South West Coast Path 2025 trip.
Day One: Exmouth to Beer (Friday)
The day began with the hush of early morning. By 6:30 a.m. we were seated for breakfast, our bags packed and trail shoes laced. A short walk through quiet streets brought us to Exeter St Thomas station, where we boarded the Avocet Line. A charming branch railway that feels more like a secret than a commute. As we pulled away toward Exmouth, the adventure had already begun.
Arriving at the coast, Exmouth greeted us with sleepy charm. A quick stop at Marks & Spencer’s for supplies and we were off, stepping into the first few strides of our next section of the South West Coast Path. The promenade was silent and the world still seemed to be asleep.
At the far end of the promenade, the land rose abruptly into red sandstone cliffs. An information board stood at the foot of the ascent, inviting us to imagine back in time: these rocks were once a desert, older than the dinosaurs, formed in an era when Britain sat closer to the equator. It was hard to imagine, yet here we were, walking atop ancient dunes petrified into stone.
As we gained height, the breeze shifted and butterflies flitted alongside us. After the steep up hill the terrain settled down; it was gentle at first, a pleasant rhythm of rolling ups and downs through farmland and wildflower verges bursting with life.
We passed the sprawling expanse of a Haven resort, quickly followed by a quieter, family-run holiday park where we paused to rest. A quick snack, a drink from the camp shop and purchased postcard posted just before the day’s mail collection.
Beyond that, the path climbed into woodland. Here, the air felt different: cooler and filled with birdsong. Song thrushes with their beautiful songs in chorus with blackcaps and others. Most of the steep ascents, we noticed, were softened by shade; a small mercy with the warm weather we were having.
There were moments when we could have been walking through inland hills rather than hugging the coast. High hedges and hazy views gave only occasional glimpses of the sea, which lay below, still and blue like a distant thought.
Eventually we descended to a quiet beach. A hidden gem tucked below the cliffs, where only a few couples were swimming or stretched out on towels. It was too tempting to resist. We decided to have a break. Taking of our packs and enjoying the calm water, a perfect interlude of salt and sun before the climbs resumed.
Cliff-top walking returned, this time with views of terraced slopes once used for farming potatoes in the unique microclimate. These hillsides, once lively with rural toil, now bore clusters of holiday cottages clinging to the contours of the landscape; some only reachable on foot or by boat, like a modern echo of the past.
We wandered through an area marked by landslips, dotted with caravans and wooden cabins. There was a certain quietude here, as if the earth itself had exhaled and slid toward the sea. We passed through, climbed once more and finally crested the last rise to see Beer laid out before us. A nestled amphitheatre of white cottages and green hills falling into a small cove.
Our accommodation was perfectly placed right on the path and to our delight, a small festival was just winding down. Locals chatted over the last bites of food, music floated on the evening air. After checking in and grabbing a bite ourselves, we took a short stroll through the heart of the village, eventually winding our way down to the beach.
There, rows of traditional fishing boats rested on the shingle, their bright hulls and gear evoking a time when Beer’s name was synonymous not with drink but with nets and tides. It was easy to sense the weight of history here.
Cleaned up and content, we collapsed into bed that night. The journey had begun.
Day Two: Beer to West Bay (Saturday)
Morning broke gently over Beer and with it came a slight pang of regret. I had almost brought an instant porridge pot for this morning although we’d left behind at home in our haste to travel light. But the trail beckoned, we answered and it delivered!
Our route began with a brisk climb up what we christened Rook Hill, named not for any map label but for the cacophony of rooks calling from the canopy above.
We descended to a stretch of beach only passable at low tide and after a quick check online for the tide timetable we headed along the beach. There was an inland route although it was blocked inland by a landslide-closed road. So we were grateful for s more elemental route along the edge of land and sea.
Then came my favourite stretch of the day.
Beyond Goat Island, the trail carried us into a deeply folded landscape of woodland and landslips. Here, wild garlic blanketed the ground like snow, and bluebells shimmered violet in the dappled light. Blackcaps and thrushes sang in stereo, their voices reverberating through twisted trunks and half-fallen trees.
We couldn’t help but wonder: was the name “Goat Island” a nod to the terrain itself; a haven for sure-footed creatures? The path twisted and turned relentlessly. It felt, at times, less like England and more like an overgrown jungle, lost and lush.
Then, suddenly, it ended. Trees parted, cliffs gave way and Lyme Regis appeared, its tidy rooftops sloping toward the shore like a painted postcard.
