Landkidden Cove to Lizard Point 6.6.16

Dropped off just inland from Landkidden Cove I walk west on a narrow rocky path – the early morning sky is blue and it looks like it’s going to be a sunny day. I am heading for Cadgwith where I’m staying tonight, which means I can lighten my load for the afternoon walk. It amazes me that even when I carry just the bare essentials, it still ends up being a heavy rucksack.

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After a few quite steep ascents and descents along the stony path it flattens out into a peaceful easy walk along the top of the cliffs. I walk past an information board welcoming me to the national nature reserve that is The Lizard. There are descriptions of all the different varieties of plants and flowers to be found in this area including one called Bastard Balm. I could do with some of that on my bedside table everytime I watch the 10 o’clock news, I think to myself.

In the distance I can see a long pebble beach which according to my map must be Kennack Sands.

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There are a few people out walking dogs and around the corner is another beach with a cafe. Children are making sandcastles and there are signs of young love.

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I wonder whether to stop for a cup of tea but decide against it as Cadgwith and my BnB is not far away.

The path now follows the road for a short while and then veers off left – I soon find myself walking through a beautiful wood where a wooden bench catches my eye.

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In the same vein a beautiful curved bridge crosses the steam at the bottom of the valley. The posts are adorned with stone balls which may be serpentine stone, for which the Lizard is famous – you don’t find it anywhere else in the country.

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Here is another example of Serpentine stone, polished by thousands of coast path walkers over the years.

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Walking in to Cadgwith I am relieved to see that it has retained its authenticity as a Cornish fishing village. There are very few signs of empty summer lets or small shops selling Cornish trinkets. Instead there are fishing boats and a pub with a quiz night and live music. I get rid of most of the things in my rucksack and head out of the village, but not before stopping for a cup of tea and some very good homemade cake.

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Here is another plant identification request – a bush/shrub with these perky orange flowers?

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Just outside Cadgwith is a sign pointing to what is known as the Devil’s Frying Pan and when I get to it I am puzzled – I have no idea why.

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Equally intriguing is the next sign ……………………………………..bless………………………..

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So that’s why the path looks like this…………………………………………………………

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I am now nearing Kilcobben Cove where I come across a lifeboat station tucked into the bottom of the cliff.  IMG_2818

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From the information boards I learn that the boathouse is 140 ft below the carpark at the top and that there are 200 steep steps for the crew of the lifeboat to run down before launching the boat down the steep slipway. I later meet a local who tells me that there is also a cage for the men to use to get to the bottom quicker. At the top the memorial stone tells of one tragic story.

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I am now not far from Lizard Point, an all important milestone in my walk. In the distance,  on Bass Point, I can see a look out station and on closer inspection a strange red wall which looks like something you might find in the conceptual art section of Tate Modern.

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As I stand at the foot of the look out station reading the board and trying to fathom the role of this off beat structure a woman pokes her head out of the front window of the station and asks if I would like an explanation. She then proceeded to explain, but it all got a bit technical and I lost her half way through. Reading up on it later I discover that it was a navigation tool to pinpoint the position of a deadly rock called The Vrogue which is concealed 2 metres under the surface of the sea off Bass Point and on which many vessels have come to grief. The trick lay in lining it up with specific markings on a building behind the lookout station (the one with turrets) – this reading would then point to the position of the deadly rock. It no longer has this role and the position of a new house has put a stop to the practice.

IMG_2826Further on up the path, getting closer and closer to Lizard Point I walk past a stile on my right which makes my heart sink. Surely this is not legal?!

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Fortunately I am not obliged to take this route so breathing normally again I make my way towards the Lizard lighthouse which means I am very close to my destination.

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Below the lighthouse the ground rolls away quite dramatically down to the sea – I decide that this must be the time for a photo.

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Officially, Lizard Point is just around the corner but it is a sorry sight in comparison and teeming with tourists.

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I walk back up the lane to the actual village and pass a fanciful scarecrow on the way. Or maybe she’s not a scarecrow. With a name like Tasmin Trelawny she could be part of some ancient Cornish tradition to celebrate the beginning of spring or summer – who knows?

