Cliff Walk, Newport: Mansions, Moss, and Misadventure

 


The Plan: Full Commitment

I started the Cliff Walk at Forty Steps, which — and I can confirm this — is actually forty steps. Not 27 steps that somebody rounded up. Not 60 steps that someone rounded down. Exactly forty stone steps, straight down toward the Atlantic like Newport wanted to wake your quads up with a slap to the face.


It’s the kind of stairway you look at and immediately think,
“Yup, this was definitely built before liability insurance was invented.”



But I came fired up. I wasn’t dabbling. I wasn’t “seeing how far I get.”
I was doing the whole thing.

It was chilly when I left the car, so like a responsible adult, I put on my jacket. Twenty minutes later the sun came out, the wind died, and suddenly I was slow-roasting inside my own clothing like a human Hot Pocket. It hit about 50 degrees and my jacket turned into a sweaty goopy mess. But I had already made the commitment, and stubbornness is a hell of a motivator  Also I've never been able to tie something around my waist. I lack the ass needed to keep it from just pulling my pants down.

The poor wardrobe choice in question


Warning Signs, Rocky Realities, and My Ironwork Obsession






The Cliff Walk doesn't sugarcoat things. It tells you exactly what it is:

  • Cliffs are high.

  • Don’t yeet yourself into the Atlantic.

  • Uneven terrain, choose your feet wisely.

  • If you fall… that’s on you, champ.

Some sections were legitimately tough. I had to slow down, scan the ground, and think about how much I value my ankles. At one point, I ran into a husband and wife crossing a boulder field like they were auditioning for a 1940s adventure Movie — arms out for balance, dramatic breaths, little gasps, with each step.


To me?
It looked exactly like the Shawangunk Ridge I grew up on.
So I hopped across with the confidence of someone raised by mountain rocks… only for the trail to immediately say, “Relax, hero,” and hand me a tougher section that made me rethink my life choices.

Like a choose your own adventure book, don't break an ankle

And then my inner nerd came alive.

Because if you’ve never walked the Cliff Walk, you may not know this —
Newport mansions have world-class gates, fences, and walls. 

Old stone walls stacked like puzzles.
Wrought iron fences with curls and spikes and personalities.
Gates that look like they were built by mythical blacksmiths who charged per hour and per mood swing.

I took pictures like I was documenting the Iron Age.











Scenery That Steals Your Words

Then the walk shifted from “challenging” to “holy hell, look at this.”

Mansions rising over the cliffs like they were carved straight out of ego and old money. And when you pause for even a second and let the reality settle in — that these gilded beasts weren’t even the main residences for their owners — you realize something humbling. Back in the 1880s, anyone who casually referred to their Newport palace as a “summer cottage” wasn’t just wealthy. They had a level of money that’s hard to comprehend. The kind of money where the servants probably had servants. The kind of money where you build a house the size of a museum just to avoid being bored for two months. It hits you fast: these people weren’t rich… they were operating in a different financial ecosystem entirely.











Yellow moss glowing under the sun like someone installed natural stage lighting.



Purple seaweed draped over green rocks like the ocean hired a stylist.


This pool of water wanted to show you love



A Japanese tea house getting slapped around by the wind like it owed someone money.




I geeked out hard.
Sent photo after photo to the family group chat.

Because this is the kind of scenery that makes you desperately want someone next to you so you can point and say:

“Will you LOOK at that house?”
“Holy crap — look at that VIEW.”

The Atlantic wasn’t just the Atlantic — it was showing off.






Walking Back the Long Way

At the end, i came out on Belvue Ave at Baileys beach I tried to figure out the bus.
Either the schedule was off, the signs were lying, or I had triggered a Rhode Island side quest with no instructions.

So I walked back the long way.

That meant coming up around the front of the mansions — the land of:

  • gates that cost more than whole cars

  • fences that could win architectural awards

  • handcrafted stone walls built by people who definitely had opinions








Tours everywhere — $20 here, $30 there.
If you wanted to hit them all, you’d blow a grand in a week. Easy.

By the time I made it back to my car, I’d logged 7.5 miles of cliffs, sweat, architecture, and stubbornness. I was wind-burned, roasted, thirsty, starving, and happy as hell.


The Takeaway

Some days, everything lines up — the cliffs, the ocean, the challenge, the views, the effort, the sweat, the old ironwork, the ridiculous mansions, and the stubborn part of you that refuses to quit.

Days like this remind me that the best stories usually start with a simple walk and a bad wardrobe choice.
— Nate

Location: Cliff Walk, Newport, RI 02840, USA

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