Green cliffs, blue sea: the South Devon coast path

October promised a warm and sunny start. It seemed to be an invitation to explore a section of the South West Coast Path which I haven't walked before.

As a child, I spent many happy times on beaches and cliff paths in Cornwall, but never Devon. My parents had an inexplicable but steadfast suspicion of Devon. For them, it was somehow the second prize in holiday destinations - only Cornwall could offer the full works. So, every year, we passed through Devon, just one more stretch to cross before we reached our beloved Gorran Haven. Past Exeter, straight across Dartmoor, on we went without a glimpse of what the Devon coast had to offer. I decided it was time to look into it.

Arriving in Brixham in a blanket of grey murk, drizzle and visibility measured in metres, the promised sunny weather seemed a tall order, as did any chance of actually seeing the coastal scenery. A walk to the miniature lighthouse at the end of the over-sized harbour wall was about the only possibility. Fishing boats appeared from time to time out of the gloom, racing towards the quayside of the largest fish market in England, where distant clattering and frantic beep-beeping of fork-lift trucks let the town know that someone was still there behind the grey screen of fog. I huddled in my warmest coat, with a thermal fleece under it, watching two teenagers fishing from the end of the harbour wall - in tee-shirts and shorts. They breed them tough in Brixham.

What a contrast the next morning: a wide, blue sky, shimmering high clouds and, after an initial morning chill, a hot sun. We set off on the well sign-posted coastal path, past the town beach, past the salt-water swimming pool beyond the harbour, and on towards Berry Head. There, we walked around what remains of the stone fort and battery, built to defend the coast during the Napoleonic wars. As we stood at the end of the headland, admiring the endless sea view, there was still enough cloud around to give the cliffs a suitably brooding atmosphere, with the last of the rain just disappearing over the horizon.

The Ordnance Survey website describes the section of the SW Coast Path between Brixham and Kingswear as "difficult". I didn't really believe that. "Difficult" is something like the Pennine Way or the West Highland Way, isn't it? Not - surely - green and gentle Devon? I was wrong. OS was right.

The path down from Berry Head towards the first little picturesque beach cove was quite mild; a bit of going up slopes and steps, a bit of coming down again, but nothing too strenuous. That soon changed, with a 110 step descent to St Mary's Bay, only to find that the tide was too high to get round the rocks, so it was 110 steps back up again. And so it continued, up...down...up...I soon lost count. The good thing was that the path was very well maintained, with irregular steps cut into the rock to help where the terrain was steep beyond the possibility of normal walking.

By now the sun was strong and warm and the physical effort was making us sweat. When we finally descended the long, steep path to Man Sands, the sandy beach and perfect, blue, gentle waves were irresistible. After what seemed like hours of tugging and wriggling, I successfully negotiated getting out of my walking gear and into a bikini, via a very small travel towel. The most delicate moment was a hopping pursuit over pebbles, while hanging on to my modesty by two corners of the towel, to retrieve the plastic bag I had brought to put my swimming things in, ripped from my hand at the most inconvenient time by a rogue gust of wind and sent hurtling towards the waves. Finally, bikini more or less in place, I plunged into the water, expecting a freezing shock, but was surprised to find that, while not exactly warm, the water did not feel particularly cold. It was also beautifully clear, with every pebble visible on the bottom, even in several metres of depth.

Dried, dressed and just about free of boot sand, we set off up the next slope towards Kingswear. It was the steepest yet, grassy and slippery after the morning dew. Once at the top, off we went back down again, on a narrow, stony path to a small, sandy cove. A moment to breathe, then up again, in a ferocious, lung-wrenching zig-zag to the top of the next, even higher cliff. A group of semi-wild Dartmoor ponies stood in our way, watching us closely as we sweated past them, before strolling, effortlessly, up the even steeper slope beside the path. It must help having four legs.

At last we were on a fairly flat section, dramatically following the edge of the cliff through fields of bracken and gorse. The cliffs here are extremely high and from time to time we found ourselves looking down on a miniature fishing boat which was following the coastline, setting and collecting crab and lobster pots. It accompanied us from afar for most of the way to Kingswear. Sometimes a gust of wind hitting the cliff face brought whispering remnants of the fishermen's voices as they worked on their distant deck.

Nearer to Kingswear, the steep slopes and steps started again - up a few hundred, down a few hundred. It was tough on toes and knees and I couldn't decide which was the worst - up or down. Kingswear was elusive - it constantly seemed to be just around the corner, or rather at the top of the next steep climb, but each time, it failed to appear. The Dart estuary, with its sand bank, now sparkling in the late afternoon sunshine, kept drifting in and out of sight. Glimpses of Dartmouth on the opposite bank appeared to tease us, with still no sign of Kingswear.

Finally, after yet another set of steps past an old look-out station at Inner Froward Point, we came to a walk through a woodland jungle. It was called The Warren and had some unfamiliar tree specimens, presumably planted by a past owner who had travelled the world. Eventually, the woodland path led to a small road. We followed it gradually down into the town, past perfectly manicured houses in every conceivable style, from glass box to turreted castle, perched on every available vantage point offering a view across the river to Kingswear's bigger neighbour, Dartmouth.

Two ferries zip between the twin towns on the river, one taking foot passengers and the other vehicles, which have to queue in Kingswear's narrow, medieval streets for a place on board. In October, the scene was calm. I imagine it might be different in August.

Next to the ferry terminal is the station. It's not just any station - it's still resplendent in its Victorian livery and complete with a "Ladies' Waiting Room". What's more, they are not just any trains - Kingswear still boasts a steam train, which takes passengers along Torbay in proper Harry Potter style. It even has the right whistle, which the driver clearly likes to enjoy at all opportunities (well, wouldn't you?). A steam train ride would have been a fitting end to a long, hard but exceptionally beautiful walk. However, sadly, Brixham has no station, so the steam train by-passes it and carries on down Torbay to Paignton.

So for us, it was a limp up the final hill to The Banjo, a strangely shaped road junction on a steep bend, to wait...and wait...for a bus. Or, rather, to wait for the correct driver of the bus, who had gone missing somewhere on another route. A surprisingly large group of would-be passengers slouched around The Banjo, waiting helplessly and musing on the adventures our driver might be having as the time slowly passed. Absconded with bus and all passengers for a new life in Spain? Selling it on E-Bay? Abducted by aliens?

The steam train arrived, and departed, in a cloud of steam and whistles. That entertained us for a few minutes. Some people started musing audibly on how difficult it might be to drive a bus and eyeing up the driver's glass compartment. Another real bus driver (he had arrived driving our bus) stood there with us, guarding his ex-bus against any attempt at boarding by piratical passengers. From time to time, he scrutinized his phone and reported on his colleague's progress, ready to swap buses with him when he finally arrived (no, none of us understood the logic either).

Our feet and weary legs were telling us that Brixham was about a hundred miles away, so it was a bit disappointing when the bus journey (when the driver eventually appeared) took less than 20 minutes. The route we had followed, along the coast path, is, in fact, about 10.5 gruelling miles (plus the vertical mileage, which I didn't even try to calculate) and had taken most of the day.

Exhausting, but it was so worth it to see, at last, some of Devon's stunning coastal scenery, filled with two things which Suffolk, for all its loveliness, can never offer: real cliffs and blue sea. Woman Who Walks will be back!