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What I know is I am very happy to have reached the southernmost point of the UK and am now looking forward to reaching the westernmost – Land’s End.

Distance: 10 miles

 

 

 

 

 

 

Porthallow to Landkidden Cove 14.5.16

For some strange reason the coast path leaves the coast at Porthallow and follows a winding minor road down to Porthoustock – I walk past a sign on the way that makes me smile……..IMG_2744

Porthoustock itself is rather uninspiring, the dull weather and grey hulk of a huge concrete silo contributing to the general air of gloom – saved a little by the pretty cottage up on the cliff to the left.

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I cannot follow the coast path here either as the headland is quarried so I walk back up the hill and follow signs which bring me back to the sea.

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I walk up onto the cliff, noticing that the bushes are decorated with knots of startlingly white wool – I pick one up and roll it through my fingers. In days gone by, when I rejoiced in rejecting technology for traditional crafts, I was, along with two other women in the “commune”, the proud owner of a spinning wheel. I still remember the wonderful smell and oily feel of the fleece before it is carded, ready for spinning. We spent hours carding, spinning, dying with natural dyes and knitting sweaters – the boys rode old Norton and Enfield motorbikes. ……..

This clump of wool is devoid of oil and almost feels artificial – it must have been too long out in the salty sea air and rain. My mind then turns to a book I have just finished “The Shepherd’s Life” by James Rebanks, which is a vivid account of the rigours of life for sheep and their owners in the Lake District. I now look at sheep quite differently.

Lost in my reverie I round the headland and come to a halt on the edge of what looks like  a disused quarry but there are signs everywhere warning of heavy traffic – today it is silent and slightly creepy. I am also acutely aware that a kilometre out to sea lie the group of submerged rocks known as The Manacles on which hundred of ships have come to grief over the years.

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I scurry up the path which then opens up into an area of flat boggy land known as Lowland Point.

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Fortunately, the ever considerate National Trust have laid slabs down to save walkers from sinking in the mud – I am regularly moved to tears by the thoughtful construction of this coastal path with its beautiful wooden and stone stiles, strategically placed posts for getting over them, boardwalks, bridges and stepping stones.

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Quite soon Coverack comes into view in the distance where I will be sleeping tonight. My plan is to have some lunch and then walk on a few more miles with a considerably lighter pack on my back. Entering the village I head for the Paris Hotel, not named after the French capital but after the stranding of the luxury liner SS Paris on Lowland Point in 1899. No life lost this time, thanks to a chance sighting of the ship and prompt action to divert its course. It is said that the SS Paris was a favourite with the seagulls due to the quality of the pickings it left in its wake.

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After lunch and much deliberation I decide to continue along the coast path as far as Lankidden Cove but as there are no busses to bring me back I will have to walk back along the road. One of the last gardens before leaving the village has a wonderful display of these alien succulents – I used to have one myself but as a house plant it soon withered and died but a friend of mine has them growing in  a sheltered part of her garden.

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Further on the path gets very rocky and steep, I am glad I only have the barest minimum on my back.

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……………………..and again the National Trust comes to the rescue on the way up to Black Head.

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On the way up to Beagles Point I come to a sign which rings a few alarm bells – what kind if cattle? Cows or bulls? I meet neither.

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The path gets wilder and wilder and I am very much alone in the late afternoon sunshine.

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Across the bridge I go and up the steep hill on the other side, scorning a bench at the top of the climb – but as we all know pride comes before a …………………………shooting pains in my lower back take my breath away and my legs crumble in shock. Gingerly I tip- toe back to the previously rejected bench murmuring apologies and sit down very carefully. I wait, will I be able to continue or will the pain be too bad? Don’t know yet……….Is there anyone around? No………. Do I have a couple of miles left to walk? Yes ……….Oh dear……

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After a long 10 minutes I try standing up and walking a few paces – there are twinges but I can walk, slowly. So that’s what I do, until I reach the Cove (which I will save for another day) and turn off right, up a farm track and then the road back through Ponsongath to Coverack.

