Holy Mother of God.
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The warnings had been circulating all week—whispers of a distant hurricane churning somewhere out at sea. We’d ignored the hype until now, but today, the weather is showing its teeth. By 9 am, we are at a total loss. The forecast is daunting. But with no Sunday buses to provide an escape route, we face a choice: hunker down and do nothing or push through and close a section of the path.
Wild weather is par for the course on the SWCP, and it carries its own a savage beauty. There's a primitive thrill in watching the Atlantic transform into a churning white foam, the wind howling through the gorse. It makes the coastline feel larger, more untamed, and reminds you exactly why these cliffs have been both feared and worshipped for centuries. In the back of our minds is the ultimate motivator of the day—of the week perhaps—a traditional Sunday Carvery at the Blue Ball Inn. The thought of succulent roast beef and towering Yorkshire puddings is a siren song we can't ignore. Our B&B host, Jane, and the couple at the next breakfast table urge us to scrap the day entirely. But we weigh their advice against our own logic: A.) They admit to being "fair-weather walkers," B.) The alternative is doing nothing all day, and C.) We are tantalizingly close to finishing this section. So, ignoring the weather people and our breakfast mates, we step out into the looming storm. 
First, we take the Lynton & Lynmouth Cliff Railway—a marvel of Victorian engineering—down to Lynmouth. Built in the 1890s, the railway is a water-powered funicular that drops you straight down the cliffside to the sea. I had to look up the word funicular, but the mechanics are fascinating: it uses nothing but gravity and water. As one car fills with water at the top, its weight pulls the lighter car up from the bottom. Simple, elegant, and—now that we know—terrifically clever.
Lynmouth is an old, old village and, like Lynton up above, was nicknamed “Little Switzerland” by the Victorian tourists who swarmed the area back in the day.
The mouth part of Lynmouth refers to the fact that the mouth of the river feeds into the sea right here.
Really, we should have looked at that sky and called it quits. But we had no idea how exposed we would be up there.
The only way to go is up; which we do for quite a long time.
The views are spectacular. This is looking back. We can see the storm clouds rolling toward us but we don’t pay much attention because the sky’s looked like this the whole week.
As we reach the next hill, we can see the Blue Ball Inn just below—with its cozy fireplaces and lovely drinks and comforting foods. We could so easily just stop walking and meander on down for Sunday Carvery. But no. The coastal path doesn't go by the inn, it goes around the next headland. Which means we go around the headland. How bad can it be?
I’m really nervous here because the wind is picking up and the rain is coming down in sheets. Besides, look how exposed we’ll be if the 80 mph winds they’re predicting start swirling around us. We waver. Is this smart? But on we go. It's not smart.
I take no photos for the next 30 minutes as the rain is pelting our faces like needles and the wind is fierce. We have no idea which way to go except we know we need to get off the path. Of course Bob wants a selfie.
We do reach the inn. We do get our alcohol. We do get our Sunday carvery. The sign at the door says “wet dogs and muddy boots welcome” so we feel right at home as we drip drip drip across the floor.
Bob drinks a Glenmorangie to toast the boys, and a couple pints of ale. I drink two very strong gin & tonics with elderberry tonic. We begin to warm up.
Just might be the best Carvery we've ever had.
By the time we head out the rain has mostly stopped, though the wind is still whipping around. We head down the path to Riversmeet House, which the couple sitting next to us at the Blue Ball Inn convinced us was worth the walk. I am sore and tired and therefore not totally in agreement with them.
But we decide that as we're walking the two miles back to Lynmouth, we might as well take in the historic Watersmeet House as well. The house was a fishing lodge in the 1800’s and has England’s oldest Edwardian tea garden. 
Unfortunately, Watersmeet House is closed due to weather conditions. As we’ll have to come back to Lynmouth someday to finish up our missing path sections, maybe we’ll work in a walk back. Or maybe not.
The name “Watersmeet” comes from the fact that in this very place, the waters...meet. The British don’t mess around with nomenclature.
Back in Lynmouth. Finally. We leave the river as it continues roaring its wild way out to sea.
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