 Burgh Island
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Day 2 - Haybrook Bay - Ringmore
Author: Jason
Statistics:
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Bryan's Ferry
"Tracy Island". F.A.B
During Today’s walk we had two key obstacles to overcome. Firstly, there was a ferry crossing over the River Yealm. This particular ferry only operated between Easter and September, so we’d deliberately planned this stage of the walk around these restrictions. Secondly, we needed to wade across the River Erme. The River Erme is the only point on the entire SWCP that requires wading. All other rivers/streams either have a ferry, a bridge, or stepping stones that are exposed at low tide. The Erme has none of these, and can only be safely waded one hour either side or low tide.
Staying the night in Haybrook Bay was all part of the intricate planning for Today’s crossings. It was only about 3 miles from the ferry at the Yealm - in fact it was the nearest accommodation to it - which meant we should be able to comfortably reach the ferry by 10:00am when it started operating. It was critical that we caught the first ferry of the day because after crossing the Yealm we had another 9 miles of stiff walking to reach the wade at the Erme. Low tide Today was at 12:00, so we had a window from 11:00 to 13:00 to reach it. In other words, 2 to 3 hours to walk 9 miles. If we didn’t make it in time we’d need to detour around the river, which would add another 10 miles to the day's walking.
As we left the B&B the landlady gave us a cheery send off, and informed us that if we got to the ferry early the ferryman was usually happy to take people across before the official start of operations at 10:00. This was good news as we could potentially get a little ahead of schedule. The weather was also good, so a great days walking was in prospect.
The day started with some beachside walking along a well maintained path. On our right about a mile out to sea we could see a small island called the Great Mew Stone. We decided to nickname this TraceyIsland, because it looked a bit like International Rescue’s secret based, minus the palm trees and rocket launch pads. In fact it was the first of about three similar looking islands we encountered during the week, all of which we gave the same nickname to.
In no time at all we reached Wembury - actually, for Dave it probably felt like an eternity as I’d been singing “we’re on the way to Wembury, we’re on the Wembury way” since leaving Haybrook Bay. To be fair after about 45 minutes the “joke” had started to wear a bit thin. There wasn’t much at Wembury apart from a few houses and a coast guard station, so after stopping to take a few pictures we headed onwards. We were making good time. So far, so good.
After some fine clifftop walking we soon reached the estuary of the river Yealm, and slowly descended down the path inland towards the ferry point. It was a fine day, with the sunlight reflecting off the water and the tops of the many boats moored along the river. On the other side of the river we could just about make out the path continuing back up to the opposite clifftop via a nice gentle slope.
Staying the night in Haybrook Bay was all part of the intricate planning for Today’s crossings. It was only about 3 miles from the ferry at the Yealm - in fact it was the nearest accommodation to it - which meant we should be able to comfortably reach the ferry by 10:00am when it started operating. It was critical that we caught the first ferry of the day because after crossing the Yealm we had another 9 miles of stiff walking to reach the wade at the Erme. Low tide Today was at 12:00, so we had a window from 11:00 to 13:00 to reach it. In other words, 2 to 3 hours to walk 9 miles. If we didn’t make it in time we’d need to detour around the river, which would add another 10 miles to the day's walking.
As we left the B&B the landlady gave us a cheery send off, and informed us that if we got to the ferry early the ferryman was usually happy to take people across before the official start of operations at 10:00. This was good news as we could potentially get a little ahead of schedule. The weather was also good, so a great days walking was in prospect.
The day started with some beachside walking along a well maintained path. On our right about a mile out to sea we could see a small island called the Great Mew Stone. We decided to nickname this TraceyIsland, because it looked a bit like International Rescue’s secret based, minus the palm trees and rocket launch pads. In fact it was the first of about three similar looking islands we encountered during the week, all of which we gave the same nickname to.
