hill with a sign post directing me through farm land. The land had no signage and so guesses had to be taken. I crossed over two fields not knowing if I would have to backtrack and ended up on the road desired. I thumbed for a lift to no avail. My energy was entirely spent, my steps short, breath shallow, pain setting in and calves tightening. I eventually arrived, and after some uncertainty of my booking and payment (both which were fine) I was taken to my room. I made it.

I decided to get some food, I got lost on the way to the restaurant. A woman approached—slowly. I asked, “Sorry, do you know the way out?” She smiled, “You made it!” I finally recognised her—it was the woman from earlier with the man who had utilised the seats I had found (and later passed me). We laughed. I reached in to hug her jokingly and she laughed, “Oh no, I’ve showered—stay back, stay back!”. I had what was promised to me by myself, a fish and chips supper and two pints of coca-cola, one of the last two portions left, lucky me. 

At last, I sank into a hot shower and a soft bed.

I had pushed myself too far today. The combination of my size, my heavy pack, and the brutal terrain caught up with me. Tomorrow, I’ll aim for a shorter walk to Lynmouth. Day 2 was long, painful, beautiful—and one I won’t forget.

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