At the end of August, I was fed up of feeling depressed. I had spent the previous year and a half entrenched in mental illness – psychosis, OCD and an eating disorder - caught in a cycle of admissions to hospital under the Mental Health Act.
I wanted to feel free, but I felt suffocated by the trauma of the mental health system and by everything my own brain had put me through. I spent much of August in bed, depressed. I didn’t know what to do with myself, but I knew I needed to do something. So, in a moment of bold determination, I announced to my friends and family that I was going to walk the South West Coast Path around Cornwall until I felt less depressed.
The South West Coast Path stretches 630 miles from Minehead in Somerset to Poole Harbour in Dorset. I decided, after five minutes of research, that I would begin my walk in Padstow, Cornwall and make my way down to Land’s End. That, I thought, sounded manageable. And so, on Friday 28th August, I set off on my adventure.
My parents thought it was a ridiculous idea, especially as I had been in a crisis house the week before. My friends thought I wouldn’t last more than two days. And considering I’d never walked more than two hours in a day, had never been on a proper hike and didn’t even know how to put up a tent, I couldn’t really blame them.
But thirty days later, not only had I walked from Padstow to Land’s End, I’d walked the entire way around Cornwall – 300 miles in total. I’d travelled just north of Bude to the border between Devon and Cornwall, and walked all the way around to Plymouth.
I may have had a meltdown on day three, calling my parents in tears to tell them I needed to come home. I may have given up camping after less than a week, unable to carry all my equipment up and down countless cliffs when I simply wasn’t strong enough. And I may have nearly given up more times than I can count. But I did it.
The meltdown on day three was triggered by sore hips and shoulders and thirteen blisters on my toes and the soles of my feet. I was in so much pain that I couldn’t imagine managing the seven hours of walking planned for that day. My parents booked me into a B&B in Newquay for three days for me to recover from my first day of walking. Camping, as you can see, was going really well. But soon enough, I was itching to get going again. So, I carried on. And the more I walked, the more that I wanted to keep walking.
I made it to Land’s End, and it didn’t feel like enough. I continued to Lizard Point, the most southerly point of mainland Britian. Then I travelled back up to Mawgan Porth to complete the section between Mawgan Porth and St Agnes that I’d missed while staying in the B&B.
I returned home for a few days to attend a psychiatrist appointment before heading back to Cornwall. This time I started at Bude and walked down to Padstow, before heading back to Lizard Point and continuing on towards Plymouth.
The day before my final day of walking, my dad came to collect me from Plymouth and drive me to a point just north of Bude, on the Cornwall-Devon border. It was in the middle of nowhere, with few transport links, so I needed his help getting there. I set off walking in one direction while Dad drove to Bude and walked towards me from the other. We met half-way.
“Gosh, you’ve got fast,” he said, out of breath, as he struggled up the cliff behind me.
I paused. “Have I?”
I knew I was fitter than when I’d started. I knew I was stronger. But until that moment, I hadn’t quite realised how much. When he and Mum had come to visit me after my first week in Cornwall, I had lagged behind him. Now he was struggling to keep up with me.
The feeling of completing all 300 miles around Cornwall was indescribable.
My final day of walking!
I’d climbed a total of 18,585 metres (60,974 feet) – more than twice the height of Mount Everest. I’d had thirteen blisters, gone through three pairs of walking poles, been sun-burnt and woken up with sore hips, legs and shoulders almost every day. I’d cried most days, from a mixture of loneliness, the cathartic freedom of being in the middle of nowhere on my own and the sheer weight of trying to process everything that I had been through over the previous eighteen months.
But I’d also laughed and smiled. I’d seen seals, wild ponies and seal pups. After abandoning camping, I’d stayed in people’s spare bedrooms, B&B’s and hotels. I’d met countless kind strangers along the way, and made memories that will stay with me for a lifetime.
I had pushed myself so far outside my comfort zone that, at first, I couldn’t even see it anymore. I’d been terrified to set off, but also filled with exhilaration and excitement – and an overwhelming need to walk. I wanted to feel the physical exhaustion of for miles and collapsing into bed at the end of the day. I needed to spend time with my thoughts rather than constantly trying to run away from them. I desperately needed to feel free.
And free is exactly how I felt.
Out there, on the cliffs overlooking the sea, I have never felt further from that girl who spent months in that hospital bed. My mood had gradually begun to lift. I documented my journey on social media, and every day strangers commented that the light was coming back into my eyes, that I was sparkling again.
I will never forget the freedom, peace and joy I found out on the South West Coast Path. Now, whenever I need to ground myself, I picture those cliffs and the glistening blue sea below. I remember how my chest didn’t feel tight, how I felt almost invincible – well, most of the time.
It was the hardest thing I’ve ever done, both physically and mentally. I had no idea how difficult the climbs up and down the cliffs would be, how unforgiving the terrain could be, or how hard it would be to keep climbing when my legs hurt like hell and everything inside me wanted to collapse on the floor. My body didn’t know what was happening to it.
The mental challenge was hard, too. The loneliness meant I cried most days, but eventually I found comfort in the solitude and in the predictability of my daily routine: walking for six to seven hours, finding where I was sleeping for the night, reading and collapsing into bed.
The South West Coast Path gave me exactly what I needed: the freedom I was desperate for, the adventure I craved and a sense of purpose. Every morning, I had somewhere to go. Every evening, I had a new destination to reach.
It gave me the space to begin to process everything that had happened to me over the past eighteen months. It showed me how strong and resilient I really was, and how much my body could do when it was properly fuelled and nourished. Perhaps most importantly, it reminded me why recovering from my eating disorder was worth it.
I don’t know when I will be back to finish the path. There are another 330 miles to cover across Somerset, Devon and Dorset. But I’ve reluctantly accepted that, at least for this winter, I need to let the path be.
The South West Coast Path will be there waiting for me when I need it again.