A day at a time
Wednesday 7 November, 2018
This is the seventh day of walking on paths which have been a bit of stretch, and I’m definitely feeling it. Carrying 11 kg over those headlands is starting to take a bit of a toll, and I will be glad to put the pack down tomorrow for forty-eight hours and give myself a breather. Anyway, I’m in another great pub above a picturesque fishing harbour, being careful what I drink and looking forward to dinner. It’s cold and wet outside, but I’m enjoying the quiet and talking to people in the pub.
I just loved Cadgwith and its old pub. It functions as a community centre, as does the Parish, where I am tonight (but the Parish is three times the size. It’s the pub which raises the money for the lifeboats, the coastwatchers (the coastguard no longer does visual checks on the coast) and other charities. It’s the pub which runs the Christmas lights. Hold your head in shame, NSW clubs.
I was all ready for a wet and windy day today, and prepared accordingly. Overnight it had poured and the wind had howled, so it didn’t bode well. Into the backpack went glasses, camera and anything at risk. As I finished breakfast, a group of intrepid coastwalkers walked past as the rain poured down and I mentally reviewed my preparations. Would scuba gear help?
As it turned out, the three hours I walked were mostly in clear weather and at one time I stripped off my jacket and walked in a long-sleeved t-shirt. This was an invitation to disaster and the rain god immediately had me stopping to pull everything out again. One thing I will say about the iPhone’s camera – it does great skies without tweaking (thanks to some pretty clever software); but I missed the little camera.
This is supposed to be one of the most beautiful sections on the path, with remains of old serpentine works and the dunes around Kennack Sands. The waves seemed to justify the surfing school (like everything else, closed for the winter), but these places are so isolated. Unlike St Ives, there’s no possibility (or desire) to turn these places into resorts, so it’s all quite unspoiled. I love it down here, even when the weather is blah and my knees are aching.
The path was pretty good, but this section of coast seems to have a premium on headlands. I seemed to keep looking up and seeing near vertical stairs ascending the hill sides. By the middle of the day, I really couldn’t care less about Iron Age forts on the headlands – if the path came inland across some farmer’s field, I was cheering. The serpentine is slippery, so scrambling down needed quite a lot of care.
Coverack was supposed to be a smuggling centre in the old days, and you can readily believe it with its winding streets and deep cellars. The lifeboat has been moved but the fishing boats are busy in the bay, even on a terrible afternoon like this one. It’s all inshore, but less pots that at Cadgwith, so maybe they take more fish here.
The final story for the day is about the pub and why it’s the Paris Hotel. The SS Paris ran aground on the Manacles in 1899 and had to be hauled off. The Manacles don’t mean that: it’s Kernow for Church Stones and over a thousand sailors have been drowned in the last two centuries.
Lots more stories, as always, but not much internet, so that’s it for today. It’s quiz night at the pub, so I might stay downstairs after phone calls and have some fun.
