Forty Miles of Coastline, One Notebook
Field notes from a four-day walk along the cliffs: weather, wildflowers, and the strange comfort of being tired.
I set out with a small pack, a paper map, and a rule: write one paragraph every evening, however tired I was. These are those paragraphs, lightly tidied.
Day one — wind
The wind came off the sea all day, steady and cold, pressing against my left side like a hand. Eleven miles. I saw two seals, a kestrel hanging motionless above the gorse, and nobody else for three hours. My legs are fine. My face feels sandblasted.
Day two — fog
Woke to a white world. The path disappeared ten metres ahead and reappeared as I walked into it, which felt like a lesson I'm too tired to articulate. Ate lunch on a stile, listening to waves I couldn't see.
Day three — sea pinks
The fog lifted by mid-morning and the cliffs were covered in thrift — sea pinks — great cushions of them nodding in the breeze. I sat among them for an hour and did nothing at all. Best hour of the trip.
Day four — arrival
Walked into the harbour town at four o'clock, salt-stiff and happy. The pub had a fire going. I ordered chips and wrote this.
The path doesn't ask anything of you except the next step.
If you're thinking about a long walk, take the paper map. Getting a little lost is half the point.