In no time at all we reached Wembury - actually, for Dave it probably felt like an eternity as I’d been singing “we’re on the way to Wembury, we’re on the Wembury way” since leaving Haybrook Bay. To be fair after about 45 minutes the “joke” had started to wear a bit thin. There wasn’t much at Wembury apart from a few houses and a coast guard station, so after stopping to take a few pictures we headed onwards. We were making good time. So far, so good.
After some fine clifftop walking we soon reached the estuary of the river Yealm, and slowly descended down the path inland towards the ferry point. It was a fine day, with the sunlight reflecting off the water and the tops of the many boats moored along the river. On the other side of the river we could just about make out the path continuing back up to the opposite clifftop via a nice gentle slope.
Approaching the River Yealm ferry
Soon we entered some woodland which provided some welcome shade, then passed a small wooden gate that marked the start of the track to the ferry. We passed the sign that was used to indicate when the ferry wasn’t running, but it was thankfully at the side of the track, not on the gate, thus implying the ferry was running as expected. A non-running ferry would have been a major problem for us. Fifty metres or so down the track we reached the ferry, at which point the wheels fell off our well oiled machine! In fact the wheels, doors, roof, chassis, engine and all other major components fell off it!
The ferry jetty was blocked off by a steel wire fence, attached to which was a large sign with the phrase “Ferry Closed Until Further Notice” written in bold red lettering across it. I looked at Dave, Dave looked at me, we both looked at the river.
To say this was a bit of a problem is a mild understatement. We basically had one viable option if we couldn’t cross the river via ferry, a 12 mile inland detour along roads. But the “fun” didn’t end there. After reaching the other side we’d then have the 9 mile walk to the river Erme, which we’d now reach way outside of the S.T.W.W (safe to wade window). In fact, we’d reach it at about high tide! This meant we’d need to do another 10 mile detour to get around the Erme. Oh happy days! The only other option open to us was to swim across a very deep, cold, fast moving river, that was littered with bouys, mooring ropes and other hazards. There were probably a few jelly fish swimming about as well for good measure.
While we were contemplating our predicament we noticed a small dingy approaching. It appeared to have launched from one of the many boats moored in the river, and contained a middle-aged couple. They were obviously coming ashore. The following equation began to form in our minds:
(Two blokes that need to cross a river) + (man with boat) = Salvation.
Trouble was, this was not a ferryman, it was merely a bloke innocently going about his day to day business . A business I’m fairly sure that did not involve ferries or the transportation of members of the public and their baggage across rivers. Dave decided to engage the man in the boat in conversation, firstly asking him if the ferry was running. A strange question to ask you might think as we already knew damn well it wasn’t. There was a bloody great big sign attached to a fence stating it wasn’t if we needed any clarification on the matter. The man not surprisingly replied that the ferry wasn’t running. Apparently services has been suspended due to some Health & Safety issues regarding the ferry’s jetty, no doubt enforced by some Euro bureaucrats in Brussels. I started to see Dave’s tactic though, get the man in the boat chatting, make him our mate. The sort of mate that might offer to take us across the river in his boat. Dave then asked the Ferryman - notice I’ve already started referring to him as a ferryman, despite the fact he clearly was not one - if there was a quick detour we could take to get around the river. Again, a question we both already knew the answer to. The Ferryman replied that it was a 12 mile inland detour. We both feigned total shock, surprise and alarm when given this piece of information.
At this point Mrs Ferryman - who incidentally I suspect in reality was not married to a ferry operator - got out of the boat and started to climb ashore. This involved climbing up a fairly rickety metal ladder that had been attached to the river bank. Now Dave is always a helpful chappie, and a gentleman, but I must say I have never seen such and overblown and elaborate display of helpfulness while he assisted the lady ashore. He could not have been more helpful, or indeed made it more bloody obvious to the Ferryman that he was being really helpful. At one point I thought he was going to throw his jacket on the floor for the lady to walk over in the style of Sir Walter Raleigh.
