Poole, South West Coast Path, Dorset

We felt elated. After a fantastic meal last night at the pub, and a good night's sleep, we had Lyme Regis in our sights as our final destination. But first we had to walk down, yes down into Weymouth.

We set off through the trees before climbing back onto the cliffs.

A gentle stroll took us past the outdoor centre, and through the glamping campsite.

We didn't like the scar on the landscape caused by the cream cotton glamping tents. Why couldn't they be green so they blended in? We exchanged numerous banter with the campers. Yes we know, we're mad.

At Bowleaze Cove, the chance of coffee and yet more cake tempted us, and fuelled us for our walk along the promenade into the town, where the aroma of pasties filled our nostrils. Shall we? Why not. We needed to refuel again. By now it was hot, and we found ourselves dawdling. We'd planned to stop at Martleaves Farm campsite at Wyke Regis a few miles out of Weymouth, but when we arrived and were told the cost for two backpackers was £28.00 we declined. A nearby pub offered camping, their price £25.00. No way. The farm campsite had cost us £16.00 and Rosewall Camping, Osmington Mills which is an excellent campsite, £15.00. We were tired, sore, aching and felt that stopping now just past Weymouth was the right thing to do. So we caught a bus back into Weymouth, and took a train from the station back to Poole.

 It had taken us four days to walk here. Journey time on the train back to Poole, just under forty minutes. As the train passed alongside familiar roads, and through familiar towns we reflected. We'd walked fifty two miles in four days. Carried rucksacks weighing 15 plus KG. Somehow climbed the steepest inclines imaginable without suffering a heart attack. Survived a complete nervous breakdown and eaten more sugar, and carbs than should be good for you, and drunk literally litres of water resulting in many a 'wild wee'. We didn't feel disappointed we'd stopped. We felt relieved. The time was right. Our shoulders uncomfortable and our hips now almost in need of replacement, it was time to call it a day. But we'll be back. Next time with lighter backpacks. We also now know, a walk along the South West Coast Path is not like a stroll in the park. John will be seventy this coming Monday, the walk was part of the celebrations. We think for a couple of oldies, we did good. And as for the book we could write, we think Scratchy Bottom would be a good title!

Osmington Mills, South West Coast Path, Dorset

Angela had made it clear when we arrived last night at Scratchy Bottom that she wasn't walking up the cliff path directly in front of us. Fortunately John agreed, and it was decided we would take a lower footpath across to the farm and onto a main road. We didn't. Of course we didn't. We opted for option three.

On the other side of the fence a path carved through the long brittle grass. It was hard going. No surprise there. But Angela was able to hold onto the barbed wire fence, obviously on the smooth sections, and we were able to grab hold of the fence posts every few paces to stop and rest, and take in the view back towards Durdle Door. Summiting, with relief, we could see we were well and truly now on 'the rollercoaster'.

But we could do this. Slow and steady. In the near distance we could see the island of Portland, and the causeway that linked it to the mainland.

A cruise ship, sat on it's berth, awaiting departure through the beautiful aquamarine waters of the English channel.

As we perched high on the chalk cliffs taking a well earned rest, we looked back along the coast and couldn't believe how far we'd walked since Friday afternoon. Whilst sitting, Angela spotted she had a tick embedded in her upper arm. Bearing in mind we were balanced precariously on a narrow cliff top path, the task of undoing her rucksack to obtain our tick card was challenging. The heavy rucksack wanting to go with gravity and slide towards the cliff edge.

By the end of the day we were to remove a total of six ticks. Two from Angela, four from John. Keen to not lose our momentum, and knowing there would be at least one more horrendous climb before dropping down into Ringsted Bay, we pressed on, passing the old coastguard cottages, and stopping to look at a young slow worm as it slithered across the path.

Small brown butterflies flitted around us, sitting on the path, taking flight just as our foot touched the ground before them. They felt like guardians. The downhill walk to Ringstead Bay made the hard effort of the morning all worth it. We love it at Ringstead, and we loved even more knowing a cafe, loos and a drinking water top up awaited us. BLT baps and carrot cake, hot drinks and ginger beer rejuvenated us. This was our reward for not giving up.

With just two miles to walk to the campsite at Osmington Mills, another one of our favourite places, we meandered our way through a wooded area until we reached the Smugglers Inn which stands above the bay at Osmington. 

