At last the easterlies have abated, and I can round Hartland Point without the risk of a major deterioration of sea state. Rose at 0500, to allow time to punch against the ebb off the west coast and arrive at Hartland around slack water. 
There are numerous skerries off the cliffs here, as the coast cuts across the grain of the folding of strata. Looking at photos of yet another bunch of rocks must be a bit like listening to someone humming. You just hear the hum, but the perpetrator hears the whole orchestra. The photos are just pale two-dimensional things that utterly fail to capture the way the panorama unfolds as you paddle past. Armchair mountaineering.
In the event, I made good progress and was able to stop at Hartland Quay for a pasty and chips, and still catch the tide round Hartland Pt (which was already flooding close inshore an hour earlier than prediction).
We are advised to "take nothing but photos and leave nothing but footprints", but I confess that, even in these calm conditions, the rocky landing at Hartland Quay has claimed a fair bit of my gelcoat.
Westward Ho matches Mr.Rainsley's "grim" description and, with apologies to the several friendly folk I met there, my abiding memory will be that of a glowing cigarette end passing by in the gloom, attached to a dark, hooded, figure on a skateboard, rattling past in pursuit of his dog. The most secluded camping appears to be at the west end of town, on what appears to be a static van park.
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