Unfortunately, the man in the boat still hadn’t twigged that we had a new career in mind for him. Specifically, a career in the Business Sector that relates to floaty things with engines that are used to take people across rivers. Our next tactic was to use some telekinesis. Both myself and Dave looked at the man and mentally projected the phrase “please take us over the river in your boat” towards him using all of our mind-power. I remember seeing an episode of Arthur C Clarke’s Mysterious World in the 1980’s where someone from the Soviet Union was shown shattering a plate of glass by mind-power alone. We didn’t need anything so dramatic, just for a man to take us across a river. Hopefully he’d pick up “our vibes”, or maybe his head would explode and we could nick his boat.
Finally, due to the combined efforts of the “psionic assault”, Dave being the most helpful man in the World, and our last puppy dog in the petshop faces, the man suddenly said, “Well, I suppose I could take you over in my boat...”.
“Oh, could you? That would be great. We hadn’t even thought of that”, we both replied, as sincerely as possible.
I clambered down the ladder and climbed aboard the dinghy before the man had a chance to change his mind. It was a very small craft, so I just about managed to fit on the single available free seat . I then safely stowed with my rucksack behind me on the remaining free deckspace. Unexpectedly the Ferryman then instructed Dave to also climb aboard. I’d assumed that due to the size of the boat that it would require two trips to get us both across, but the Ferryman had other ideas. He was of course a professional ferry operator, so who were we to argue. Somehow Dave managed to perch himself on the rim of the dingy, with his rucksack balanced precariously next to him. It was a tricky balancing act for him, requiring him to hold on like grim death as we slowly crossed the river. I’m happy to report that I was extremely comfortable in my lovely seat, as no doubt was my rucksack which was snuggly stowed away. During the crossing we could see numerous strong river currents swirling around the boat, so any brief thoughts we may have had regarding swimming across were confirmed as a bad idea. The currents also reminded Dave that he needed to hold on very tightly during the crossing.
When we reached the far shore the Ferryman advised me that I’d need to jump onto the jetty when we got close to it so that I could secure the rope. This resulted in a death defying leap from me that a Royal Marine would have been proud of. Once we were both safely ashore we thanked the Ferryman - he really had saved the day - and offered to give him some money for his trouble. At first he refused saying is was no problem.
“Use it to get your wife some flowers”, I suggested.
“No really it’s fine”, he replied.
“Or to get a few pints”, offered Dave.
“Oh, alright then”, said the Ferryman, taking the cash and wishing us a good day.
It just goes to show there are still decent people out there. What a gent. I hope the beers were good, he really deserved them. If by a billion-to-one chance Mrs Ferryman ever reads this site the bit about the flowers was a joke by the way.
Strong prevailing winds along the Warren.
Disaster averted we headed onwards, conscious that we needed to get a good pace going to reach the river Erme in time to wade across it. Fortunately this section of the path took the form of a wide track known locally as the The Warren, so the going was fairly easy. We’d read in our guidebook that the Warren had been constructed in the 1700s by a wealthy land owner. It’s sole purpose was to allow him to travel in comfort in his horse-drawn carriage from his house in Moss Nayo to his favourite picnic spot up on the clifftop. The Warren ran for a good 5 miles and was a construction on a grand scale. To keep the track as level as possible there were a number of long deep cuttings through the rocks, and huge man made plateaus cut into the side of the cliff. The whole thing must have required the excavation of 1000’s of tons of soil and rock. Quite an extravagance really considering it was constructed simply to allow some geezer to have a nice spot to eat his sarnies!
Eventually we reached the end of the Warren and the normal footpath resumed. The going then got a lot more hilly, with one particular rabbit hole strewn steep descent being very difficult to negotiate. After a few hills the inevitable happened and I started to feel the distinct sensation of a blister forming on my heel. A quick stop and the removal of my boot and sock confirmed a really nasty one had appeared. It wouldn’t be the South West Coast Path without me picking up a blister or two. I applied some Compeed, a new sock, and we carried on.
