Tag Archives: trails

Three days on the ‘pinch of salt path’

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A brief encounter of the naked kind was just one of the unexpected happenings during three days on the South West Coastal Path.

We’ve been on a mission for a few days – a “training” mission apparently – preparing for a possible long hike along the coast of Portugal to Santiago de Compostella. This would be a 170-mile pilgrimage journey over a couple of weeks, if we can manage it.

As we have one of the world’s best hiking routes on our doorstep we decided to test out our endurance levels with three days back-to-back walking. This was a bit of a first for us.

Having completed other parts of the ‘salt path’ over the past few years, we decided to fill in some of the stretches we hadn’t pulled in. The first day dawned with some light cloud and a gentle breeze and I quickly realised I would mainly be walking solo as my hiking partner’s long stride was impossible to keep pace with. 

One of the things keeping me going on all the ups and downs and twists and turns was taking off my walking boots and having a swim in the clear waters of Lannacombe bay. This was also the point at which we turned round and retraced our steps to Gara Rock.

En route we’d passed some amazing rocky outcrops and hidden sandy coves where the path became narrow and it was a bit of a scramble through the rocks, with a very steep drop below us. I was just recovering from one of these rocky passages and keeping my eyes on the uneven path, when I looked ahead and saw a man in a rucksack approaching. The path was very narrow and I realised he had stopped to let me pass. It was then I realised why he was holding his hat in particular position. He was completely naked – apart from his boots.

It had turned into a balmy afternoon and I’m sure he was enjoying the sun on his back (and his butt). As I squeezed past him, I thanked him for waiting and thought for a millisecond about saying, “Nice hat!”. I resisted the temptation to look back at his bare essentials heading along the cliff. However, when I eventually caught up with my walking partner, he gave me a blow-by-blow description of everything I’d missed. I’d heard of naked hikers, but this was the first one I’d met… he certainly helped brighten up the last few miles of that day!

Blisters = 0

Blackberries eaten = 5

Wildlife = 2 seals and a slowworm

Water = not enough

On the morning of day two, although we knew all the right things to pack, we were tired. So, when we eventually sat down for lunch by Mothercombe beach, we discovered I had forgotten to pack the lemon Fanta. Small things (especially food and drink items) seem to take on enormous importance on a hike and it took one of us some time to get over the disappointment of only having water to drink.

While we were waiting for the sun to come out, we chatted to another pair of hikers from Belgium who were heading east, hoping to cross the river Erme somehow. They ended up persuading a man with a dinghy to take them across with their packs. Breaking away from his birthday beach party, he bundled one ruck sack and one girl into the little dinghy and set off against the tide, the dinghy lying low in the water. Meanwhile we went for a swim and expected to see him appearing back around the headland for his second passenger. 

A long while later we spotted him rowing the dinghy to his yacht, which was anchored some way off the beach. We assumed he’d run out of fuel. Drying off from our swim, we watched as he reached the yacht – hopefully he would pick up his fuel and return shortly. But a few minutes later we spotted the dinghy floating across the bay, away from the yacht, and he wasn’t on it! The drama continued. On the beach, the other hiker was on her phone messaging her friend. The party on the shore, looked across the water as the lone yachtsman pulled up his anchor and went in pursuit of his dinghy, which can’t have been tied up securely. Although we really should have been setting off again, we couldn’t leave until we’d seen the outcome of the seaside rescue!

In the end the dinghy was retrieved, the yacht was re-anchored and the sailor returned to the shore. He collected the other hiker and her pack and sped across to the far beach to reunite her with her friend. It was turning out to be a very eventful day on the salt path.

As we were nearing the end of our journey that day, we’d skirted round a large mobile home park on the cliffs and passed a lot of people coming and going from there with their dogs. I now owe an apology to the man in the straw trilby we passed later that afternoon. I had made a disparaging comment about his orange T-shirt and white socks being an indication that he’d come from the holiday park. No sooner had I said this quite loudly, to catch the ear of my fellow hiker who was striding ahead, than I turned round to see him directly behind me. I jumped and let out a stifled gasp. He asked me what was wrong, and I said he’d given me a shock as I hadn’t realised he was behind me. I don’t think I could have gone any redder, as I was already flushed with the sun and walking.

