Back on the trail: Utah - London - Land's End - Lamorna Cove (12.1 miles)

Tuesday, May 1st 2012:

It's 4:00am GMT and I am lying on my belly with sleeping bag fully zipped and hood cinched. I am deep and warm within my sleeping bag cave with only my fingers exposed to the elements so I can type on my iPad. I am feeling very cozy and comfortable but to move only slightly reminds me of the rigours of yesterday and my first day back on the trail. My hips and shoulders are bruised and rubbed raw from the hip belt and shoulder straps and my lower back is tight and responding appropriately to carrying a significant weight yesterday for too long. A quick lower body check notes a bruised knee from a fall, my toes are still capable of wiggling in the limited way that they usually wiggle and my ankle is only slightly painful on movement - although this may be different when I try to walk. All in all, I am quite pleased with how I feel and I am ready to do it all over again today but admit to feeling a little anxious about putting my pack on again.

It all feels very familiar to last time except I have Curt snoozing at my side. We are even camped at the same place, Castle Horneck near Penzance - that beautiful Georgian home converted into a YHA. Ironically, the familiarity aspect is the biggest difference. Last time I was on my own, a novice backpacker, naive to the trail and running away from myself and my mid life crisis. This time I am back because I want to walk and have dreamt about nothing else since I left 2 years ago. After completing those 600 miles in 2010, I feel justified in saying that I am returning as an experienced long distant walker and have a fairly good idea of what to expect of the trail.
However my experience of trail walking does not necessarily translate into confidence in myself and my capabilities. Two years is long enough for doubts to form, new ailments to emerge and chronic ones to worsen. This is still an adventure - just more familiar - and I get to share it with my husband.

It turns out that May is a great time to travel. Both our flights were nearly empty, giving us lots of room to stretch out and you would think plenty of opportunity to sleep. But I have been incapable of sleeping for what seems like the last month. In preparation for this trip my body entered into a manic like state, attempting to complete things I had would never even consider usually. I set myself an impossible task of perfection with a completion date of April 28th. Silly tasks i.e. sewing buttons on clothes that had been missing for years and necessary tasks i.e. making sure Ivan had everything he needed became chaotically combined onto lists upon lists, until even making the list itself was added as a task. This frenzy all ended in a big sigh of relief when we boarded the flight to Washington - but sleep would still not come.

As expected, touching down on English soil was an emotional affair. I've visited twice since Dad's death but I couldn't help imagining Dad waiting for me behind the barriers as I exited through to the arrival lounge. I could picture him leaning over the barrier, dressed smartly in shirt and tie beaming from ear to ear and lifting his arm to wave as he spotted me amongst the other weary travellers. He would give me a big hug "Aye good to see you lass, good flight?". And then he would whisk me back to 28 Westbury Close in his little red Mini Cooper for a wonderful cup of tea and a taste of home and family. After two years Dad is still as large as life for me and a day doesn't go by without a reminder of him. But this morning it was only his spirit awaiting my 07:00 arrival.

Tradition dictated that we go to Ruislip to complete the new UK "to do" list but I was way more organised this time. My pack was lighter than before and everything fitted neatly into it, rather than dangling on the outside and I knew where to go. Went back to the Mail Boxes shop where the manager recognised me, so I gave him a copy of my book "Ali goes walking dot com" and proudly pointed out where he was mentioned in it. And then gave him my Enbrel (rheumatoid arthritis medication) with instructions to refreeze the ice packs and send onto Jill tomorrow. Into the cell phone shop to get a new sim card and then to the bank. Sound familiar?

Then hours of sitting in various coffee shops interspersed with trips out to take Curt sightseeing around Ruislip - the old library housed in a 13th century barn, my local church dating back to the Saxons and the old manor house built on the site of a Mott and bailey.

Tradition again dictated that we go to the Case is Altered pub to meet friends and have a drink to Dad. The walk over to the pub took us past my old family home at 28 Westbury Close. I haven't been back since I left Dad's posey of flowers (that had sat on the top his coffin) in the garden to return to the land and had bid an emotional final farewell to the family home. I was a little apprehensive but happy to see that it had changed very little. It had a new name "Con Blanca", a stone wall around the front garden and a swing set in the back - something we never had as kids (we were happy to use ropes, ladders and planks of wood slung together as a temporary obstacle course). Otherwise it looked as I had left it and I was happy for the new owners.

It was another wonderful evening at the pub, catching up with old friends and remising about school days. My music teacher regaled us with an unforgettable story of the morning, in my over zealousness to greet him, I ran whilst waving madly and slid, feet first through a glass door, shattering it to smithereens and coming out unscathed at the other side!

By hour 36 of not sleeping we were on the london underground tube heading towards Paddington station desperately trying to stay wake long enough to catch our overnight train down to Penzance. Any long blink meant we instantly fell into a delicious sleep like state, only to be rudely shocked out of it by a gentle nudge from the other. Delirious from sleep deprivation we boarded the train and were ecstatic to find our berth contained a set of bunk beds. But we were too tired to appreciate the other conveniences such as personal sink, towels and wash bag, just like you would receive in first class travel on a plane - very cool. Without even getting into the bed or taking off my jacket, I laid down fully clothed and fell asleep to the gentle rhythms of the train.

