We say to heck with hilking and turn around.When we woke up this morning we decided we needed a day of rest and that Hartland Quay was the perfect place to get it.
So we took the bus to Hartland, which is the closest the bus comes to the quay, and hitched a ride from a wonderful woman named Pat, who is the friend of Merlyn, who is an artist and who I will write an entire page about later. Hartland Quay is a wild and windy little alcove off the Atlantic. Not many wander way out here. The closest bus stop is miles from the coast; food and drink and accommodations are not easy to get to; and you are miles and years away from the world. It's exhilarating. The air is different. 
We get a ride from Hartland to the quay, then walk down to the coast.
Chunks of earth, sometimes gigundo chunks, often careen down the cliff. You have been warned.
You can see what the centuries have done to the cliffs: turned everything on its side.
Once we get some tea and food in us, we decide to head up the trail. Who needs a day of rest? Us? Bah!
The path up is miserable-—the kind where you don't talk, you don't look up, you just concentrate, hard, on putting one foot in front of the other and then again and again, until you reach the top.
Looking back.
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Except for the fact that it's missing the crashing waves, this photo captures the wild, moody feel of Hartland Quay.
But then comes this. What are the chances of the path leading someplace easy? Might as well go ahead just a bit more to see round the bend, then decide whether to keep gong.
We stop and look at each other. The path looks brutal and neither of us can face it so we turn around right here.
We lie down to rest a bit. Notice I am lying on my raincoat, because even though we chose our spot carefully, there is dried sheep and cattle and goat poop everywhere. I don't want it in my hair.
The parking lot. A sight for sore eyes. We will be back to tackle this again.
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