THERE was a story on social media recently about an elderly lady who went on a package holiday to Greece, only to be disappointed the food was all Greek. Back home, she complained to a local reporter, who saw her coming and slapped it online for clicks. Cue merciless online mockery. My first thought was that she’d brought it upon herself, but over two days, my tiny violin grew exponentially to the point I was playing the double bass.

I was reminded of this during the feeding frenzy that followed claims the origins of Raynor Winn’s memoir The Salt Path might be less palatable than readers had been led to believe.

I’d just finished compering a food festival when I read the message - “Have you seen this?” – from a friend and contact with whom I’d worked on the story many times. We spoke on the phone as I walked home, both stunned by the enormity of the story broken by The Observer. That it had blocked out its entire front page to do so indicated just how big The Salt Path and its author had become - and how confident the investigative journalist and her team were of their sources.

Published in 2018, The Salt Path is the story of how Winn and husband Moth simultaneously lost their home and faced a terminal illness diagnosis, leading to a life-changing pilgrimage around the 630-mile South West Coast Path with a tent as their only home. Winn became the living embodiment of triumph in the face of adversity; The Salt Path sold two million copies, was nominated for literary prizes, and this year saw a big-screen adaptation with Hollywood A-listers in the title roles.

But if we love one thing more than a tale of rags to riches, it’s to see successful people knocked off their perch. My feed was dominated by The Salt Path for several days – blame the algorithm, the job, the kind of people I’m friends with - and I was deeply shocked by the vitriol people were heaping upon the Winns, with unfettered glee.

I wholly understand genuine fans feeling deceived and angry upon learning of the possibility that their favourite author was less than squeaky clean. But with others – those who guessed she was fake, loathed her books, avoided the film like the plague etc. – the underlying tone was: “I always knew, and you didn’t – you mug.”

It was savage. In contrast, when Winn published her response to the allegations a few days later, this was shared by no means as widely. So many people seemed determined, happy even, to believe the worst.

I have interviewed Winn several times - I attended the red-carpet film premiere in Newquay, and covered it in this column barely six weeks ago. My brief was always to write about why the book was good for Cornwall and the wider South West.

I took them at face value. Sure, I’d occasionally wondered about the perspective of the “friend” who took their house in lieu of a loan, or the other “friend” who put them up over the winter and is not portrayed flatteringly in the film. But there’s only so much granular detail you can cram into 300 pages; and when it comes to presenting our own lives, who doesn’t put a positive spin on things? Isn’t that what social media is all about?

Moth was always charming. Speculation about whether he is really suffering from the degenerative disease CBD is the claim Winn has addressed with the most indignation. The charity once thrilled to have them as ambassadors “terminated” the relationship abruptly following the Observer splash.

My mother’s partner died last year with PSP, CBD’s twin illness, unable to swallow or speak during his final days. Did I doubt the veracity of Moth’s condition? No. He’s 15 years younger than my mother’s partner, and illnesses affect different people in different ways.

I was only ever happy for him that he was suffering less, and whatever the outcome of current events, I will always be grateful to the Winns for highlighting a little-known but vicious neurological condition. Raynor was always at pains to point out to me that while long-distance walking helped Moth, she was not suggesting it could “cure” such illnesses.

My overwhelming impression of the Winns has always been one of a humble couple astonished at how The Salt Path franchise had taken off – book number four is due out in October, and Raynor was meant to be spending the summer touring with the Gigspanner Big Band under the banner Saltlines (you might have seen them in Bude or St Germans).

This sorry story probably still has a few miles left to run, but my gut feeling is that the real truth is not so much one of sainthood or wickedness, but somewhere in the middle: feet of clay, as have we all.