South West Coastal Path 2015 Day 32

Friday 25^th September 2015

I was out of the B&B with a zest, knowing that there was an extra 13km added to the day to walk inland and back out due to the missing ferry. Things did not go according to plan.

Up the hill, along the footpath, hit the golf course, as expected, then down along 2 edges of a field of crops to emerge at by the river’s edge at the … ferry landing??

There had been no sign of a side path on my way down, so I walked a short distance up the river until it was clear there was no path there. I backtracked up the hill, found a way-marker, came back down the hill, found no other way to go, so went back up to the golf course.

I saw some workers at a green and went to walk over to them, but they were rather rude; they started yelling, telling me it was private land. I managed to tell them I was trying to find the path and asked for help, but all they said was to walk up the riverbank.

I walked back down, keeping a keen eye out for a path I might have missed, got to the river again, began walking up it, slipping and sliding over seaweed covered rocks that would normally be covered by water. As the river was tidal and the tide was out, the water level was lower.

Past the rocks there was shallow water-covered mudflats. I walked out, still in my boots, which quickly got wet, and was trying to cross a small inlet were a stream joined the river. One foot went down… and down… and into sucking mud. The next foot came forward almost automatically and repeated the same action. I tried lifting a foot and couldn’t; it was submerged in thick, mud. I was sinking.

My heart leapt into my throat and I had a moment of panic, wondering if I was in a quicksand type situation. Luckily I stopped sinking with the water around my knees, but I had no way to move, and wasn’t sure if there wasn’t something less stable (what’s less stable than sinking mud?) if I managed to move forward.

Ahead of me, on the riverbank, was the back garden to a house. I didn’t see anyone, but I called out anyway. “Hello?”

A woman’s head popped up from behind a low wall, where she must have been weeding or planting. She glances over and says in a clear English accent “Oh, hello. Are you stuck?”

When I responded in the affirmative, she told me to wait while she got her husband. I imagined him arriving, with long planks and a coil of rope to aid rescuing me, but when he did arrive, he just walked to the water’s edge and instructed me to walk further out into the river (which seemed counterintuitive to me). I explained I was stuck fast, but he just said that is what I had to do. I strained to lift a leg, and my foot came right out of my boot, leaving it buried in wet river mud. I didn’t want to lose my walking boots; they were rather expensive, so I balanced on the one buried foot, my muddy sock covered other foot lifted out of the water, making me resemble some caricature ballerina, or some physically challenged stork. I leant down and put my arms underwater and fumbled for where my boot was. I pulled and dug and wriggled but managed to pull out my boot with a wet, underwater pop. It was full of, and covered in, water and thick mud.

There was no choice. I pulled off my wet sock and put my bare foot down into the mud. I hadn’t achieved much, other than rescuing a boot, but my bare foot slid in and out of the mud a lot easier, so I repeated the action with my other foot. Finally, in bare feet and clutching two boot-shaped globs of dripping mud, I did as the gentleman instructed and walked out deeper into the river. Lo and behold, the mud disappeared and there was a firm sandy bottom.

“Now, walk upstream to me,” the man said as he removed his own footwear and entered the river. I followed. He told me he was going to lead me across the river. But, I cried, the guidebook had warned that under no circumstances was I to do that; it was too dangerous. He scoffed, telling me he crossed a few times a week to visit the pub downriver on the other bank.

Finally, scrambling up the far riverbank, having crossed without getting my shorts wet (although I was pulling them up to my crotch to keep them dry), I thanked him profusely as he turned to return home.

I washed my socks and boots as best as I could in the shallows, removing most of the mud. When I reached dry ground, I wrung the socks out, put them on, and then put on my wet boots.

One would think with wet socks and wet boots that you were at a much greater risk of getting a blister, but that did not happen. I attribute it to the merino wool socks.

On the plus side, my 21km walk which was to become a 34km walk suddenly was back to a 21km walk.