I sit in the fish and chip shop later, vowing to myself to go back to yoga classes.

Tomorrow is Sunday and there are no busses out of Coverack. I ask a few local lads in the bar about taxis and one of them recommends “Nutty Noah” an ex-fisherman from Cadgwith Cove who is ” a bit strange but a good lad” Hmmmmm.

Sunday dawns and the taxi arrives, driven by a jovial character with a real “out in all weathers” face. At one point he answers my questions about why he has given up fishing with his own question to me. “Would you like to hear the song of my life my dear?” I giggle nervously as he launches into the first few notes of a sea shanty. I am amazed and curse the fact that my iPhone to record him lies buried deep in my rucksack. As the last notes of his ballad are dying away we reach my destination and he lets me out – how wonderful! It is only later in the train that I notice the Utube url on his card. So here is the song…………………

 

 

Distance: 11 miles

 

 

 

 

 

Falmouth to Porthallow 13.5.16

The weather forecast is promising blue skies and sun and it is already hot at 9.30 as I set off from Swanpool Beach in Falmouth – I wish I had remembered my shorts.

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I walk up the hill until I reach the turning off left for the coast path – after a while Maenporth comes into view and I am soon down on the beach.

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I walk through the troughs made by some heavy vehicle that has ploughed circular shapes into the sand, I wonder why….

On the way up onto the cliff again these rhubarb like plants catch my eye – they have hairy stems which I think can cause rashes on contact with skin (when the sun’s out!). Their cone like flowers are also impressive.

 

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And the sun is now seriously out and I feel the need for a hat and sun cream, neither of which I thought necessary when I was packing. It is a relief to follow the path down and though a patch of woodland with some strangely tortured trees – twenty minutes of welcome shade.

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The path then opens up to fields basking in the sun – I am approaching a village called Mawnan, a little way inland – it has a church and its very own Parson’s Beach.

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By now I am in need of a cup of tea and a rest, so I am very pleased to reach Durgan where I find a former fish cellar owned by the National Trust, selling ice-cream and tea.

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Inside the stone building it is lovely and cool – I sit, change my socks and spend 10 mins or so reading about how Cornish fishermen fished for pilchards. This is what I learnt:

The traditional way of harvesting was seine fishing. A lookout was kept from cliff tops by “huers” who, on sighting the pilchard shoals, would signal by crying ‘hevva’ through a trumpet-shaped megaphone. They would use disturbance on the sea surface and the behaviour of gannets as indicators of the presence of a shoal. The huers would then guide the boats to the shoal by semaphore and provide instruction on where to set the net to entrap it. A boat with three crew members would ‘shoot’ a huge net that could be up to 400 yards long. It had corks at the top and weights at the bottom to form a vertical wall around the shoal.

I find myself wondering if “hue and cry” derives from the name for these lookouts and when, if ever, we could expect to see pilchards on fashionable menus.

I set off up the hill, ignoring the “coast path closed” sign as I had been advised. The path winds up through woodland IMG_2714

………………..past an entrance to Glendurgan Gardens which apparently has a large selection of Epiphytic plants that don’t need soil to grow in, taking the moisture and nutrients they need from rain and the air around them.I would have liked to have  alook around but there is a ferry timetable hanging over my head.

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As I climb upwards I keep expecting a diversion sign saying that the coast path is closed due to coastal erosion but I see none and everyone I ask tells me that there are no problems with the path ahead – oh well………this is England after all, where it never pays to take information as given.

The walk next to the Helford River is easy and I soon reach the Ferryboat Inn at Helford Passage. The place is crowded, people sitting outside enjoying the sun and I am pleased to find a kiosk on the bank selling tickets.

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……………..and it doesn’t take long for the ferry to arrive, complete with two German walkers bearing rucksacks twice the size of mine.

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On the other side is the hamlet of Helford where I am hoping to find a sandwich and a drink.

