South West Coast Path Day 9.
Distance today: 24.1 miles.
Total distance: 1254.4 miles.
Accommodation: wild camping (in a garden).
In case anybody was in any doubt, let me make it quite clear. This is a stunning stretch of coastline to walk along. Easily some of the most enjoyable parts of my trip so far. Don’t be put off by those people who say it’s really tough. Take it slow, stop to admire the views, and be thankful that such a thing exists, in our country, and is open to all. Free! That’s a miracle in itself.
As if to confirm its status as a path of distinction (an award I just bestowed upon it), within a couple of miles of the campsite, the SWCP brings you to Tintagel Castle. Or more specifically, to a view of the castle and the bridge that linked it to the mainland. The combination of all the elements that nature can provide together with man’s perilous ingenuity was unbelievably spectacular. I think the ancients picked a good spot for a fortification.
A couple of miles further on and I reached Trebarwith Beach. It was a nice little cove but it was fair to say I was more distracted by the steep climb I faced to get beyond it. I stopped to refuel at The Strand Café which had a cool surfer shack vibe to it. Reading ahead about what I had to look forward to on the trail, I had discovered to my amazement that the official SWCP recommendation was to catch a ferry from Rock to Padstow! How does that qualify as a bona fide coastal route? I asked the owner of the café if he knew what the alternatives were. At one point he (half) jokingly offered to get in touch with a mate who could paddle board me across the river. Sadly, I think that still counts as transport. As I was leaving, a customer who had obviously been listening to our conversation, came up and as well as wishing me luck, offered me the book he had just finished reading: Travels With Charley by John Steinbeck. It was a touching gesture and very appropriate given its apparent wanderlust themes. Reluctantly I declined on the basis of weight (not that the paperback was that heavy) and, perhaps more significantly, the fact that I was unlikely to give myself the time to read it. Most evenings when I finished walking, I was pretty much good for nothing other than eating and drinking.
The next interesting distraction on the trail was the village of Port Isaac. With its chocolate box cuteness, it was another place worthy of being a film backdrop. Clearly given Doc Martin, Saving Grace, and various other productions, I wasn’t the first to think of this.
Not to be outdone in terms of sheer idyllic beauty, was the neighbouring hamlet of Port Quin. It was absolutely picture perfect. Not a hint of fluorescent clothing or a brightly-coloured beer garden umbrella to be seen anywhere. Ignoring the occasional telegraph pole, if you were looking on from a distance, you could genuinely struggle to work out what period in history you were in.
It was now around 6pm and I needed to work out where I was going to sleep. The nearest campsites were close to Polzeath which was still a hike away. I’d rang a couple of sites and they were either full, didn’t cater for tents, or simply weren’t prepared to either book me in over the phone or wait until I arrived. And this was in spite of my best I’m-doing-this-for-charity pleading. Oh well, it looked like I was wild camping again. I started to keep my eye open for suitable spots but as I knew I probably wouldn’t pitch my tent until it got dark, I decided that unless I found the perfect spot, I may as well keep making progress until it was nearly dark.
Not far from Polzeath were the twin headlands known as The Rumps. It was the site of an Iron Age fort although you might have to be an archeologist to detect any evidence. Not that it mattered (to me) because with the sun on its way down, the place had a magical aura to it. I even thought I’d found a discreet place to camp when just at that moment I could see a group of men heading in my general direction, armed with beers and fishing rods. Maybe not then. Frustratingly as I headed away from the Rumps, I just couldn’t find anywhere that seemed tucked away (enough). Arriving in Polzeath, my consolation for still being homeless was the beautiful sight of the sea and the beach catching the last bit of light before the sun finally set.
Polzeath appeared to be a strange mix of old housing stock and spangly new upmarket homes. You got the sense that whenever a tired old dwelling came on the market, it would be bulldozed and replaced with something shinier and almost certainly bigger. It made me wonder how many locals looking to buy could keep up with the scarily high house prices? Meanwhile, I was still looking for somewhere to sleep. The Tristram Caravan Park was tantalizingly convenient but it was way past office hours and I think they didn’t allow tents so I would have looked fairly conspicuous if I had tried to sneak in. I resigned myself to heading further along the trail.
As the route changed from village to more open countryside, I saw a woman sat in the garden of the very last house. With nothing to lose, I shouted across to her. “Excuse me, I don’t suppose you have anywhere where I can pitch a tent do you?”. Sadly, she didn’t. I got the feeling she was wavering but it wasn’t her house so it wasn’t her call to make. I totally understood and respected her decision. Did she know of anywhere nearby? She pointed to a spot all of 30 yards away, just up from the beach, and said she’d seen people camp there before. After thanking her, I went to check it out and decided it was a bit open with a good chance of being disturbed by drunks walking back home, but it would do. It was still a bit early and so I started to rearrange my bag to allow quick access to tent, mattress, and sleeping bag. At this point, the woman from the house came over and half-apologizing, explained that the house belonged to her family and she could make the decision but I needed to convince her that I wasn’t an axe murderer. Well, what do you want to know? I’m walking from John o’ Groats to Land’s End for charity – see, this is my card. I have a website! I live in Stroud with my partner Penny and our cat Lilly … I think I passed the audition although I’m sure that part of the deal of being a successful axe murderer is to have a credible backstory.
My host’s name was Vanessa and she said I could pitch my tent on the level patch of grass in front of the house. I think someone with a good arm could throw a stone and it would hit the Atlantic Ocean. Absolutely amazing. And the final act of kindness? Vanessa managed to find me a beer and then raided the fridge to produce a meal out of what was left in there. The spirit of generosity lives on.
