Plymouth! Hoe!
Saturday 17 November, 2018
My last day on the Southern Coast (as the bit I’ve done is called) was long but increasingly enjoyable as the murk of the last few days dissipated and the sun broke through. 25 kilometres down the track and the sun shone over the path north of Cawsand and my feet were a little less sore as I headed for the ferry that would take me from Cremyll, on the Hamoaze, to Admirals Hard. All the names and geography were reminders of the history of the Royal Navy, from Drake to Cook to Cornwallis, to the Western Approaches of the Second World War. Even the RAAF flew Sunderlands from the Harbour.
The path went through Whitsand Golf Course, with the players hitting into the brisk easterly complaining bitterly (and very pleased on the way back!). This is very much a surfing coast – for those who like their surfing in freezing water, wearing heavy wetsuits and relaxing on grey sand and razor sharp rocks!
You can’t surf everywhere, however. The biggest of the so called Palmerston Forts sits right across the path. Fort Tregantle is still in use, even though it was built in 1865 to repel a French attack on Plymouth! The 60 guns are gone, but it is now accommodation for troops using the rifle ranges. These were not in use, thankfully, or I would look like a colander.
Then on, along the cliffs and beside the surfing shacks of Whitsand Bay, above the grey sand, until I reached Rame Head, the last of the great headlands on my journey, with St Michael’s Chapel silhouetted against the peeking sun. The easterly was starting to get up and the temperature had dropped – it’s been southwesterly for the last two weeks and a few degrees warmer and Moore humid, and I know the change of wind portends winter during next week.
I’d stopped for coffee at Freathy, and the path was smooth with only a couple of deviations – that usually means the cliff has subsided and taken the path with it – so I kept walking through the Edgcumbe Estate, with its farms, gardens and the twin villages of Kingsand and Cawsand. I was so taken with these little places, perched on the edge of the sea, that I lost the path for a bit. All the lower buildings have flood barriers in front of the doors for king tides and storms – it was tempting to stop and have a pint in one of the old pubs, but it was time to finish. Refreshments could wait for Plymouth.
That last hour felt odd, as it always does at the end of a walk, with Plymouth in site and the breakwater and Drakes Lizard coming into view. It was the afternoon for which I’d waited for a week — the sun shone!
So there it is. No great revelations, and lots of sweat and sore feet for some beautiful views. Some will say that the whole three weeks was a waste of time because there was no pilgrims’ goal at the end, no saint’s hand to kiss. I would much rather have discovered some companion on the road as I did on the Camino; but I was the only and the last walker of the year. Sharing it with Paula would have been best, and this will be the last time I walk without her.
You can’t, however, measure endeavours in simplistic terms. I wanted some freedom from the unending pressure of work, to breathe a different air and whatever cost, to set a goal that most would think difficult if not impossible. I took on a path that most don’t do without support, carried my pack, and finished on time and on target. No regrets. Done and dusted.
