The Coleridge Way is signposted at judicious intervals with a quill, as fitting reminder of the inspirational nature of these 40ish miles across the Quantock Hills and Exmoor. The cunning marketing is certainly inspirational. It did strike me as a bit odd the poet had regularly paced this looping route to Porlock Information Centre; in fact he probably only did the bit between his house and Wordsworth's, and the rest are just some rather nice places he might have popped by. It's still a great walk, though we were mostly too knackered at the end of each day to write even with Dorothyesque minimalism. ('Walked, I know not where' is one of my favourite entries.)





Well, anyway, we did it. Nine random writers followed the quill through varying weather and terrain, with some natural wastage, until on the fourth day the survivors arrived wreathed in proud smiles and gratuitous waterproofs to collect our certificate.


We'd travelled through Xanadu's sinuous rills in forests ancient as the hills, forded seething chasms; like the earth we'd breathed in short pants and if we didn't drink the milk of Paradise we certainly had some really good nosh at our B&Bs.

Back in time to catch some of the Bristol Poetry Festival at the Arnolfini, where the cafe isn't open due to building work.