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![Raynor Winn - [object Object] author](https://res.cloudinary.com/readsomnia/image/upload/authors/a_a_raynor_winn.jpg)
The Salt Path: A Memoir
"Polished, poignant... an inspiring story of true love."-Entertainment Weekly
A BEST BOOK OF 2019, NPR's Book Concierge
SHORTLISTED FOR THE COSTA BOOK AWARD
OVER 400,000 COPIES SOLD WORLDWIDE
The true story of a couple who lost everything and embarked on a transformative journey walking the South West Coast Path in England
Just days after Raynor Winn learns that Moth, her husband of thirty-two years, is terminally ill, their house and farm are taken away, along with their livelihood. With nothing left and little time, they make the brave and impulsive decision to walk the 630 miles of the sea-swept South West Coast Path, from Somerset to Dorset, through Devon and Cornwall.
Carrying only the essentials for survival on their backs, they live wild in the ancient, weathered landscape of cliffs, sea, and sky. Yet through every step, every encounter, and every test along the way, their walk becomes a remarkable and life-affirming journey. Powerfully written and unflinchingly honest, The Salt Path is ultimately a portrayal of home-how it can be lost, rebuilt, and rediscovered in the most unexpected ways.
A BEST BOOK OF 2019, NPR's Book Concierge
SHORTLISTED FOR THE COSTA BOOK AWARD
OVER 400,000 COPIES SOLD WORLDWIDE
The true story of a couple who lost everything and embarked on a transformative journey walking the South West Coast Path in England
Just days after Raynor Winn learns that Moth, her husband of thirty-two years, is terminally ill, their house and farm are taken away, along with their livelihood. With nothing left and little time, they make the brave and impulsive decision to walk the 630 miles of the sea-swept South West Coast Path, from Somerset to Dorset, through Devon and Cornwall.
Carrying only the essentials for survival on their backs, they live wild in the ancient, weathered landscape of cliffs, sea, and sky. Yet through every step, every encounter, and every test along the way, their walk becomes a remarkable and life-affirming journey. Powerfully written and unflinchingly honest, The Salt Path is ultimately a portrayal of home-how it can be lost, rebuilt, and rediscovered in the most unexpected ways.
Editorial Reviews
"The Salt Path is an unputdownable tale and a temple to equanimity… It will change you."-Wall Street Journal
"Winn's prose is powerful. She excels at description, and her apt metaphors are rooted in nature… an inspiring read, reminding us that there is salvation in nature, movement and the out-of-doors."-Minneapolis Star Tribune
"Raynor Winn is a master of writing about nature and grief. The coast is the backbone of her memoir … a gripping story about a search for home, resilience and emotion, all the while in conversation with the sea."-Guardian
"Winn writes with great humor, reflection and generosity."-Salon
"This is a damn good book. Plain and simple."-Medium
"This amazing tale of resilience…made me grateful for my loving family and how they make the journey-even when stressful-a whole lot easier."-FIRST for Women
"Winn's chronicle is filled with beauty, humor and surprises. Glorious landscape a given, the loveliest scenery is the pair themselves, their affection and easy camaraderie treasures to behold. Facing grief, harsh elements, starvation and judgment about being homeless, they relish growing feelings of achievement and purpose. When, miraculously, Moth starts to feel better, their future grows more unclear. The Salt Path is a great travelogue of surroundings, passersby and local merchants, but its heart is in Winn and Moth finding meaning in the chaos."-Shelf Awareness
"Readers are immersed in a grueling and transformative adventure. Like the Winns, one feels 'salted' by the experience, however vicariously, drawn to the edge in defiance of fate and in search of a new life. They found it as well as a measure of acceptance, and their story is indelibly told."-Kirkus
"An astonishing narrative of two people dragging themselves from the depths of despair along some of the most dramatic landscapes in the country, looking for a solution to their pro...
"Winn's prose is powerful. She excels at description, and her apt metaphors are rooted in nature… an inspiring read, reminding us that there is salvation in nature, movement and the out-of-doors."-Minneapolis Star Tribune
"Raynor Winn is a master of writing about nature and grief. The coast is the backbone of her memoir … a gripping story about a search for home, resilience and emotion, all the while in conversation with the sea."-Guardian
"Winn writes with great humor, reflection and generosity."-Salon
"This is a damn good book. Plain and simple."-Medium
"This amazing tale of resilience…made me grateful for my loving family and how they make the journey-even when stressful-a whole lot easier."-FIRST for Women
"Winn's chronicle is filled with beauty, humor and surprises. Glorious landscape a given, the loveliest scenery is the pair themselves, their affection and easy camaraderie treasures to behold. Facing grief, harsh elements, starvation and judgment about being homeless, they relish growing feelings of achievement and purpose. When, miraculously, Moth starts to feel better, their future grows more unclear. The Salt Path is a great travelogue of surroundings, passersby and local merchants, but its heart is in Winn and Moth finding meaning in the chaos."-Shelf Awareness
"Readers are immersed in a grueling and transformative adventure. Like the Winns, one feels 'salted' by the experience, however vicariously, drawn to the edge in defiance of fate and in search of a new life. They found it as well as a measure of acceptance, and their story is indelibly told."-Kirkus
"An astonishing narrative of two people dragging themselves from the depths of despair along some of the most dramatic landscapes in the country, looking for a solution to their pro...