Around 12:30 we reached the River Erme, slap bang in the middle of the S.T.W.W. Perfect timing. In the end it wasn’t a river as such, more really a network of water channels and deltas that ran across the beach. Generally the water appeared to be fairly shallow, but it was extremely fast flowing, plus very silty so we couldn’t see the bottom. We removed our boots, put on our Crocs - which we’d brought along for this very purpose - and waded in. Blimey the water was cold! It felt like it had just run off of a Himalayan glacier rather than Dartmoor. Also, despite only being knee deep it was very powerful. The high flow rate combined with soft shifting sand underfoot made the crossing very tricky. Fortunately we both managed to keep our footing, and didn't take an unwelcome dunking.
After crossing the final channel we sat on some rocks and dried our feet and had a bite to eat. We only had a few snacks with us as we were planning to get a late lunch in Bigbury when we arrived there. That was still about 5 miles away though.
Eventually we reached the end of the Warren and the normal footpath resumed. The going then got a lot more hilly, with one particular rabbit hole strewn steep descent being very difficult to negotiate. After a few hills the inevitable happened and I started to feel the distinct sensation of a blister forming on my heel. A quick stop and the removal of my boot and sock confirmed a really nasty one had appeared. It wouldn’t be the South West Coast Path without me picking up a blister or two. I applied some Compeed, a new sock, and we carried on.
Around 12:30 we reached the River Erme, slap bang in the middle of the S.T.W.W. Perfect timing. In the end it wasn’t a river as such, more really a network of water channels and deltas that ran across the beach. Generally the water appeared to be fairly shallow, but it was extremely fast flowing, plus very silty so we couldn’t see the bottom. We removed our boots, put on our Crocs - which we’d brought along for this very purpose - and waded in. Blimey the water was cold! It felt like it had just run off of a Himalayan glacier rather than Dartmoor. Also, despite only being knee deep it was very powerful. The high flow rate combined with soft shifting sand underfoot made the crossing very tricky. Fortunately we both managed to keep our footing, and didn't take an unwelcome dunking.
After crossing the final channel we sat on some rocks and dried our feet and had a bite to eat. We only had a few snacks with us as we were planning to get a late lunch in Bigbury when we arrived there. That was still about 5 miles away though.
Wading the Erme
After the Erme the footpath became a lot more challenging, with a series of very steep descents and ascents. It also started to get very hot. I was really starting to struggle. My water had run dry and my "engine light" was definitely on. Eventually we made it to Bigbury and found a small cafe called Fryer Tucks - see what he's done there - where we stopped for refreshments. The place couldn’t have been named more appropriately, as at the time I was feeling totally “Friar Tucked” myself. I needed a nice cold drink, but unfortunately the only cold drinks the cafe had available were cans of Full Fat Coke. I hadn’t drunk that stuff since about 1982, but it would have to do given the lack of alternative options. I ordered a coke and a coffee. The “Friar” asked if I would like a strong coffee. I replied yes, assuming he had some sort of fancy espresso machine to produce such a drink. I was wrong, a strong coffee simply meant that he put two spoons of Nescafe in the cup rather than one.
We sat down at some seats that looked out towards Burgh Island, which is a bit like a miniature and less well known St Michael’s Mount. Like it’s more famous cousin it can only be reached on foot at low tide. When the tide is high a weird tractor like contraption is used to transport visitors across to it. The “exclusive hotel” on the island - for that read expensive - is a favourite haunt for the rich and famous. Apparently there are even rules on the island prohibiting the use of cameras, thus sparing the "celebrities" from getting nabbed by the Paperartzi . I’m not sure what the celebs think about traveling on a rusty tractor to get out to the island though. What if they get grease all over their designer clobber?
