The first ferry to St Mawes goes at 8.30am, and that’s the one I want to catch to set me on my way to Hemmick Beach, where I’ll meet up with Liz and the boys this afternoon. The landlady at the lodge has left a notice in the kitchen to say that it’s available from 7.30am, but I’m in there a shade before that, putting the kettle on, adding water to my muesli + milk powder mix, retrieving my yoghurt from the fridge, popping my croissant into the Aga, and eating my banana. Sarah, the Australian student, soon joins me because she wants to catch the same ferry, so we eat breakfast together in the verandah. The landlady comes down too and tells us about some of her life exploits; I get the impression there’s some sadness in her story she’s not letting on about but, when all’s narrated and performed, her lot isn’t a bad one – although I guess not all her guests are fully house-trained, since she seems to be targeting the younger person as her market.
With at least 18 miles and over 3,000 feet of ascent before me, I finish my fairly substantial breakfast with a couple of rounds of toast and marmalade, while Sarah, who’s only going as far as Portloe, has a lighter breakfast and sets off before me. She’s heading for Tesco for food supplies, whereas I bought a pork pie and an apple there yesterday evening. I reach the ferry terminus on the pier before her at about 8:15 and join the other passenger who’s already there; by the time the ferry’s ready to leave, there are aound a dozen of us, some with bikes. There’s also a party of small schoolchildren, but they have their own ferry to take them across.
Not wishing to appear unsociable, I nevertheless avoid sitting with Sarah on the ferry; for one thing, I spent yesterday walking with company so today would prefer to be alone and, for another, I very much doubt that she will want to walk at my pace. Neither of us is asked for our fare during the transit, and the crewman who tethers the boat and ushers us off the vessel clearly isn’t set up to take money, yet, when I asked at the pier office earlier, I was told we should pay on board. Once disembarked, we now have to wait for the 9am ferry for Place across the next stretch of water, and do so alongside a middle-aged couple out for a day’s ramble. We learn, from the long-range conversation between the St Mawes ferry crew and the solo Place ferryman that the latter is feeling much better after his knee operation and is looking forward to the one on his other knee. We also learn, from his shouted question, that we should already have tickets, so Sarah and I run back to the kiosk, 30 yards away, to buy them. Safely on the other side at last, I bid a speedy farewell and set off at a rate of knots for St Anthony Head.
I’m reminded, by the glimpse of Place House:
and by the views over the Fal estuary,
that we did a circular walk here as a family during our week in Coverack. There is an easy ‘cheat’ available here, where you can cut out St Anthony Head and save over a mile, and I wonder if either Sarah or the couple are going to avail themselves of that option and, therefore, whether I’ll catch up with them. That doesn’t happen, though, and, by 10.30, I’m in Portscatho and ready for a coffee. Strolling up to The Square with an eye out for likely contenders, The Boathouse looms into view and seems ideal. I relax in a window sofa with my flat white and ginger cream-topped flapjack and, ten minutes later when I’m just mopping up the final crumbs and about to re-don my rucksack, Sarah appears in the street outside casting around, just as I’d done. I open the door and assure her that it’s recommended, then wish her well as I set off again.
I find that, on the coast path and with a 13 kg weight on my back, my usual average speed of at least 3mph is reduced to roughly 2½mph, but that does include stops for photos, navigation and calls of nature. Of these latter there are relatively few, in spite of all the coffees and the regular sips from my 2½ litres of water because, in this warm weather, I lose a lot of fluid through perspiration. No, lets be frank, I sweat buckets. I’m continuously wet, almost as if it were raining, only not as cold; I discover that, when wiping my brow today, the new hanky is a tad abrasive – they’re softer and more absorbent after they’ve been washed. In one of my water containers I dissolve an isotonic rehydration tablet to replace some of the salts, and carry each day as emergency rations two jelly babies and a handful of salted peanuts – yes, in the same food bag! While beer is an excellent isotonic, I like to give my liver some chance of recovery, so prefer not to drink at lunchtime. That’s why, when I reach Portloe and spot The Lugger Inn, I make up my mind to have a coffee and maybe a sparkling water rather than alcohol.