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After 10 minutes of research my only bet is the pub, a beautifully restored Cornish hostelry. I give myself 30 minutes to eat an anchovy and feta salad and eavesdrop on a “Noo Yawk” writer and her publisher discussing the the themes of her new book.

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I take a photo through the porthole window in one of the pub doors……………………..

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Leaving the pub I walk through the village, across a bridge over a ford and walk east alongside the estuary. On the way I pass a sign saying that I am now entering the Bosahan Estate – I love the “free range children”.

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Next to the sign is a wooden box on a pole showcasing collections of shells and other indefinable objects in glass bottles – plus a wicker “honesty bowl”. Could the bottles have been found in the river?

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I walk on, it is getting late and I have another stretch of water to cross………………………

Just round the corner is an exquisite little cove – Bosahan Cove, wish I could dally.

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I am now heading for Gillian Harbour where the Helford Ferryman told me I “should” be able to find a man to take me across the creek. I am a little sceptical but when I arrive at St. Anthony in Meneage, a kindly boat builder directs me to a fishing hut (after correcting my pronunciation of Porthallow) where it appears a small boat can be hired for £5 to take me across the harbour.

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I throw in my rucksack and the rickety little craft putt putts its way across the very shallow water and half way across the motor cuts out.

I say nothing, having absolute faith in the young boy, but I then hear his father over the walkie talkie advising his son not to continue in the direction he is heading as that would result in a grounded boat. With a bit of complaint the motor starts up again and we head off a bit further west until we reach a stretch of flat rock covered in green slime where I am meant to get out and walk the rest of the way. I heave my bag on to my back and a little unsteadily climb out of the boat and head for some stone steps which will bring me up safely on to the other side of the creek. I turn round to wave goodbye but the boy is busy manoeuvring the boat back into the shallow water.

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On the other side I walk past yet another immaculate Cornish cottage………………………..

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On the other side the walking is quite easy and I soon reach the lookout station on Nare Point ( another one).

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I am tired now and rounding the headland I cannot see any signs of habitation, just more of the path winding for miles through the gorse. I decide to sit down and rest for 10 mins before tackling the last haul into Porthallow. And at last, sunburnt and weary I head down the road into Porthallow.

IMG_2739My feet are killing me and my map says there is a pub – but it doesn’t open until 6pm! There are no busses to the village where I’m staying tonight and I can’t get a taxi for another hour (and the fare is astronomical anyway). Out of the blue my phone rings – hallelujah! It is my lovely BnB lady who offers to come and get me – she arrives in a whirl of dust and a black Mercedes sports car! Roll over Lucy Jordan………………………………….

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Distance: 14 miles

 

 

 

 

 

Trewithian to Porthole 11.5.16

Owing to the complications of practically non-existent public transport and the dearth of reasonably priced Bnbs on the coast, I will first be walking east and then west today. I cross the road from Trewithian Farm and after a short walk on the road I set out east on the coast path.

It is early and very misty and I can barely make out the shape of Nare Head in the distance. I walk quickly, aware of the fact that I have a lot of ground to cover if I am to reach Falmouth today, particularly because I have to factor in the timetables of two ferries. To the right the sea is very still as I walk through drifts of wild spring flowers – daisies, harebells, dandelions, celandines, primroses, bluebells and pink campion (thank you Sharon). At one point the path turns right and upwards past what looks like an out of season hotel and then continues on the road, soon dipping down to Pendower Beach.

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On the way down I pass another group of shuttered buildings so I ask two dog walkers if they know why. I learn that the building in the photo below used to be a hotel doing great business in the summer until the owners decided to sell up. It was then bought by a city gent with ambitious plans to knock it down and build a MUCH BIGGER hotel but the locals objected – this was 8-10 years ago and it has been empty since. This story reminds me of the building opposite our house which has stood empty for more than 18 years due to a family feud – such a shame.

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I skirt Pendower Beach, climb up a few steps and carry on across the top of the cliff.

