Raynor Winn - The salt path

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Michael Joseph is part of the Penguin Random House group of companies whose addresses can be found at global.penguinrandomhouse.com.

First published by Michael Joseph 2018

Copyright Raynor Winn, 2018

The moral right of the author has been asserted

Cover illustration by Angela Harding

Part One: The Odyssey, Homer. Translation Emily Wilson, 2017, Norton; Part Two: The South West Coast Path: From Minehead to South Haven Point, Paddy Dillon, 2003, Cicerone; Part Three: Beowulf. Translation Seamus Heaney, 2000, Faber & Faber; Part Four: The Stone Beach, Simon Armitage, 2003

Every effort has been made to contact copyright holders. The publishers will be glad to correct any errors or omissions in future editions.

This book is a work of non-fiction based on the life of the author. In some limited cases, the names of people or detail of places or events have been changed to protect the privacy of others. The author has stated to the publishers that, except in such respects, the contents of this book are true. Any medical information in this book is based on the authors personal experience and should not be relied on as a substitute for professional advice. The author and publishers disclaim, as far as the law allows, any liability arising directly or indirectly from the use, or misuse, of any information contained in this book.

ISBN: 978-1-405-93752-8

For the team

Theres a sound to breaking waves when theyre close, a sound like nothing else. The background roar is unmistakable, overlaid by the swash of the landing wave and then the sucking noise of the backwash as it retreats. It was dark, barely a speck of light, but even without seeing it I recognized the strength of the swash and knew it must be close. I tried to be logical. Wed camped well above the high-tide line; the beach shelved away below us and beyond that was the water level: it couldnt reach us; we were fine. I put my head back on the rolled-up jumper and thought about sleep. No, we werent fine, we were far from fine. The swash and suck wasnt coming from below, it was right outside.

Scrambling through the green-black light in the tent, I tore open the flaps. Moonlight cut across the cliff tops leaving the beach in complete darkness, but lit the waves as they broke into a mess of foam, the swash already running over the sand shelf ending only a metre from the tent. I shook the sleeping bag next to me.

Moth, Moth, the water, its coming.

Throwing everything that was heavy into our rucksacks, shoving feet into boots, we pulled out the steel pegs and picked the tent up whole, still erected with our sleeping bags and clothes inside, the groundsheet sagging down to the sand. We scuttled across the beach like a giant green crab, to what had the night before been a small trickle of fresh water running towards the sea, but was now a metre-deep channel of sea water running towards the cliff.

I cant hold it high enough. Its going to soak the sleeping bags.

Well, do something, or it wont be just the slee

We raced back to where we started from. As the backwash headed out I could see the channel flattened to a wide stretch of water only a foot deep. We ran back down the beach, the swash landing far above the shelf and rushing over the sand towards us.

Wait for the backwash then run to the other side of the channel and up the beach.

I was in awe. This man, who only two months earlier had struggled to put on his coat without help, was standing on a beach in his underpants holding an erected tent above his head with a rucksack on his back saying, run.

Run, run, run!

We splashed through the water with the tent held high and climbed desperately up the beach as the swash pushed at our heels and the backwash tried to draw us out to sea. Stumbling through the soft sand, our boots brimming with salt water, we dropped the tent down at the foot of the cliff.

You know, I dont think these cliffs are stable. We should move further along the beach.

What? How could he be so careful at three in the morning?

No.

Wed walked 243 miles, slept wild for thirty-six nights, eating dried rations for most of that time. The South West Coast Path guidebook stated that we would reach this point in eighteen days, and directed us towards delicious food and places to stay with soft beds and hot water. The timescale and comforts were all out of our reach, but I didnt care. Moth ran up the beach in the moonlight in a ripped pair of underpants that hed been wearing for five days straight, holding a fully erected tent above his head. It was a miracle. It was as good as it gets.

The light started to break over Portheras Cove as we packed our rucksacks and made tea. Another day ahead. Just another day walking. Only 387 miles to go.

Tell me about a complicated man.

Muse, tell me how he wandered and was lost

Homer, The Odyssey

I was under the stairs when I decided to walk. In that moment, I hadnt carefully considered walking 630 miles with a rucksack on my back, I hadnt thought about how I could afford to do it, or that Id be wild camping for nearly one hundred nights, or what Id do afterwards. I hadnt told my partner of thirty-two years that he was coming with me.

Only minutes earlier hiding under the stairs had seemed a good option. The men in black began hammering on the door at 9 a.m., but we werent ready. We werent ready to let go. I needed more time: just another hour, another week, another lifetime. There would never be enough time. So we crouched together under the stairs, pressed together, whispering like scared mice, like naughty children, waiting to be found.

The bailiffs moved to the back of the house, banging on the windows, trying all the catches, looking for a way in. I could hear one of them climbing on to the garden bench, pushing at the kitchen skylight, shouting. It was then that I spotted the book in a packing box. Id read Five Hundred Mile Walkies in my twenties, the story of a man who walked the South West Coast Path with his dog. Moth was squeezed in next to me, his head on his knees, his arms wrapped around in self-defence, and pain, and fear, and anger. Above all anger. Life had picked up every piece of ammunition possible and hurled it at him full force, in what had been three years of endless battle. He was exhausted with anger. I put my hand on his hair. Id stroked that hair when it was long and blond, full of sea salt, heather and youth; brown and shorter, full of building plaster and the kids play dough; and now silver, thinner, full of the dust of our life.