Tintagel to Polzeath - walking the South West Coast Path

Despite being woken by the cows and then the sheep (why were they there -surely sheep don't need to be milked?) I managed to doze for a couple more hours before finally rousing myself at half-eight. By the time I had packed up all my gear and chatted to the couple in the tent next door it was gone half-nine by the time I trotted back to the coast path to resume the route.

Sea Caves, Tintagel

Slate mine near Tintagel

Ten minutes later I reached Tintagel Castle. I didn't go in as I thought both the entrance fee of £5.90 (60p off for concessions!) and the hill up to the castle were a little steep. Instead I made for the cafe and guzzled a coffee. I had decided not to bring cooking gear for reasons of weight (just as well now I was carrying the tent on my own) and the downside of this was having to start each day with water and )if I'm lucky) a little bit of leftovers. Having drunk the coffee I felt a little more human and spent a while wandering around the part of the cove that you don't have to pay for. The sea was impressive, whacking the cliffs with a resounding whomp and swooshing into the sea caves at the foot of the cliffs. Finally I pressed on and climbed up to the top of the hill and a pleasant walk across the top, past Tintagel church and long defunct slate mines to Trebarwith Strand, two miles or so on, where the sea was landing on the rocks of a small cove.

Trebarwith Strand

I really was having trouble getting started this morning. I couldn't understand it until I realised I had not eaten anything since the previous afternoon. Time for a pasty. I have been eating a lot of pasties on this trip. Whilst I ate and drank more coffee I chatted to the guy on in the snack bar about the walk and the weather. We agreed that the forecasters could rarely get it right for anything more than 48 hours ahead. 'I don't bother listening to the forecast any more,' he said. I asked him whether he was busy. 'Not just now,' he said, 'but it will get busy later at low tide.'
'Why is that?' I asked.
'Have you not seen it here at low tide?'
I said I had not and he showed me a postcard of a huge expanse of golden sand, none of which was visible now. It was like a different place.

Gull Rock

The climb out of Trebarwith was a Category B (see my previous post for information on categories) verging on BF, steep enough but not impossible. My progress may have been assisted by the recent consumption of coffee and pasty though. And then here we go again: up, down, up, down, up, down. I notice a couple behind me in red jackets and it becomes a matter of personal pride that I don't let them overtake me. I keep an eye out for them, yeses - they are still way behind - oh no they're catching me up - I speed up again. For miles I travel over cliffs, unremitting- no cafes, no villages, nothing.

Travelling alone does at least give me chance to think and ponder some of the big philosophical questions of life: is a slug simply a snail without a home or are there other differences? And how come people all look different but ants all look the same? These were the thoughts that occupied me as I trudged across the hills to Port Isaac.

Category B?

Path closure

It was maybe just as well that as I walked into the village other concerns were uppermost in my mind, namely - where was the cashpoint and where could I get something to eat? There was no cashpoint as far as I could tell, and I was stupendously lucky that the post office was open, as it only operates for eight hours a week, based in the village hall it is an outreach service from Camelford. I dipped out slightly on the food, picking a ridiculously expensive cafe (seven pounds for a pastie?) but I was mollified by the friendly customers outside, a chap who was a serial long-distance walker and his son and friend who had cycled from Bude and were shocked by the hills around here (they hailed from the Midlands) and I had a nice time chatting to them about walking, cycling and beer.

Filming at Port Isaac

I left one of the cyclists having his thighs massaged by his cycling buddy, they were still in shock by the thirty per cent hills, and headed down the hill to the harbour, where lots of people were running about clutching clip-boards and shouting things like: 'now come on, help me people, stop that car driving down the road!' and 'get in position, everyone - now!' They were, of course, filming that popular television series, Doc Martin. I've seen it a few times - its ok - but I'm at a loss to explain why it is quite so popular. Anyway, I can tell you - spoiler alert - the next series features a New York cop with an enormous stuck-on moustache. Not sure what this cop is doing in Port Isaac, sorry Portwenn, but I can tell you he makes Village People look like a straight act.

Port Isaac

The last few miles to Polzeath got a little desperate - I wondered whether to wild camp but eventually decided to head into the village so I could get to a pub. I picked the campsite on the sea front, with a lovely view of the sea. I didn't get to the pub though - by the time I had pitched my tent it was all I could do to crawl into my sleeping bag. I lay there sucking on a crust of bread I had found at the bottom of my rucksack, feeling pains shooting up and down my legs in a most interesting fashion and listening to the waves which landed on the shore not in gentle waves but in a constant roar like the sound of an engine. Eventually sleep overcame the pain and I slept solidly until nine the next morning.

Mines at Port Quin

Distance: 14 miles
Total Distance: 161 miles
Accommodation ranking: 6/10
Accommodation cost £12.00 (surfers hang outs always seem to command a premium)