When I see a board outside the pub saying ‘No muddy hiking boots’, I take umbrage and decide instead to deny them my custom. My boots are completely dry, with no mud on them, but the pub management’s attitude betrayed by the notice is reminiscent of the reviews for the Pilchard Inn on Burgh Island, as reported on Tripadvisor. All they had to do was change the notice to read: ‘Hikers welcome. Please remove muddy boots.’ As it is, I’ll continue merrily on my way, despite being a little concerned that, on such a warm day, my water supplies may be tested.
To give me the calorific fuel I need during the day, I carry two cereal bars in a waist pouch; I consume both of these today as well as the apple and pork pie, to help carry me up all the hills. I’m in danger of having to resort to my backstop resource: Kendal Mint Cake. After Portloe, Sarah’s destination for tonight, I’m trying to conserve water, so imagine my delight when, having dropped down into Portholland, I see a sign for a café. I head up to the tiny building, an old fishing cottage, only to find a board outside saying that Friday is their only day of rest. Bully for them and the good old law of Sod! I have no choice but to plod on thirstily. My delight, hitherto in abeyance, now knows no bounds when, at the next cove, I find a beach hut selling all manner of goodies. I stagger up to the counter and order a coffee, spot an Eccles cake and order that, then my eyes light on… beer! Ok, it’s gone 4pm, it’s no longer lunchtime, in fact you could almost call it evening and, besides, I’m parched. A bottle of Cornish Tribute ale saves the day.
I’m now only a mile and a half or so from Hemmick Beach, the random location next to a road where I’ve arranged to meet Liz and the boys. Judging by the texts I’m getting from them, it’s likely to be well after 6 before they get there, so I can now take my time. For a while I contemplate walking on further, to Gorran Haven, maybe an hour’s walk beyond Hemmick Beach, but soon decide that I’m too tired. As the week’s progressed, the point during each night by which my leg muscles have felt refreshed has been getting later until, last night, they still felt tired at 6am, but finally ok by 7. No, Hemmick Beach is as far as I want to go today.
I reach my destination at about 5.15, to find a beach with just a couple of dog walkers paddling and a Transit-type van belonging to a hippy couple, who are either 50-ish or 40-ish and very weather-beaten. I park myself on the sand, propped against a wall out of the wind. I’d love to mop my brow, but yet another hanky has now eluded me; Cornwall is now wealthier to the tune of three of my valued snotrags. The other two new ones are too deeply buried in my rucksack to dig out. While I’m there, a car pulls up and disgorges a young boy with a quadcopter. The father stays in the car while the boy seeks the best vantage point from which to fly his toy. He does so with consummate skill, especially considering how extraordinarily fast the thing whizzes over the beach and the cliffs at each end. I empathise with the father – he clearly finds the quadcopter’s noise as intensely irritating as I do, hence staying in the car, probably with music playing. Eventually the boy tires of showing off to such a small and unappreciative audience and tootles back into the car, whereupon the father, who’s probably been plotting ways to ensure the nasty little device might meet an ‘accidental’ but terminal mishap, drives off. The parking place is soon re-filled by another Transit-type van, but a much newer and shinier one than that of the hippies, subtly pimped and without all the dirty washing. A similarly swish one pulls in alongside, and both drivers open their vehicles’ rear doors and get changed into wetsuits. They look at me askance, as if I might be a potential van thief, so I wander over to let them know that I’m waiting for a lift. With that reassurance, they take up their harpoon guns and head off towards the rocks, there to dive in and search for – who knows what, pilchards, maybe? I reflect that I’ve now done 6 days out of 18 planned, so my challenge is one third complete.
Eventually, after 6.30, Liz and the boys finally arrive. Liz is traumatised by the narrow lanes and steep hills she’s had to negotiate, not to mention the ford she’s just had to drive through, so hands the car key over to me immediately. We decide to head straight for the pub I’ve picked out from Tripadvisor, the Polgooth Inn. It takes a bit of finding, but Alex is now able to use his phone as a satnav, so we get there in pretty good time, to find that it’s extremely busy. The staff at the pub are brilliant at coping with the volume of custom and cheerily find us a table. We don’t have to wait long for the food, which we can’t fault either. Thanks, Tripadvisor!
The YHA at the Eden Project, where I’ve booked us in for two nights, is another matter entirely, but more of that later.
White Acorns 