We re-entered the world of people for a time. Found food, snapped a photo of the whimsical “She Sells Sea Shells” statue, and then, as the tide stayed low, chose the beach route once more. Fossil hunters dotted the shore, small hammers tapping out fragments of ancient time from Jurassic cliffs.
We made a brief stop at a charming local museum, then turned inland for a long, undulating afternoon of farmland and sea. Hedge-lined fields rolled to our left; to our right, the land fell sharply toward the cliffs and the calm expanse beyond. At one point we passed a terraced slope, untouched and half-reclaimed by nature. It looked like a forgotten land; too unstable to farm.
The climbs and descents multiplied as the sun gained strength. By the time we reached a quiet static caravan site, we were more than ready for a pause. A shop offered cold lemonade. A sign said Fish & Chips Serving from 5pm. It was 5:00 exactly. Serendipity.
We took our steaming cones of chips down to the beach and then, why not?, a quick dip in the sea to cool off.
The final miles took effort but also resolve. We crested the last of the headlands and West Bay came into view, a golden curve of cliffs and harbour. Dramatically busier than Beer, its seafront buzzing with jet skis and speedboats, remnants of some earlier race.
It felt almost surreal to arrive in such contrast to the stillness of the morning. We checked in, closed the door behind us, and exhaled. A hot bath. A hot chocolate. A bed. Simple things, deeply earned.
Day Three: West Bay to Ferrybridge
Our final day on the trail began with an irony typical of small seaside B&Bs: a lovely breakfast, but not until nine o’clock. After two days of early starts and time pressure of the long days and needed to make last check in times, this felt almost decadent; an enforced pause. We used the time for a short wander along the harbour, watching the town slowly stir. Then, as the first to be seated, we tucked into a generous breakfast that more than made up for the wait.
Bags collected, feet rested, we were off. The morning’s first decision was a good one: to walk beneath the cliffs along the beach, tracing the margin between land and sea. The cliffs loomed ochre and golden above us, dramatic in the morning light. Eventually the path climbed once again, leading to a National Trust car park and beyond that, a subtle and surreal section: part shingle, part sand, part sparse vegetation that looked like a dune garden, low, cabbage-like plants softening the edge of the wild.
We dropped back to the sea’s edge, walking on firm, wet sand, the waves rhythmically folding over themselves to our right. For the first time on this trip, it felt like we were truly by the sea; not just looking down on it from the high cliffs above. The Isle of Portland sat hazy but steady on the horizon, our silent companion across the bay.
Around midday, hunger crept in and we scouted for lunch. The clubhouse yielded no joy, so we diverted slightly inland to a pub, rewarded with risotto and a cold drink. Then it was back to the coast, where beach turned to track, then to road, until the path dropped away toward the lagoon at Clifton Beach.
Here, land, sea, and stone converged in one of the most remarkable features of the Jurassic Coast: Chesil Beach, a vast shingle spit stretching toward Portland. Walking beside it felt elemental: to one side, the Fleet Lagoon, calm and protected; to the other, a stone wall of wave-worn pebbles, endlessly shifting. A snack bar provided a brief and welcome stop. We’d noticed on the Harvey’s map that food options thinned out quickly from here. As it turned out, there was another stop at The Swannery.
The route pulled us inland again, up a long ridge that offered sweeping, cinematic views across patchworked farmland, back toward the sweep of coast we’d already walked, and back towards St Catherine’s Chapel standing sentinel on a distant hill.
Returning to the water’s edge, the sea was now behind us; separated by Chesil Beach. We walked beside the Fleet, a body of brackish water protected by the shifting spit. It’s said that storms move the entire beach five metres closer to the land each century. A landscape both ancient and alive.
To our left, farmland; to our right, nature reserve. The walking was level, but by now fatigue had set in. Our minds flicked into forward motion: no longer hiking for wonder, but for rhythm and progress. Still, the surroundings held their magic: occasional wildlife, subtle tides and odd little huts along the top of the beach. We guessed they were fishermen’s shelters, though no one was around to confirm.
The final stretch took us past a Ministry of Defence training centre, complete with bridge-building equipment and caution signs. And then, a modern anticlimax, the path to Ferrybridge was closed, nearly all the way through. We’d planned to finish here anyway, with Portland saved for a future loop, but it was a somewhat abrupt ending to such a lyrical journey.
We picked up supplies from a local shop, checked into our hotel and sank into a final evening of rest. Sleep came easily, the kind that follows days full of sun, salt and steady movement.
Morning brought one last surprise: a two-hour train delay at Weymouth due to cancellations. But by then, we didn’t mind. We’d bought the time back in full, every mile between Exmouth and Ferrybridge. This chapter was done.