Readers Top Reviews
roundheadsloveneM
In the fine tradition of Brit tramping memoirs. But without a parachute. I really dropped into the first 90 pp of this, was OK with the next part, and was glad she had a positive story to tell at the end. Their life rescued, all the good things happening to them in a short time. Karma? Good luck? Their efforts? Yes. Yep, sometimes the best way to deal with setbacks (even as huge as theirs) is to just slog on. This is mostly a record of slogging on - not of enjoying the scenery and the sites. Not of worrying endlessly about what they would do in the long run. The important thing was putting one foot in front of the other, that moment. And, I may later read some Armitage (I can't believe that that poet performer is the Poet Laureate of England!), despite his tramp being so different than theirs on every level, and Wallington's "Boogie". Plus, how cool a name is "Moth"!!!???? I am looking forward to reading the continuation of their story, "The Wild Silence" - and hope Winn explains the source of her husband's name, or nickname. Good Nature read, but also a good story of perseverance. I tore through it.
Wayne A. Smithrou
I enjoyed the Salt Path, once I got over some of the much less than ideal decision making Ray and Moth Winn make in their lives and on their journey. This is the story of two solidly middle-class Britons who become homeless after losing their farm and Inn business. Moth, Ray's husband, has just learned he is terminally ill with cancer. Litterly huddled under their stairs as the foreclosure agents are at the door, the couple decides to walk and camp England's 600 plus miles of trail known as the South West Coast Path. This is a love story, a story of overcoming adversity, a story of creating a goal and pursuing it and of simple survival. With second hand gear, often not enough food and the strains and blisters that accompany fifty-somethings (one of them terminally ill) undertaking unaccostumed physical exertions, the Winns set out to best themselves and put their situation behind them - one foot at a time. I have to agree with many of the reviewers who underscored bad decision making that brought the Winns to their financial collapse and made harder their outdoor sojourn through south western England. Even accepting that their bad business acumen and inconceivably incompetent interactions with the court system, they do make decisions (or fail to make decisions) that leave the reader wondering, "why didn't you cancel your auto billing," "why don't you just buy some sun screen for your blistered nose (or a hat)," "why buy fudge when you are out of food?" It is a book that my wife and I both enjoyed for the loving relationship of the hikers and their toils and travails along the Salt Path.
Ross PWayne A. Sm
It was a soul thirst quenching read... Beautifully written and paced. Full of information about the places they walked, but that only added to the story of healing and love they found when they had nothing else. I envy their travels and happy that it took a lengthy time to get through the book. Wanted to stay with them a while longer.
Diane StudenrothR
A Love Story with a couple's tenacity to overcome the trials and tribulations of a momentous diagnosis; being houseless and finding themselves.
Rod D.Diane Stude
Such a great story of loss and redemption! It is amazing what the human spirit can endure. I highly recommend it!
Short Excerpt Teaser
Dust of Life
I was under the stairs when I decided to walk. In that moment, I hadn't carefully considered walking 630 miles with a rucksack on my back, I hadn't thought about how I could afford to do it, or that I'd be wild camping for nearly one hundred nights, or what I'd do afterward. I hadn't told my partner of thirty-two years that he was coming with me.
Only minutes earlier, hiding under the stairs had seemed a good option. The men in black began hammering on the door at 9 a.m., but we weren't ready. We weren't ready to let go. I needed more time: just another hour, another week, another lifetime. There would never be enough time. So we crouched together under the stairs, pressed together, whispering like scared mice, like naughty children, waiting to be found.
The bailiffs moved to the back of the house, banging on the win- dows, trying all the catches, looking for a way in. I could hear one of them climbing onto the garden bench, pushing at the kitchen skylight, shouting. It was then that I spotted the book in a packing box. I'd read Five Hundred Mile Walkies in my twenties, the story of a man who walked the South West Coast Path with his dog. Moth was squeezed in next to me, his head on his knees, his arms wrapped around in self-defense, and pain, and fear, and anger. Above all anger. Life had picked up every piece of ammunition pos- sible and hurled it at him full force, in what had been three years of endless battle. He was exhausted with anger. I put my hand on his hair. I'd stroked that hair when it was long and blond, full of sea salt, heather and youth; brown and shorter, full of building plaster and the kids' play dough; and now silver, thinner, full of the dust of our life.
I'd met this man when I was eighteen; I was now fifty. We'd rebuilt this ruined farm together, restoring every wall, every stone, growing vegetables and hens and two children, creating a barn for visitors to share our lives and pay the bills. And now, when we walked out of that door, it would all be behind us, everything behind us, over, finished, done.
"We could just walk."
It was a ridiculous thing to say, but I said it anyway. "Walk?"
"Yeah, just walk."