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The next hotel I come to is very much alive – the Nare Hotel overlooking Carne Beach – it looks nice but I can’t afford the time for a cup of tea.

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I am now getting close to Nare Head and making good time but the amount of screeching and squawking which reaches my ears stops me in my tracks. It is coming from Gull Island which sits just off the headland – hence its name.

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Soon I can see the roofs of Portloe peeking up out of the rocky landscape – I have made it in time to meet my taxi which will take me back to where I started 3 hours ago – I will then start walking west.

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Now walking with the sea on my left I reach Porthbean Beach where my boots touch sand briefly but are then directed up the cliff.

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From here I follow a narrow winding path which opens out onto a flat broad stretch of land and a look out post complete with coastguard.

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Beyond Porthkurnick Beach I can now see Portscatho in the distance and my mind turns to lunch.

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On reaching the village I walk down to the harbour and find a pit stop with sausage rolls and a tray of “Pata de Nata” (Cornwall has come a long way). The coffee is good but the whole experience is somewhat marred by a disturbingly loud and persistent noise coming from a generator powering an algae removal machine. The man behind the counter explains that this has to be done because STUPID PEOPLE cannot read the notices that tell them not to walk on the slipway and then do so and have accidents. His venom has such force that I feel very happy I am not one of these people.

Up on the cliff again I check my watch, worried that I am not going to make the last ferry from St. Anthony’s Head to St. Mawes – missing it would be a very long walk back with no guarantee of a room at the inn at the end of it. I quicken my pace, stopping briefly to investigate a strange wooden pole standing on its own.

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The plaque underneath tells me that it is a Wreck Pole erected by the coastguard services and constructed to look like a ship’s mast. It was once used in training exercises where a rocket and line would be fired from a ship and be attached to the pole. From there a breeches buoy would be used to practise winching people out of sinking ships.

I hurry past through swathes of pretty thrift (thank you Helen)……………IMG_2676

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………..until I reach the “cairn” of St. Anthony Head. By now I am very hot and bothered – it is getting late and I still have about an hour’s walk up the estuary to a place called Place (yes really) where I can get the ferry. I march on, which is something I don’t like to do,  past some enchanting little coves which I would have liked to have stopped to enjoy – but not today.

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Eventually I come to a sign directing me to the ferry and a sweet little church with its own medieval coffin, discovered during recent excavations – it is lined with thick moss and looks very comfortable.

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Just around the corner is the sign for the ferry but I am still not in the right place! Where I’m standing is the high water landing – I need to walk another half a mile to the low water  slipway (sigh).

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The path takes me upwards and around a very grand house and gardens and eventually to a break in the trees with steps leading down to a pontoon. There is a sign at the top which confuses me – is the last ferry 16.45 or 17.45? I ring the mobile number and get no reply and in a slight panic ring the office number where I eventually get through to a gentleman who assures me that the ferry is on its way but that I am still not standing in the right place! I am then directed right over some rocks and down a narrow, very slippery slipway covered in algae (am I now one of those STUPID PEOPLE and is that why its called a slipway I wonder?)

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……………….and here it comes, oh what a relief………………………..

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I clamber aboard and sit back and enjoy the view. St. Mawes looks lovely and I find myself wishing I had planned to stay here especially as by now I am really tired.

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But all I have to do now is enjoy a swift half outside the pub on the harbour and wait for the last ferry to Falmouth. And I don’t have to wait long ……………………………………..

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IMG_2695The Tamar Belle sails me past the warships in Falmouth Docks – I am really looking forward to supper and bed.

Distance: 17 miles

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Saundersfoot to Manorbier 25.03.16

Back again in Saundersfoot and what a difference a day makes – blue skies and sunshine, follow me down a narrow tarmac road to a sign pointing up to a beautiful stretch of woodland that I would have photographed except that my iPhone keeps telling that I don’t have enough storage to do so. I don’t really understand the message as I spent an hour yesterday deleting photos……..oh well.