Once seated I rapidly necked the Coke and coffee. About thirty seconds later I felt ill, very ill. Dave recalls that I suddenly went very grey, and took on a very strange glazed expression, or as he is fond of saying, even more glazed than usual! The heat, lack of food and dehydration during the day had resulted in my body needing urgent refueling. Unfortunately the fuel now being added to it was basically a combination of neat sugar and caffeine. My body did not like this concoction one bit. Either that or the "Fryer" has slipped me a date rape drug! Dave got quite concerned and at one point was convinced I was about to fall into some sort of Cola/Nescafe induced sugar coma. Fortunately, after downing some water - Dave rushed to a nearby ice-cream stall to get some for me - I started to feel better. I decided though that it wouldn’t be wise to complete the remaining two mile section of the walk via the coastal route as planned, but that I would instead head directly cross-country to our B&B. Dave offered to do the same so he could accompany me - what a gent, see it’s not just the wives of potential ferry operators that he’s willing to assist- but I told him to carry on as planned. I’d just take a gentle plod up to the B&B and meet him there. After about 5 minutes of walking I started to feel better as my body came to terms with the chemical assault it had just been bombarded with. Basically something akin to a certain well known “energy drink” that's named after a primary colour and a male bovine.
That evening we had a pleasant meal in a pub called the Journey’s End, where I treated my body to it’s fuel of choice, namely beer and curry. In this instance a fantastic Thai green curry washed down by a few pints of Doombar. The evening was only marred slightly by the arrival of a group of posh blokes on a stag night, who were kind enough to reinforced the stereotype associated with such groups by being very loud and extremely annoying. Thankfully we found a quiet corner in another bar where we were able to sit on some nice comfy sofas in front of an open fire to finish our beers. We raised our glasses to Bryan the ferryman who had saved the day.
We sat down at some seats that looked out towards Burgh Island, which is a bit like a miniature and less well known St Michael’s Mount. Like it’s more famous cousin it can only be reached on foot at low tide. When the tide is high a weird tractor like contraption is used to transport visitors across to it. The “exclusive hotel” on the island - for that read expensive - is a favourite haunt for the rich and famous. Apparently there are even rules on the island prohibiting the use of cameras, thus sparing the "celebrities" from getting nabbed by the Paperartzi . I’m not sure what the celebs think about traveling on a rusty tractor to get out to the island though. What if they get grease all over their designer clobber?
Once seated I rapidly necked the Coke and coffee. About thirty seconds later I felt ill, very ill. Dave recalls that I suddenly went very grey, and took on a very strange glazed expression, or as he is fond of saying, even more glazed than usual! The heat, lack of food and dehydration during the day had resulted in my body needing urgent refueling. Unfortunately the fuel now being added to it was basically a combination of neat sugar and caffeine. My body did not like this concoction one bit. Either that or the "Fryer" has slipped me a date rape drug! Dave got quite concerned and at one point was convinced I was about to fall into some sort of Cola/Nescafe induced sugar coma. Fortunately, after downing some water - Dave rushed to a nearby ice-cream stall to get some for me - I started to feel better. I decided though that it wouldn’t be wise to complete the remaining two mile section of the walk via the coastal route as planned, but that I would instead head directly cross-country to our B&B. Dave offered to do the same so he could accompany me - what a gent, see it’s not just the wives of potential ferry operators that he’s willing to assist- but I told him to carry on as planned. I’d just take a gentle plod up to the B&B and meet him there. After about 5 minutes of walking I started to feel better as my body came to terms with the chemical assault it had just been bombarded with. Basically something akin to a certain well known “energy drink” that's named after a primary colour and a male bovine.
That evening we had a pleasant meal in a pub called the Journey’s End, where I treated my body to it’s fuel of choice, namely beer and curry. In this instance a fantastic Thai green curry washed down by a few pints of Doombar. The evening was only marred slightly by the arrival of a group of posh blokes on a stag night, who were kind enough to reinforced the stereotype associated with such groups by being very loud and extremely annoying. Thankfully we found a quiet corner in another bar where we were able to sit on some nice comfy sofas in front of an open fire to finish our beers. We raised our glasses to Bryan the ferryman who had saved the day.
