11.5 miles walked today
1281 miles walked in total (10.5 average)
Today very nearly didn't happen. When I woke up, it was very grey. Then I couldn't find the camp site owners to pay them. They weren't due on site until ten o'clock and I wanted to be long gone by then. I rang them and arranged where to leave the money though so I could make a quick getaway. Except I couldn't - Dizzy wouldn't start! However, after about ten minutes, I tried again - I think I may have flooded the choke. Oops! Then I discovered there were no buses running on Sunday so I'd need to sort out a taxi. And when I finally drove into Rock, I drove so fast over a ramp which I didn't see, that I had to spend quite a long time putting everything back where it should be in the van! So, strictly speaking, I didn't walk from Padstow - the passenger ferry travels from Padstow to Rock continually and I had intended to go over from Rock to Padstow and straight back again, so I could start with a clear conscience. However, because of all the mishaps already this morning, I decided I couldn't put off the inevitable any longer and off I strode.
But only as far as Daymer Bay and the St Enedoc golf course where I did my usual straying onto the fairways in search of a goal - this morning's goal was St Enedoc Church, which, for many years, had been buried beneath the sand dunes, and is now the resting place of Sir John Betjeman who attended the church since his Cornish holidays as a boy in 1910. He wrote the poem "Sunday Afternoon Service in St Enedoc Church, Cornwall" in 1945 about the dash to the church across the golf course.
Paths, unfamiliar to golfers' brogues, Cross the eleventh fairway broadside on And leave the fourteenth tee for thirteenth green, Ignoring Royal and Ancient, bound for God.
I spent quite a lot of time in the churchyard apologising to those whose graves I was tramping over to get up to the bench at the top of the churchyard. I could quite see how the church could have been buried as it's built into a natural dip in the dunes. Betjeman's slate tombstone is very simply worded, with some ornate carving, with just his name and the year, 1984. A perfect spot.
After a while though, it was time to move on and I took the very easy, wide path round to Polzeath where surfing schools had set up shop and were doing a roaring trade with wetsuit and board hire. One group that I watched for ages were made to draw surfboards in the sand, which they had to stand on to perfect their stance. Very entertaining, but I wasn't getting very far.
As I headed around New Polzeath, I met a couple, Norman and Julie, who had come back on holiday after spending their honeymoon here, fifty years ago. They'd promised themselves, all those years ago, that they'd stay in the bungalow right by the beach and, luckily, it had lived up to expectations, although it had single beds which wasn't to their liking! From what I could make out, they have done a lot of walking and Norman quizzed me about what I was up to, apologising when he said he didn't have a mobile, otherwise I could ring him up and he'd come and get me from Port Isaac and take me back to Dizzy in Rock. How sweet! I'm always struck by people's generosity - Julie wasn't too impressed though. Apparently he has a habit of chatting up women they meet on the paths and never speaks to the men!
As I got round to Pentire Point, I found a tablet on the cliffs commemorating the words of Laurence Binyon who had composed "For the Fallen" on these cliffs in 1914.
They shall grow not old, as we that are left grow old: Age shall not weary them, nor the years condemn. At the going down of the day and in the morning we will remember them.
Inspiring words for inspiring scenery. I've seen campion, gorse, periwinkle, mallow, primroses, violets, wild garlic and some very smelly and stroppy Dartmoor ponies who are being reintroduced to the area. I read an article recently that said they're more in danger of becoming extinct than the giant panda.
I was beginning to lose my sense of humour somewhat - it's been a really tough day with loads of steep ups and downs. And the stiles! They're made for giants, not for people with normal length legs like myself - and don't even get me started on the steps cut into the hills. Methods of torture.
Just before Port Quin, at Doyden Point, stands a 19th century folly, Doyden Castle - it's tiny! It was built by a local man from Wadebridge, Samuel Symons, as a clifftop retreat for drinking and gambling with his chums. I met a chap who was staying there - he looked a bit of an eccentric himself, with his combat jacket, shorts, long hair in a ponytail and smoking the most revolting smelling cigar ever.
From Port Quin, the coast path sign said it was only three miles to Port Isaac, but that stretch took me an hour and forty-five minutes. What a nightmare. I'm so glad I got that over with and didn't save it for tomorrow - I should have known as the guidebook said it was a "strenuous" day.
So, unfortunately, I didn't get much time to explore Port Isaac as all I wanted to do was go and find a campsite and a cup of tea! Tomorrow is supposed to be a shorter day although graded "severe" so hopefully I'll get a bit of a look round tomorrow.
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