Boscastle to Crackington Haven

Last night I had climbed the hill to the Nap for a couple of pints. The pub was quite full with visitors enjoying an evening meal. Suddenly the phone of a woman at the bar beeped with the sound of an incoming text. All us emmets looked up sharply. (An emmet is a pejorative word for tourists but I am reclaiming it.) A text? How? How can you get a text in Boscastle? (You can tell an emmet in Boscastle by the way they keep staring at their phone and then holding it up in the air before stuffing it bad temperedly back in their pocket.) Apparently a certain network named after a citrus fruit is the only one that functions here, and even then it's patchy. (Isn't it interesting how hi-tech products are linked with fruit: Orange, Apple, Blackberry. Nothing branded Melon yet, I wonder why.)

Anyway I was on the wrong network so before I set off on today's walk I indulged in a bit of phone waving standing on top of Queen Victoria's Head (see here and my post dated 22/11/2011.) Don't know why I bothered, no-one had texted me anyway. Sighing, I headed off towards Crackington Haven, today's destination. The first section, as far as Fire Beacon Hill, retraced the route I had taken on Tuesday. once again I got a soaking at Pentargon waterfall before deciding that as I had already climbed Fire Beacon Hill once this week, that I was justified in taking the slightly shorter inland route this time.

Rejoining the main path, the route heads past the spectacular Buckator Cliffs. Since leaving Boscastle I had not seen a soul, and the only sounds were the crashing of the waves below and the screetch of gulls swooping on the crags and cliffs. I noticed that many of the hawthorne trees had a beautiful pale green lichen on them, presumably indicative of the clean, sea air. The path was doing it's usual switchback thing, I soon realised however that the dips and climbs I had experienced so far were simply a warm-up. The coast was gearing up for The Big One - the climb up High Cliff, at 731feet this is the highest cliff in Cornwall. More puffing, grumbling and gasping ensued as I struggled to the top. Once at the top it was magnificent, however. In front of me I could see the empty golden beaches of the Strangles and Little Strand, separated by Samphire Rock. At the top end of Little Strand was Northern Door, an arch formation on the beach. I had intended to climb down to have a look but it was such a long climb down and back that I decided, on this occasion to admire it from afar and come back when I had sorted my footwear out.

It had started raining and in a few minutes I came across the only humans I had seen for hours, a couple headed the other way. We stopped to exchamge pleasantries and they asked me what time I had left Boscastle. 'Half-nine,' I said. Their faces visibly fell. 'What time is it now?' I asked.
'One o'clock,' came the reply.
'Oh but I'm slow, really slow,' I said. 'I'm sure you'll do it much quicker than I did.' I'm not sure if I totally reassured them though.
'It's only an hour to Crackington from here,' said the woman, enviously.

Amazingly, given my pace, it was indeed not much more than an hour before I found myself tottering into the metropolis of Crackington Haven. Considering the time of year and size of the place (tiny) I was rather pleased to have a choice of places to eat. There was the Coombe Barton Inn and the Cabin Cafe. I picked the Cabin for two reasons: it was 200 yards closer and I fancied a cup of tea rather than a pint.

The Cabin turned out to be an excellent cafe. I ordered a tea and got a proper big pot rather than a crappy tea-bag in a cup as you often get, and soup of the day which was celery and cashew-nut and which was superb. They had a lovely comfy sofa and today's papers. Stretched out on the sofa, feeling snug and warm, I felt extremely contented. The buses were not so fortuitious as at Tintagel, a three hour wait, but somehow it didn't seem to matter.

After lunch I had a wander around the beach. Crackington Haven is famous for it's geological formations and folding. The best examples are farther up the coast between here and Bude, as I mention in my post dated 08/11/2011, but all along the coast from Boscastle to Crackington Haven there are plentiful examples of the contrasting grey shales and veins of quartzite sandstone, known as the Crackington Formation. The stones are attractive and there are signs asking people not to take them away, they are an important protection again erosion of the cliffs and bay. See here.





 

This was washed up on the beach. I don't know what it is - but it immediately made me think of John Donne's poem 'Song'
Go and catch a falling star,
Get with child a mandrake root,
Tell me where all past years are,
Or who cleft the devil's foot;




The only blot on an otherwise spotless beach was this bag of dog-poo. Why do people do it? I don't understand it. Yes, wrap it up - but the next step is to put it in the bin! These days I notice whenever I go for walks in popular areas, ubiquitous blue or black bags of dog shit - stuffed in hedges, even hanging from trees! Who on earth thinks it's a good idea to put dog shit in a bag and hang it like a sodding christmas decoration? People are odd aren't they?



The bus back to Boscastle took a circuitous route due to various roadworks and dropped me at the top of the hill, so I took the opportunity for a quick pint without having to earn it by climbing the hill before heading down to Boscastle Harbour.