Could Moth walk it? It was just a coastal path after all; it couldn't be that hard and we could walk slowly, put one foot in front of the other and just follow the map. I desperately needed a map, some- thing to show me the way. So why not? It couldn't be that difficult. The possibility of walking the whole coastline from Minehead in Somerset through north Devon, Cornwall and south Devon to Poole in Dorset seemed just about feasible. Yet, in that moment, the idea of walking over hills, beaches, rivers and moorland was as remote and unlikely to happen as us getting out from under the stairs and opening the door. Something that could be done by some-
one else, not us.
But we'd already rebuilt a ruin, taught ourselves plumbing, brought up two children, defended ourselves against judges and highly paid lawyers, so why not?
Because we lost. Lost the case, lost the house and lost ourselves.
I reached out my hand to lift the book from its box and looked at the cover: Five Hundred Mile Walkies. It seemed such an idyllic prospect. I didn't realize then that the South West Coast Path was relentless, that it would mean climbing the equivalent of Mount Everest nearly four times, walking 630 miles on a path often no more than a foot wide, sleeping wild, living wild, working our way through every painful action that had brought us here, to this moment, hiding. I just knew we should walk. And now we had no choice. I'd reached out my hand toward the box and now they knew we were in the house, they'd seen me, there was no way back, we had to go. As we crawled from the darkness beneath the stairs, Moth turned back.
"Together?"
"Always."
We stood at the front door, the bailiffs on the other side waiting to change the locks, to bar us from our old lives. We were about to leave the dimly lit, centuries-old house that had held us cocooned for twenty years. When we walked through the door, we could never ever come back.
We held hands and walked into the light.
I was under the stairs when I decided to walk. In that moment, I hadn't carefully considered walking 630 miles with a rucksack on my back, I hadn't thought about how I could afford to do it, or that I'd be wild camping for nearly one hundred nights, or what I'd do afterward. I hadn't told my partner of thirty-two years that he was coming with me.
Only minutes earlier, hiding under the stairs had seemed a good option. The men in black began hammering on the door at 9 a.m., but we weren't ready. We weren't ready to let go. I needed more time: just another hour, another week, another lifetime. There would never be enough time. So we crouched together under the stairs, pressed together, whispering like scared mice, like naughty children, waiting to be found.
The bailiffs moved to the back of the house, banging on the win- dows, trying all the catches, looking for a way in. I could hear one of them climbing onto the garden bench, pushing at the kitchen skylight, shouting. It was then that I spotted the book in a packing box. I'd read Five Hundred Mile Walkies in my twenties, the story of a man who walked the South West Coast Path with his dog. Moth was squeezed in next to me, his head on his knees, his arms wrapped around in self-defense, and pain, and fear, and anger. Above all anger. Life had picked up every piece of ammunition pos- sible and hurled it at him full force, in what had been three years of endless battle. He was exhausted with anger. I put my hand on his hair. I'd stroked that hair when it was long and blond, full of sea salt, heather and youth; brown and shorter, full of building plaster and the kids' play dough; and now silver, thinner, full of the dust of our life.
I'd met this man when I was eighteen; I was now fifty. We'd rebuilt this ruined farm together, restoring every wall, every stone, growing vegetables and hens and two children, creating a barn for visitors to share our lives and pay the bills. And now, when we walked out of that door, it would all be behind us, everything behind us, over, finished, done.
"We could just walk."
It was a ridiculous thing to say, but I said it anyway. "Walk?"
"Yeah, just walk."
Could Moth walk it? It was just a coastal path after all; it couldn't be that hard and we could walk slowly, put one foot in front of the other and just follow the map. I desperately needed a map, some- thing to show me the way. So why not? It couldn't be that difficult. The possibility of walking the whole coastline from Minehead in Somerset through north Devon, Cornwall and south Devon to Poole in Dorset seemed just about feasible. Yet, in that moment, the idea of walking over hills, beaches, rivers and moorland was as remote and unlikely to happen as us getting out from under the stairs and opening the door. Something that could be done by some-
one else, not us.
But we'd already rebuilt a ruin, taught ourselves plumbing, brought up two children, defended ourselves against judges and highly paid lawyers, so why not?
Because we lost. Lost the case, lost the house and lost ourselves.
I reached out my hand to lift the book from its box and looked at the cover: Five Hundred Mile Walkies. It seemed such an idyllic prospect. I didn't realize then that the South West Coast Path was relentless, that it would mean climbing the equivalent of Mount Everest nearly four times, walking 630 miles on a path often no more than a foot wide, sleeping wild, living wild, working our way through every painful action that had brought us here, to this moment, hiding. I just knew we should walk. And now we had no choice. I'd reached out my hand toward the box and now they knew we were in the house, they'd seen me, there was no way back, we had to go. As we crawled from the darkness beneath the stairs, Moth turned back.
"Together?"
"Always."
We stood at the front door, the bailiffs on the other side waiting to change the locks, to bar us from our old lives. We were about to leave the dimly lit, centuries-old house that had held us cocooned for twenty years. When we walked through the door, we could never ever come back.
We held hands and walked into the light.