Then one final incline up to the campsite reception. We'd made it! More so, we'd made it in one piece, mentally, and physically. Now time to kick back, wash some clothes and ourselves before pushing the boat out and having an absolutely delicious meal at the Smugglers this evening.

Scratchy Bottom, South West Coast Path, Dorset

This morning we waited a while for the rain to ease and our tent to dry before leaving. Our final vision of the campsite, an orderly queue at the toilets, waiting for several pairs of feet visible under the raised doors to vacate the cubicle.

A pleasant walk took us up onto a ridge across the ranges, and of course that is when the threatening clouds dumped their contents on us. Quick, rain jackets on.

No time for waterproof trousers. The wind whipped, the rain lashed, and the tree we stood under of course leaked! This was going to be a challenging day. Little did we know then in more ways than one. Fortunately, the cloud split, the rain gave in and we walked happily along the top of the cliffs, the grass beneath our feet crisp, brown and a little slippery. The sun now in control warmed us and dried our clothes. We stopped for a snack break up on the cliff top overlooking the deserted Tyneham village, talking with some fellow walkers who'd stopped also to take a break. The cows surveyed us, their expressions told us they thought we were yet another group of crazy people passing by. Four, non hikers appeared, take away coffees in hand. Honestly. This area is wild and remote, but apparently you can obtain a latte from somewhere nearby.

Of course we watched them decide what to do with their empty cups. Tidy littering has become a 'thing'. Which is what they did, placing them in a trailer alongside some fishing nets and ropes. They couldn't possibly take them back to their car at the nearby car park. It makes us so angry! We sat a while down in the bay contemplating the climb back up. It looked seriously challenging. Almost vertical. It was time to decide. Go up, or go home. The bus stopped at the bay. We had a get out available. Of course we went for it. And it was horrendous. The wind blew with force off the sea making it hard for Angela to balance. Her heavy rucksack trying to pull her back, she took to scrambling up the incline on her hands and knees. By the time she grabbed the rope at the top her legs had turned to jelly. It has been frightening, the thought of falling backwards at anytime. As we rested a young German couple arrived from behind us. We talked a while, and they walked on with us as we passed high above the ranges.

Rusting tanks to our right, a sheer drop off the cliff to our left. The German man fearless, stood on the cliff edge on one leg, arms stretched to either side, 450 feet above the sea! What a maniac! And then in front, yet another killer of a hill. 

lAngela felt it was too much. Feel the fear, but do it anyway. She wasn't doing it! She couldn't physically or mentally attempt it. We now know the young Germans were looking our for us. They were sat at a nearby picnic bench talking, wandered over, and the man offered to take John's bag and John carry Angela's. As much as John probably would have liked to take up his offer, male pride saw him decline. Angela didn't care about pride. She gave him her rucksack, and slowly we walked up together, stopping frequently. They continued to walk along the flat with us for a while before leaving us. We were so grateful. The kindness of strangers restores faith in humanity. And yes, thanks to them we reached Lulworth Cove, where we celebrated with a fish and chip lunch. Our German friends spotted us giving us a cheery wave.

We were exhausted, relieved and forever grateful that we happened to be in the right place at the right time this morning. By late afternoon, the sun still warm, it was time to leave the pretty thatched cottages at Lulworth Cove and walk up the steep incline to Durdle Door. Or the 'Double Doors', as one visitor asked directions to.

After the dramas of the day, one more very steep climb was challenging. The straps on our packs dug into our shoulders, and our ageing hips complained, loudly. Just passed the 'Double Doors', is Scratchy Bottom. No, we're not joking.

Time to find a wild camping spot for the night. The only place, as all the land around was privately owned, was right next to the path above the beach.

The wind was cold, the waves below sucked at the gravel and Angela felt uneasy. The tent was pitched on long grass. What lay beneath it? And as darkness fell, Angela's nerves were well and truly tested. A bright flashlight lit the tent just after eleven. This was it. Our demise would be here. Fortunately it was a walker, probably from the military. Then something ran alongside the outside of the tent on Angela's side. Now she went into a full meltdown. Amazingly she managed to nod off, but was awake a first light, keen to pack up and leave. In the night she'd decided she was going home. This morning, she felt she had to push on. If we could make it to Osmington Mills a lovely familiar campsite and pub awaited her.