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Coming out of the wood the path follows the coast, there are some steep climbs and descents and I start to wonder if I dare use my walking pole. The reason I am a little cautious is because I have a hunch that the continuous jarring of my right shoulder when using the pole, may have been what brought on the ice age (the 9 months of adhesive capsulitis or frozen shoulder to friends). Anyway, I now find myself in another patch of woodland where I walk past signs with warnings of felling. It is very quiet so maybe the foresters are on holiday – heavy trees lie uprooted around me, their roots tangled and dry.

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Out of the wood I’m back on the cliff in the sunshine and as I climb up and out of a place called Waterwynch, I start to see glimpses of Tenby in the distance. This is where I will be staying the night so the plan is to empty my rucksack and continue on to Manorbier. The best laid plans…………… a look on the map reveals that my BnB is in fact some distance past Tenby in a village called Penally…………oh well.

As I walk down into Tenby I take a few photos of the pretty little town but then my iPhone gives up again. Here is one of mine with the tide out……………..

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…….and here is one from the net with the tide in – this one may disappear after a while, something to do with copyright so enjoy it while you can. The long low white building with the red roof is the old lifeboat station which is now a home and was the subject of an episode of Grand Designs.

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Tenby has two beaches, a north and a south – before heading off east from the south beach I stop for a cup of coffee in an Italian restaurant which is doing brisk business and where they all seem to be Italian!

Refuelled I stride off down the long wide beach called The Burrows keeping an eye out for the turn off through the dunes that will take me to my accommodation. The path leads to Penally Station and where I’m heading is just up the road. I quickly empty my rucksack of all but the essentials and head up a tarmac road where the map shows a turning off to the left to take me back to the coast. I walk through a few gates and come out on the boundary of a military shooting range – it is Good Friday so no red flags flying.

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I head for the horizon and come out onto a wide grassy path that runs along the top of the cliffs – from here I can see the outline of Caldey Island.

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I will never forget the description in Robert Macfarlane’s book “The Old Ways” where he asks us to imagine the first few monks of the 6th century setting off in a coracle in the cold light of dawn, bent on finding a new home……….the Cistercians are still there.

On I walk in the late afternoon sunshine, I am making good progress with my nearly empty rucksack bobbing about on my back. Soon I start to see the serried ranks of caravans at Lydstep Haven in the distance. I am tempted to stop for refreshment in the site cafe but decide to eat a banana on the hoof as I don’t want to arrive in Manorbier too late for the bus back to Penally.

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Back up onto the cliffs I skirt another military enclosure and promptly get lost! I spend a long time walking back, forth and around two large fields of unusually curious sheep trying to find the path. The shooting range makes it difficult to just head for the sea and my only point of reference is a farm and its narrow dirt road, which I eventually decide to take all the way into Manorbier, an attractive little seaside village with its own castle.  I head for the pub which turns out to be just across the road from the bus stop, and spend the next 30 minutes deleting photos over a pint of real ale. Must remember to take my camera next time.

Distance: 12 miles

 

 

 

Saundersfoot to Laugharne 24.3.16

Billy Connelly maintains that there is no such thing as bad weather, just the wrong clothes.Weeeeelll…………………..

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The forecast is disheartening but as I set off from Saundersfoot in a light drizzle I manage to convince myself that I will get through the day. I am walking anti- clockwise today for reasons too dreary to mention, so for once the sea is on my right hand side.

Climbing up from the beach I am directed up and through two short tunnels under the cliffs – one of them is illuminated with low level red lights.  As I emerge blinking from the second one I meet a man and his dog: “Back to normal then” he says – it takes me a full 2 seconds to realise he’s talking about the weather.

IMG_2442IMG_2445I soon reach a seaside spot called Wiseman’s Bridge and from here a wide concrete path makes for easy walking in to Amroth. My map has a castle marked so I follow the signs under a stone arch past a huge caravan site to see what turns about to be a large grey turret ed mansion. It is getting more and more difficult to take photos in the persistent rain but I manage to whip out my iPhone to take a few.

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From Amroth I follow signs up onto the cliff where the wind picks up, I tighten my hood.

