Day 41: Following Chesil Beach

Start: West Bay

End: Ferrybridge, Weymouth

Miles: 20

Total miles: 573

After the two previous tough long days, I had no isssues falling asleep and slept all the way through until the squaking seaguls woke me. I was in for another long push today and although the terrain and elevation would be easier, the miles were longer. After an initial ascent to leave West Bay, the path levelled out. I was grateful that the dense fog from yesterday had lifted revealing the views up ahead. The high cliffs gave way to Chesil beach, a 29km long shingle barrier beach. My guidebook tells me the pebbles near West Bay are the size of peas but as you progress towards Portland, they are potato sized. The beach forms a graceful arc leading to the Isle of Portland, which I could see clearly up ahead. A tilted block of Jurassic limestone stretching out into the sea.

The walking to Abbotsbury was level and easy. The village was lined with quaint thatched cottages and tea rooms. Following the village, the path moved further inland working it's way over rolling hills, fields and woodlands. It felt strange being this distant from the coast, the furthest I've been away from the sea in days. The sea has been my faithful navigational companion, always there as a reliable handrail on my right-hand side. The inland route was quiet, I suspected most people would be enjoying the weather on Weymouth beach. I passed a woman out for a short stroll and she asked me how far I'd come. I explained what I had done and she said, "Well at least that will look good on your CV for when you are older and need to get a job". I laughed and corrected her, telling her that wasn't my motivation as I have a job and am 29. She was then even more baffled as to why I'd been walking for this long. I didn't try to explain, some people just don't understand.

I grew tired in the afternoon, my feet burning and longing to be released from my boots. My mind became vacant, simply allowing me to put one foot in front of the other, a process that has become as autonomic as my heart beating. My brain was like tethered balloon still attached to my body, but floating somewhere above or behind. Weymouth was edging closer, that's all I knew. Back in Plymouth when I reflected on hiking for a month, I had set a rule of not dwelling too much on the idea of getting to Poole until I arrive at Weymouth. Instead focusing on micro-goals to make the task seem less overwhelming. There'd be no point longing for the comforts of home if they were hundreds of miles away, weeks away, counties away. But as I approached the outskirts of Weymouth, home felt reachable. This ribbon of dirt I've been following for almost 6 weeks would keep meandering over the Dorset hills for only 44 more miles. Beyond there lies home. I allowed my mind to wander to the comforts of home, finally not squashing these thoughts. My bed, my bath, comfy furniture and fresh food. These musings made the final miles a little more bearable. As I dropped my pack relieving my aching shoulders at the end of the day I thought, my long walk home is almost over.