by Dee Crute
Adapted from The Unexpected Journey: Adventure Against All Odds, a travelogue and memoir of overcoming challenges, facing the unknown and walking the South West Coast Path with severe disability.
At the sun's highest point, somewhere atop Somerset's cliffs, I closed my eyes and tried to understand the language of rocks crumbling and grating under my feet. Scree is a relic of the periglacial past and a reminder that even the hardest stone crumbles. Yet, it does not perish but transforms into something different. Pondering the alternating freezing and thawing that broke the sandstone underneath me made me think of Lachesis - one of the Fates, or Moirai - who, with her skilled fingers, knotted the thread of life, weaving in fluctuating ups and downs.
With my next step, the scree rolled under me with a clatter, sending stones and me cascading down the cliff.
Wincing, I was rubbing my thighs and bottom when I heard buzzing, followed by a fiery orange flash just by my foot. It was a bilberry bumblebee feasting on a bird's foot trefoil. These dainty flowers remind me of tiny slippers. Some of the petals were tinged red, breaking the yellow clusters. I was tracing its texture; each flower was slightly different. I must have been watching it for a while as other insects started crawling all over me. I felt content with this moment and my life. This was the highest point of happiness in my life.
The time stopped. I was alone in my surroundings. I was part of nature. I was home.
The spell was broken by the stonechat 'chrt' call. I dug my walking sticks to propel me upwards and carried on. Dust clung to my sweaty skin, and my breathing was heavy—I had been walking since the morning, shouldering a four-stone backpack.
But I WAS breathing - and that is what matters.
Only two months ago, I reached the nadir of my physical and mental health and decided to steal Atropos's shears. The eldest of the Fates keeps them sharp to cut the threads of life. Before severing mine, I had a powerful feeling that my thread was still long, and I desperately wanted to live, but not like this.
I was born disabled, but only recently, I lost my mobility - it happened overnight as a result of mental trauma. Soon, the loss of employability and home followed. Partial paralysis, constantly dislocating joints and losing balance meant I couldn't run, walk or just be in nature. Tremors prevented me from photography and painting.
I knew that I wanted to be alive, and today I won. Still, complex PTSD meant I was still carrying Atropos's shears. I needed to keep myself alive.
And there was only one way I could do this.
In April 2023, with all my belongings packed in a bulging rucksack, I stepped onto the drab sands of Shell Bay, Studland, near Poole, beginning the 630-mile-long South West Coast Path.
I was called mad. After all, the trail was perilous, running above the steepest cliffs, and I could barely stand without losing my balance.
But nature took care of it.
With each step and wild camp, my body was awakening. The widespread chronic pain was disappearing, and tremors were easing. Neurological muscle weakness was ebbing, and my self-confidence was flowing. There was a long way to go, to reach the 630th mile, but I was moving in the right direction, with the sea and ocean always to my left.
Healing also seemed far away; I was still afraid of people and only slept soundly with my ginger sentinels around me; foxes visited me almost every day.
But not only them were my night companions. With the waning of the sixth day, I was looking for a place to stay the night. I reached Lulworth, Dorset, but it was not what I expected—I dreamt of tranquillity, solitude, Durdle Door, and rounded coves. Instead, it was busy with inebriated people and youngsters driving dangerously and making doughnuts in the lower car park.
I didn't feel safe and wanted to be away. I climbed wide Lulworth Steps, now engulfed in dusk, hoping to be invisible. I followed them until the path folded the car park out of sight, hoping the Durdle Door would be deserted by now. Yet, atop the cliff, I heard sounds of 'partying' and saw the top car park was still full, and throngs of people were moving from the Man O'War Beach towards it. I stood in the middle of the path surrounded by dense gorse on both sides, not knowing what to do as I didn't want to be seen when I heard voices coming in my direction.
I froze in panic. Suddenly, baby rabbits emerged onto the path, but they, too, were startled by inebriated voices coming closer and closer.
The bunnies ran towards me, only to turn sharply to my right and into the gorse. I realised there was a small opening in the impenetrable spiky wall, so I jumped into this tunnel, following them.
The wonderland opened before me—a glimmering sea underneath the waxing gibbous. The voices passed. I felt safe between the wall of gorse and the cliff mildly lowering itself onto the shore. I pitched my coffin-sized tent, perfectly fitting into the narrow ledge. I sat outside, beguiled by the night sky, listening to heavy artillery coming from MOD Lulworth Firing Ranges, silencing the voices from the car park.
With utter darkness and the quiet, I wriggled into my bivvy-like tent. Whatever I would do, one of my sides would always be against the tent wall, with the breeze brushing my back. But I fell asleep, nonetheless.
I was awakened by something tugging at the tent guy lines, then jumping atop the outstretched outer tent. Something was poking my back too. My first reaction was fear, but then I realised I could smell badgers and heard their cooing and squeaking.
I turned and faced the 'poker'. Despite it being wee hours, the moon was giving intense light, and I could see the silhouette of a nose. I placed my hand against it and could hear sniffing sounds, feeling the round snout. The large presence moved away only to lay down next to my head. We were separated only by a thin layer of tent. I could feel and hear her breathing. It must have been a momma badger. Tears flooded my eyes—I was happy. The happiest I have ever been. I thanked for all that led me to this moment. Even the trauma. Without it, I would have never set off on this journey. I would never have the courage to wild camp on my own nor experience such a close connection to nature.
The cathartic decorum was disrupted by my chuckling: momma badger started, rather loudly and 'fragrantly', fart! I struggled to breathe, but the encounter with her and the cubs was too precious to shoo them away. I pulled my buff over my face and did not realise when I fell back into a peaceful sleep.
It took me 71 days to complete the South West Coast Path, spending most days and nights outdoors. Every journey leads into the unknown, but nature's path invariably leads to healing.
Like the sandstone, I crumbled under the pressure of life, but instead of turning into dust, I transformed into a more resilient and flexible entity. I have learnt that just as scree, even if I lose one piece of myself, one rock, I am still whole. Just different. And this process continues throughout our lives.
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