Blisters = 1

Blackberries eaten = 10

Wildlife = another slowworm

Water supply = just right

Day three it was a little harder to get up and out, but I had packed the lemon Fanta this time – it was double checked before we left the house. The clouds were gathering as we drove into the car park where we would start our walk towards Plymouth.

Reaching back for our boots, there was an ominous, “Oh, no. I’ve left my socks behind.”

This was bad news, I didn’t think much walking could be done without a pair of hiking socks. Surely this was a larger error than forgetting the Fanta? Luckily, as I’ve developed a blister I had my trainers in the car with a pair of thick white socks in them. It turned out they fitted size 11 feet also! I glanced across at my fellow hiker, he was now wearing white socks and in his bag was an orange fleecy top! We both burst out laughing – it was a good way to start the day.

The rain came eventually once we’d reached our destination and as we trudged through the woods back along the coast, we could hear the foghorn from a ferry booming through the mist. A marker by the path said Poole was 175 miles from this point, which means there is a lot more “training” to be done!

Blisters = 1

Blackberries eaten = 15

Water supply = 2 spare bottles

Lost in the jungle – just for an afternoon

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How hard can it be walking down a hill for a few hours? Well throw in a jungle, 37 degree heat and a lack of signs and it turns out to be quite difficult…

Last month I found myself staying for a few nights in Penang – a small island off Malaysia. It was meant to be a mini break with a colleague, which we had tagged onto the back of a week of work meetings in Kuala Lumpur. We had both decided it would be nice to take some time to explore a little of Malaysia and take some time to relax.

The word ‘relax’ didn’t fit too well into the first morning. Due to the extreme heat, we decided to pick up a ‘grab’ (Asian uber) at 7am and head to the historic George Town before the temperatures overtook us. We enjoyed meandering round the streets filled with murals that reminded me of Banksy and enjoyed photographing a huge variety of doors and ornate buildings, along with a stroll through the ramshackle market stalls on the jetties.

As the heat started to crank up we caught another grab to the foot of Penang Hill and bought tickets for the funicular railway which would take us to the top. The plan was to enjoy the shade of the trees and cooler air higher up as well as the views and the wildlife. 

The journey on the train was a little longer than I had envisaged – after all this was just a hill. And as it rose higher through the trees we could see paths and steps descending below. I wondered how long it would take us to walk down.

After enjoying lunch Malaysian-style with the vista of George town spread out below, slightly obscured by the clouds, we started to look for the start of the path down. The monkeys chattering overhead distracted us for a while and we eventually had to ask a passing man in running gear and trainers if he knew the way down the ‘hill’.

“You walking?” he asked. We nodded enthusiastically. He was looking at our feet – both displaying less than sturdy sandals.

“You can go that way, but probably the jeep track is best.” And he pointed at our shoes… or lack of them.

My colleague, Annette, is from New Zealand and didn’t fancy a track used by cars.

“How bad can it be?” she said. And so we followed the path down.

The jungle lined trail zig zagged down the hillside and we were encouraged by meeting other hikers coming up. They gave us breathless greetings and carried on in their trainers and walking poles. We continued to slither a bit in sandals.

There were some intersections at various points without any signs, we followed our noses, which took us to someone’s house. So, we trailed back up the hill, breathing heavily as sweat began to drip down our faces. We didn’t want to make any more navigation errors in this heat. But half an hour later we found ourselves back at a gateway, with images of guard dogs on the entrance.

As we retraced our steps yet again, I told Annette I had seen the pictures of an animal higher up on a tree but, as I wasn’t wearing my glasses, I had thought it was a tiger – which is more worrying a tiger or a guard dog?

