Notes from the coast path
The coast path is never as flat as it looks on the map. Every stream that reaches the sea cuts a valley, and every valley means a steep descent and a steeper climb out the other side.
Over four days I counted thirty-one of them. My legs counted more.
In return there were seals hauled out on the rocks below a headland, a village where the only shop also sold fishing licences and birthday cards, and an evening when the sea went completely still and pink for about ten minutes before the light went.
