The West Country Way day 4: Devonset

Tiverton to Yelland

Today was ridiculous.

We planned to wild camp tonight, so left later this morning so as to avoid to early a finish and being spotted by some angry farmer as we no doubt disturbed crops in his field setting up our tent.

After a hearty breakfast at the Lowman, we packed up and departed up the high street before a smug descent out of Tiverton singing at the top of my voice. I then checked the map, found that I’d imagined the route to be this way, and quietly climbed back up the hill. Well done me.

The road to Bamford was undulating. Or, actually effing hilly. Hills with multiple false summits are my favourite. The guide I was reading only mentioned ‘killer hills’ from the halfway point in our day so what the hell were these little bastards doing here?

• 

• 

It was a glorious day…. Perfect for sunbathing.

The lanes in Devonland are jurassic, tall and narrow, braken well above head height. It’s magic.

• 

• 

We barely saw a soul.

We descended rapidly through Bamford and continued on in the same sweaty hilly manner into Dulverton.

We brewed tea by the river in preparation for the aforementioned ‘killer climb’ which is marked on the map with not one, but two steep incline chevrons. After our tranquil break, having already practically cycled up Everest this morning, this was a total joke. But, one I was prepared to nervously chuckle along with. Neither of us put a foot down so we laugh in the face of the (first) killer hill.

• 

• 

I find, if you just tell yourself there is always more hill and that it will never be over, then you’re never really disappointed, even when they go on for the rest of your life.

Eventually, we found ourselves on the actual top. From here we had miles and miles of undulating Exmoor beauty on a super sunny day. It’s was glorious.

We stopped at lunch time to have, lunch. Shelley downed the rest of her Desperate Dan sized Calzone from last nights dinner and the professed she had no recollection of doing such a thing. She must have been hungry. Or maybe she’s got Hyperthermia…. One of the two.

• 

• 

Onwards, and ten more sweaty miles until the descent off the top. Around this point we were both feeling the 1200m of ascent on our day and began to make loud grunting noises up the remaining hills. Which absolutely helped a lot.

Just as we thought we were on the final descent off the top, another single chevron hill came to kick us in the thighs.

We made it to the little village of Bratton Flemming where we had all our limbs crossed that the pub would be open. On arrival, it was evident that it had closed, permanently. But, opposite was a fully stocked and super welcoming village store. We were both dripping with sweat and grime, so purchased ice lollies and flopped on the benches outside. The extraordinarily welcoming shopstress filled our water bottles and stowed them in the fridge while we rested.

• 

• 

From here we had no plan as this was to be the end-ish of our day. Heavy rain was forecast tomorrow and we’d planned to wild camp tonight. We dithered about for a bit then decided to pedal in to Barnstaple and see where we ended up. Which, after a long and glorious descent, turned out to be a bar. Which I know will come as a surprise.

• 

We were feeling pretty pleased with our mega day as we sat and ate a full mound of Olives in about 60 seconds. We decided to wait here for a while as finding a wilcamp nearby would be easier later.

Barnstaple is a pretty grotty little river port town, where the river Taw flows into the Bristol Channel, fond memories of my time living in grotty Kings Lynn were remembered here.

We pushed on at around 7pm onto the Tarka Trail, which, around Barnstaple was fairly well populated with evening cyclists, walkers and the like. We found a bench overlooking the estuary and cooked up a mega dinner on my little stove.

• 

• 

With big pasta bellies in tow, we carried on up the trail to get further away from Barnstaple and look for a sneaky camp spot. After a bit of faff around Shelley’s fear of cows and being caught camping illegally, she discovered another mile up ahead was a ‘proper’ campsite. One of Shelleys very few flaws, is not being illegal enough for my liking.

We arrived to a tiny picturesque field and when searching for the owners to pay them, we stumbled upon a bar, in a horse milking barn with a highly autistic and hilarious proprietor.

• 

• 

• 

After a pint of his really delectable homebrew we slept like big heavy logs in our little tent home.

• 

• 

Miles: bloody all of them