The conductor of this totally delux but extremely cheap (69 pound for 2 tickets) train woke us up at 7 am with tea and croissants and with enough time to get ourselves together for arrival in Penzance at 8:00 a.m. I can definitely recommend this mode of travel.



Next came the obligatory full English breakfast (minus the meat) in a greasy cafe - our attempt to store up calories for the long walk ahead - followed by a bus down to Land's End. No picture at the sign as a bus load of bikers had shown up at the same time as us (see below)


We turned left at Land's End away from the tourist mecca and within seconds we were out on the open trail

And how wonderful it was.

Instantly I felt an incredible sense of well being. The trail stretched out in front of us along the cliffs and below, under my boots it felt firm, compared to the seemingly dodgy ground I had been walking for the last year or so. The salty sea air entered into my nasal passages, filled my lungs and coursed on through my body fuelling me with a wonderful, distantly familiar energy and clearness - a nasal irrigation using a virtual neti pot containing the South West Coastal path



That's what we are here for..... The South West Coastal path (SWCP). I walked the northern part of it two years ago and Curt and I are here to complete the southern part. It runs from Land's End to Poole and hugs the South coast of England for 360 miles - this time we will be walking west to east and keeping the sea to our right. We have five weeks to complete this and to accomplish our goal we have left our 16 year old son home alone in Utah. Yikes - more about this later because I am bursting to describe our first day on the trail

So, as I was infusing my senses with the beauty of my surroundings and thinking that I must be luckiest person alive to be doing something I loved so much, I skipped off a small rock - my knee buckled and I went face down, sprawled across the trail. Luckily I had Curt to pick me up but it was a reminder of the fact I was carrying a lot of weight on my back and my leg muscles were not strong enough yet to stabilise my joints. As I looked down the sheer cliff face to my right, I also realised that if I fell like that in the wrong place or twisted an ankle I would be over the edge. Curt and I made a pact that we would be more careful - as we took a wrong turn and ended up scrambling along a path that went dangerously close to the edge!

The weather was overcast, breezy and slightly chilly but not raining. I had received an email from my friend Sharon just before we left, advising that we should bring warm clothes and tons of rain gear as the weather was atrocious. In a moment of uncharacteristic preparedness, I checked out the extended weather forecast and found instead a thesaurus of words that described rain: shower, downpour, drizzle, thunder storm, torrent, cloudburst, precipitation and so on...... we went straight out and bought a couple of delightful looking yellow ponchos aka bin liners with hoods. Apparently though I have been told by every Brit - in that gleeful tone they use when describing the weather - that there is a drought here and even a hose pipe ban. Panic has set in because of the unusually dry winter. But for the last few weeks it has done nothing but rain, causing floods and coining the term "the wettest drought we have ever experienced".

We continued on along the path as it hugged the cliff tops and dipped down into coves with charming fishing villages, littered with gayly painted wooden boats, tangled fishing nets, lobster baskets, rusty metal chains, anchors and other fishing paraphernalia. Brightly coloured buoys of various sizes hung in nets from the sturdy, beautifully simple grey granite walls of the homes - no doubt housing generations of fishermen and their families and representing the harshness of their environment.













We bumped into plenty of fellow ramblers along the way and it's worth a mention about how these walkers differ from American hikers. Britain has it's serious ramblers, discernible by trousers tucked in boots, gortex jackets and maps in map cases strung around their necks. But there are also the other types, often ancient, wearing whatever they care to and looking as though they could barely walk around the house, let alone a national trail. I love to see these walkers out and they are invariably friendly, as though it's the social aspect of the walk they want. One elderly, ruddy faced gentleman with a thick Yorkshire accent and arthritic wife (i'm allowed to say this as I am also an arthritic wife) in tow, kept us talking for a while and was openly proud and overjoyed just to be out. This is in contrast to the American hiker, often younger, fitter and easily recognisable as a hiker type by Patagonia/REI clothing even when sitting at the bar.

The trail continued on, our packs getting heavier and our feet wearier. About mile ten, Curt developed a problem - his legs would no longer work. He explained that they are used to going up and up to the top, then down and down to the bottom. This is how mountains work in Colorado and Utah. Not this roller coaster of a trail. I've been married to curt for 24 years, how could I not know of this lactic acid, roller coaster leg issue? I explained to him that we had 350 miles more of this but because of his easy going attitude and laid back character he hobbled on, cringing with every step, telling me not to worry and that it would improve. Actually I was worried and it made for very slow going. My legs were of course tired but at least they were still functioning; however, the weight of my pack was becoming unbearable, my hips and feet aching badly and I was completely exhausted. I guess I must have blanked out these bad parts of my last trip, favouring instead only the good memories and the culmination of my achievements. I also knew I could do it last time, so I could do it again.

We finally descended into our last cove of the day, Lamorna and having no idea of where to stay for the night, we decided to take a bus back to Castle Horneck, a familiar location with known facilities.

So here we are, having spent our first night back in the tent. My head has just emerged from the depths of my sleeping bag and having broken focus from this blog for a second, I have realised that it's now light outside, the birds are singing and the sheep are all bleating their hearts out. It is a brand new day and I can't wait to get back on the trail again but first a YHA breakfast is in order.



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