Given the grim weather forecast, I expected to wake to rain, but although the heavy grey clouds were broiling ominously, it mercifully stayed dry, allowing me to keep everything dry.

I set off under a leaden sky, along mercifully quiet country roads, passing through hamlets consisting of just a few white-washed stone-walled cottages straggling the lanes.

I passed the Goonzion Downs, which looked as though they would have been great for a wild camp, and as I descended into St Neot the first rain started to fall. I took a small detour to see St Neot’s well, and as I climbed away from the village, the rain became increasingly heavy.

I sloshed along the lanes, hunkered down in my waterproofs, but waterproof gear only stays waterproof for so long before giving up the ghost. After enduring hours of rain, everything I wore was soaked, including my shoes, which squelched ominously with every step.

I headed towards the village of Minions, where I desperately hoped there would be a café. My route took me across the exposed expanse of Bodmin Moor, rain sweeping across the mist-covered hills. The wind picked up, and I started to feel very cold – I needed to find some shelter soon.

I finally reached Minions, but the first buildings I saw were a pub, long closed and held up by scaffolding, and a café proudly displaying a large ‘closed’ sign. I tried to fight my panic, but if there was no place to stop here, I was in trouble – I desperately needed to get out of the wind and get warm.

As I rounded a bend, I spotted a village shop-cum- post office with the most welcome sign I had seen all day – ‘Café Open’. I staggered in, dripping pools of water everywhere, and gratefully ordered one of the biggest cheese toasties I have ever eaten.

As I opened my pack to check everything within had stayed dry, a voice said, “Did you walk further than you realised and got caught out?”

I turned to see a fit, weathered middle-aged lady in running gear. I said, “No, I’m doing a long walk from Land’s End to –“

“You need a bin bag”, she said, cutting me off. “A bin bag lining your pack will keep everything dry”.

“I’ve got everything in stuff sacks, so it’s all stayed dry”, I explained.

“No, you need a bin bag”, she flatly stated. “I’ve been out in all weathers, for miles, and it never fails.”

“You camping?” She then asked, peering at my laden rucksack adding more water to the pool on the floor.

“Yes”, I said, before stating a little proudly, “I’m wild camping along the way.”

“I’ve wild camped on top of the moors in winter, up in the mountains, and all sorts”, came the reply.

Deciding that I wasn’t going to win, I left her to it and turned my attention to my toastie.

I was warming up nicely, but I needed a plan. I didn’t see how a wild camp would be possible tonight, given that it was still raining hard, I was soaked, and would lose heat rapidly once I stopped. I needed a new plan.

Studying the map and consulting the internet, I noted that the village of North Hill wasn’t too distant and was on a bus route between Launceston and Liskeard, where I could potentially find a dry bed for the night. After lingering over a second cup of coffee, I reluctantly heaved myself up and walked back out into the rain to slosh out the final few miles along roads that had become streams. I couldn’t believe it was still so heavy after so many hours!

When I reached the village, I had no idea where to find the bus stop. There was evidence of a bus stop or the post office, which is where the internet promised I would find it. Spotting a school bus pull up opposite a large white house, I asked the driver, who pointed to the house, which bore a sign stating it was the ‘Old Post Office’.

The rain was still teeming down, and as I’d stopped walking, I was starting to feel cold again. The internet promised me a café and a pub, but both were sadly shut. Spotting a church, I reasoned that if I couldn’t sit inside it, I could at least seek shelter in its stone porch. No such luck – it was covered in scaffolding, and the porch was blocked.

In desperation, I spotted a portaloo in the churchyard and hunkered down in it, shivering violently. I booked a bed for the night at Liskeard’s Premier Inn, but I had an hour to wait for a bus, so I took a slow walk to the neighbouring village and back to try to get some warmth back into my body as I was, by now, feeling dangerously cold. It was such a relief when the bus arrived, and I could relax, check into the hotel and crash onto the bed!

I was disappointed to find there was no heater or heated towel rail, so although I hung my soaking wet clothes over the bath, they were still decidedly damp the next morning.

Catching the bus back to North Hill, it was dull but dry, and I had hopes that there would be no more rain. Apart from my path being rerouted due to quarry workings, I had a straightforward walk out of Cornwall and into Devon, which felt like a huge milestone. The sun even made a brief appearance!

My legs felt very tired, but my map promised me a post office and a pub in Milton Abbot, so I eagerly anticipated a rest and maybe something to eat. The Cornish countryside proudly displayed gentle green hills and distant views of Bodmin Moor, which looked spectacular now it was no longer hidden by cloud, and I felt my spirits rise.

Unfortunately, they were dashed again when I arrived in Milton Abbot to find both the post office and the pub were a distant memory. This was a blow as I needed a rest and some food, plus I was running low on water and would need to camp tonight. Spying a church, I entered the churchyard, hoping to find a water tap, but when I found one, it just spun uselessly without providing any water. I walked into the church, looking for a kitchen, and found a large box containing cups, jars of coffee and bottles of water. I am not proud of this, but I was desperate, so I filled my bottles and left some money to replace the water I used.

I cooked noodles, which I ate in the porch to dodge a sudden heavy rain shower. My plan for tonight was to head to Dartmoor and find a place to pitch, but as I walked, my still-wet shoes started to rub, and I could soon feel hot spots developing.

I followed a long, very straight road towards Dartmoor, hoping I’d find a place to pitch when I reached it. Every so often, a fresh downpour would soak me again, and I felt thoroughly miserable, despite passing the quirky Brent Tor with its tiny church perched on top.

Eventually, I reached the edge of Dartmoor as the rain finally stopped and a weak evening sun lit the sky, turning the clouds into hues of pink and purple. Climbing away from the gaze of a row of houses, I found a flattish spot to pitch my tent and collapsed inside.

Once again, I felt my temperature dropping, so I changed into my dry nightwear and huddled in my sleeping bag for a few minutes, not for the first time regretting bringing my two-season summer bag. However, after heating a dehydrated meal and downing a couple of warm drinks, I felt much better. I hoped I wouldn’t be too cold to sleep tonight.