The lack of signs and the apparent inaccuracies of the map we’d taken a photo of higher up, were beginning to become frustrating. As we finally began heading on what we thought was the right path, a young man in trainers bounded across to us and asked if we knew the way. We felt confident we’d found the trail at last and he seemed to agree and quickly overtook us. We saw him pause at yet another junction in the path lower down, before turning left. We followed on, which turned out to be a mistake. The path became narrow and steep. But there were ropes built into the trees to hold onto and the trail quickly evolved into a kind of assault course, where we had to descend backwards, holding the ropes and at some points swing ourselves round steep rocky drops to the path below. The sandals were doing their best, but they were only sandals.

We’d been going sometime now and occasionally had glimpses of the train through the trees or heard it rumbling by up above. The climbing ropes eventually joined the proper path we should have taken and there were several more dead ends before we finally came out into a clearing where we could see one of the midway railway stations and the houses and town below seemed a little closer.

It was gone two in the afternoon and the sun was intense. We could hear voices on the other side of the railway and began to fear we were on the wrong path again. A narrow trail led left and right below. Which was the right way? We were very tired and hot. The water was running low and we needed a sign. 

“Oh God, please give us a sign!” I said, and it was a kind of prayer. We stepped towards the path leading directly down and passed under a wooden arch. As we turned to look back, we saw the sign for the Penang Hill Trail directly over our heads. We had found the official path at last.

However, finding the path was just the beginning of a very long walk downhill filled with steps that seemed to go on forever. Our legs were becoming very wobbly, and we started counting to 20 steps and then stopping for a rest, but the mosquitoes soon had us moving on again.

When we finally found our way back we headed for cool drinks in a café and nursed our aching limbs as we waited for a grab to take us back to the apartment. Plans for an evening out on the town were on hold, in favour of a bit of a lie down in a cool room!

Penang ‘Hill’ turned out to be more of an adventure than we had planned and it took some time for our muscles to recover from that afternoon stroll through the Malaysian jungle. 

I am not sure Malaysians use the word ‘hill’ in the same way as us at all – we’re calling it ‘Penang Mountain’ because that’s what it felt like that afternoon.

5 bears in 4 days

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Canadian bears are a bit like buses. You wait for hours with none, then four come along all at once.

It was our seventh day in Canada and I’d begun to wonder if the bears were just a tourism ploy to lure us in with false hopes. We’d seen plenty of wonderful sights including thunderous water falls showering us in spray from impossible heights, deep rocky canyons where ice blue water gushed through narrow channels, turquoise lakes glistening in the sunlight and many more spectacular sights from hiking trails with panoramic views. I’d given myself the shakes standing too near the edge of a rocky outcrop on the Bee Hive above Lake Louise. We’d crossed snow covered paths on steep shale slopes and eaten numerous bananas to get us the last few miles back on some long hikes up and down mountains and beside crystal lakes which changed colours under the passing clouds. 

Now we were heading north to Jasper and the number of times I was banging my head in the camper van were decreasing. We stopped for lunch where the roaring Athabasca river meets Kicking Horse river, which reminded me of a scene from a cowboy film where horses cross just before an ambush. It was just after this that we spotted the bear. The sharp eyed driver saw something black moving up ahead and as we drew up we could see the bear bumbling along happily in the greenery beside the road apparently munching anything in sight. We were the only vehicle there, so we had him to ourselves. Disobeying the well laid down rules someone jumped out camera in hand and started snapping away. The bear, and it was a small very cute looking black bear with a brown nose and lovely eyes, continued his foraging and turned helpfully to gaze towards the camera at one point. From the safety of the van, I was fretting about the mother being in the area, as he was clearly quite young. By now we had caused a bit of a jam, so we moved up to a pull in. As the bear began crossing the road behind us, the Parks Canada patrol pulled up with words of warning to the driver/photographer who was asked politely to get back in the vehicle. This little reprimand couldn’t destroy our joy at seeing the bear so close to us and capturing our best photos so far.