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Down below me massive slabs of granite pave the beach, everything is grey and wet and the only saving grace are the yellow gorse flowers set against the rich brown/red colour of winter ferns.

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IMG_2451Towards the end of Marron Sands I come across the sodden carcass of a dead lamb which has something wrapped around its hind legs – could it be after birth? Is this a still birth? Anyway, I scurry past.

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By now I am very very wet and I have a sneaking suspicion that my waterproof trousers and jacket are leaking in places. My next hope of shelter is Pendine which I think is about  a mile away.  The path now dips steeply down and up again and I realise I have reached Gilman Point. Descending slowly down the narrow stony path I spy a strange metallic structure off to the right which turns out to be nothing more interesting than a pumping station. Disappointingly there is no shelter in the cove although I do hide from the wind for a while behind the ruins of a rectangular stone structure. I have no idea what it is but even in my despondent state I manage to appreciate the energy in the iron bars struggling to escape the stone and mortar.

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Realising that I am now soaked through, I leave my shelter and come across  a sign which points up the hill to Pendine – it says 0.7.kms. Up I go until almost at the top, where there is a confusing divergence of the path. Off to the right, in the right direction, is a very narrow path which suddenly gets very narrow and turns a corner. All I can see is a steep slope downwards and a lot of loose rocks. This can’t be the way I think and retrace my steps to follow the path leading off to the left (in the wrong direction). This takes me across a trampled barbed wire fence into a field. I stumble across to where I think the path may be and lo and behold there it is – but on the other side of a high untrampled barbed wire fence. Desperate measures are needed so throwing caution to the wind I lift one leg over the fence and promptly get stuck. A horrible tearing noise tells me that the fence spike has ripped a hole in my trousers and I can even feel it sneaking into my underpants. Very carefully  I manage to lift myself off the fence and completely demoralised, make my way back down the hill where I know there is a minor road that will take me to Pendine. All these shenanigans have now added a couple of miles to my walk.

It is with huge relief that I swing open the door of the Point Cafe in Pendine and squelch my way to a table. There is only one other customer so I have plenty of space to peel off my wet clothes. The young boy serving approaches me: What can I get you? he says, unfazed by all the puffing and panting and the sight of my dripping clothes. “A towel” I reply with a grin – he does not smile. Nevertheless, when he brings me my teacake and tea he also hands me a towel. It is also him who offers me a lift to Laugharne as he will be going that way soon.  I accept, Pendine to Laugharne will have to be another day.

Distance: 8 miles

 

Hemmick Beach to Porthole 30.12.15

Alas, the 10 days of meticulously planned walking on the Cornish coast did not happen – rain stopped play. Here is the one and only photo of our 3 mile walk in torrential rain and howling winds – this was taken the day before.

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Our taxi drops us at Hemmick Beach which is unrecognisable. This is where I stopped last September on a soft balmy evening, rescued from a no phone signal dilemma and offered a lift by a lovely family to The Lost Gardens of Heligan.  Today a whirlwind of spume covers the beach and sea wall as we struggle to keep our balance in the howling wind and lashing rain. “Are you sure about this?” Damian shouts, as head down, we lean into the wind and crawl up onto the cliff – I can’t shout back, the wind whips away my words.

After a while the path dips down behind some bushes and a relative calm descends but it is still raining – heavily. We reach the shuttered castle at Caerhays, its carpark deserted and later the crossing from East to West Portholland and its cluster of holiday cottages. On a good day this would be lovely, today the sky is a leaden grey and the sea is angry.

At this point I make an executive decision not to walk back up onto the cliffs, but take the road back to Portloe. Sheltered by the hedges the wind is bearable, but it is still raining – heavily.

Eventually, soaked to the skin and more than a little worried about the weather report for the next 10 days, we arrive back at the car and drive off towards Falmouth. If there is to be no walking then we will visit the Eden Project and the Hepworth Sculpture Garden in St. Ives – I’ll come back in the Spring.

Distance: 3 miles!