Parks Canada staff patrol the park vigilantly in white trucks with a green stripe. They are a bit like school prefects. You know you’re doing something you shouldn’t… Ah, look behind, there is a Parks Canada truck just on cue! It happened each time we saw a bear – well almost. Anytime we were contemplating a slight deviation from the rules, one would appear! How did they know? It’s a mystery.

Our next bear sighting was the following day as we drove into our campsite, where we were warned a bear had been ‘hanging out’ an hour earlier, so be careful. We drove slowly round and suddenly spotted a large black bear munching grass by a picnic table in an empty camp spot. He stared straight at us and it was probably his size and proximity that made us stay in the van at first – he was only a few feet away. Just as he began moving away and we thought about getting out, yes, you guessed, the Parks Canada truck appeared behind us and started hooting at the bear to encourage it to go up the hill away from the campsite. The photos weren’t quite what we’d hoped for.

The next day en route south two more bears were spotted along the roadside, munching. Another large black bear and at last a young ginger coloured grizzly. We felt quite happy that we’d enjoyed a few sightings and captured some snaps to prove it. The following day we saw another black bear with his back to us, sitting on a grassy bank in the sunshine. Unfortunately, the Parks Canada patrol put a stop to photos that afternoon and we all left the bear to enjoy his picnic in peace.

Seeing the bears had made me a little more cautious about hiking in ‘beary’ type habitat. But we’d been in Canada well over a week and reckoned a path along the side of the lake was somewhere we wouldn’t need bear spray. We were wrong. Half an hour in the path veered into the woods where a large sign said hikers should travel in groups of four or more and carry bear spray as this was a place where grizzly bears lived and ate their lunch. We both hesitated and looked up at the track ahead. It was a fair way to go back for the bear spray… Luckily for us another hiker appeared and we asked if he would be happy for us to tag along, explaining about the lack of bear spray. Jeff was a jolly Canadian ‘postie’ (postal worker) out for a day hike.

“Sure, I’ll hike with you. I don’t have bear spray, but I have dog spray!”

I was thinking flea spray and wondering if it would do the trick. But he fished an aerosol can out of his pocket. Apparently, it was of a similar kind of ‘defensive weapon’ and should do the job in an emergency.

“I tested it in a paper bag before I left and I couldn’t stop sneezing, so I know it works.” He assured us.

I had a picture of a bear blowing his nose into an embroidered hankie and shaking his head, saying, “You made me sneeze… why did you make me sneeze?”

Jeff filled us in on his bear encounters in Lake Louise when he was working on the gondola lift during a ski season. He hadn’t seen any today, just some long horned sheep on the road coming in. On the way back, pepper spray untouched, we spotted some long horned sheep who crossed the trail ahead of us. There were several sweet looking lambs and what looked like a large ram who hovered on a rock above the path. Cameras were clicking and this obviously made the ram nervous. Seconds later he was trotting towards us very purposefully with his head down. I skipped further up the path followed by my fellow hiker, stowing his camera and saying, “I thought he was coming for me.” Meanwhile, Jeff had scrambled to take cover behind a large tree, pepper spray to hand. As he caught up and we were all striding away down the track, with a steep drop bedside us, the ram continued to follow us. Every few metres he would stop and turn his back on us, as if to say, “Run and hide – I’m coming to get you!” Jeff showed us the red scrapes from the tree on his arm and said the story of a ‘killer sheep’ on the Minnewanker (yes, it is spelt like that!) Lake trail would be told around the campfire that night, with some embellishments.

Tonight will be our last in the Rockies as we head back to civilisation tomorrow. It has been a blast – living in the outdoors and enjoying all kinds of weather and sights. Most wonderful has been the wild life, especially the fury kind. I wish I could smuggle a little black bear home with me – but I know they’re for the wild, not really for cuddling. 

Photo credits: Simon Farmer