West Country Wanderings

This five month hiatus in posting had been an unprecedented break in proceedings for me. With my last post about Jordan completed, and the rainy British spring and early summer threatening to underline all outdoor plans with a sodden squelch, there hasn’t been an awful lot to write about. However, stirred from housebound boredom by my restless brain, itchy feet and London-living girlfriend, I have managed to do things (see photos below). I might’ve been hankering for the sands of Arabia, the dry mountain slopes of the Andes or the bustling aquatic life of the Indian ocean, but for now I had to be content with walks on home turf. Luckily, England not only has more walking trails than any person could ever want, but it also has lots of people that I actively enjoy spending time with, a rare and mystical thing indeed. So, when the opportunity came about to spend a week with one such person and her family in the depths of the West Country, where cider guzzlers and pasty munchers reign supreme, I leapt at the chance.

After setting off around midday on a Friday, Emma and I cruised down towards Bude in the frail British sunshine. After stopping at a farm shop for lunch and deftly avoiding Exeter’s traffic, we found our way into the heartland of the West Country. To the North and West of Exeter the roads quickly become the British road network’s dirty secret. The web of single lane tarmac lanes are a constant menace in the West Country. Tall overgrown banks adorned with slender foxgloves form impenetrable boundaries on each side of the road, the tarmac’s punished surface grumbles underneath the weight of every car’s passage and the locals’ unflinching desire for a premature motor-related death is shockingly apparent. We navigated through eventually and made it to our house for the week. Overlooking rolling fields all the way to the sea at Bude, we couldn’t have asked for a better view. Soon I met Emma’s parents, we ate fresh fish and I began my week long attempt to come across as an acceptable attempt at a human being. 

A Dangerously Attractive Duo

Traipsing from Travalga

The first walk of the holiday was a series of tracks that managed to incorporate the coast path and the popular St Nectan’s Glen. After abandoning all hope of finding a space in the tiny roadside car park, Emma and I sought out somewhere else to park the car for the day. We decided on Trevalga, a farming hamlet with a church and enough room to park one car by the side of the road. Sorted. Soon we set off up a steep hill, aiming to get the climbing done at the start of the day and finishing on the more scenic coast path. The road was so small and insignificant that we only met one car on its steep slopes. Instead, we were more frequently visited by butterflies which were busily dancing between wildflowers on the verges. A little sweaty but full of energy we turned off the road and down a daisy filled track. From here the path descended through farmland and into the river valley. On this meandering descent I had become obsessed with the fluttering show-offs that are butterflies. Parading about with their showy colours but too haughty to let me get an easy photo, they happily flew away as soon as I approached. Some would call this the “evolutionary hardwiring of the flight response in response to predation” but I would call it behavioural proof that butterflies contemptuous snobs. It’s safe to say I ran around a farmer’s field for an amount of time I’m not proud of, caught up in the thrill of the photographic hunt. 

Defeated by a dumb insect, I put my ego aside and we continued to the wooded riverside where there was a small derelict mill and a field full of cows. While we poked around the mill, the cows watched. While we took silly photos, the cows watched. For some reason, cows are one of the most menacing animals in the world, somewhere behind those big soft dog-like eyes is pure evil. When we turned to find the gate, the only passage down the valley, it was of course right behind the herd of cows. I’m sure they knew what we wanted and they didn’t care. Was I to be humiliated by yet another animal? Yes, yes I was. We ended up walking in the river to avoid death by hoof.

Wet feet but untrampled by hooves, we continued and soon found ourselves in a clearing, upstream from a faintly audible waterfall; we had reached our lunch spot. The Tree of Life Café at Nectan’s Glen served us up some tasty little morsels but it wasn’t long before we were on our way. Turning our noses up at the entrance fee to view the waterfall, we opted instead to continue on the woodland trail. This trail followed the river downstream and through a magnificently dense woodland. The shaded floor was erupting with springy ferns while tall trunks, crisscrossed by vines, supported the vibrant canopy above our heads. Soon we crossed a road and continued through the wooded valley which was now starting to open up. In this section we explored more derelict mill buildings, looked at the ancient petroglyphs and members of the public looked genuinely concerned for my psychological wellbeing after spotting me crouching in muddy corners of abandoned buildings trying to get photos.

Emerging from the woodland, we climbed up to greet the sunshine and the colour it bestowed upon the new scenery. As we climbed, visions of the standard brown British sea were banished from our memories because with every glimpse of the sun, the sea burst into swathes of turquoise blue. It swept gently into wide bays and narrow inlets, highlighting the dark rock with its contrastive vibrancy. We followed the coast path further along, running sections to get the best of the view before the sun was once again smothered by cloud. Meadows speckled with unknown wildflowers swayed to our right, and to our left, colour wove its way into the fabric of a snaking drystone wall. It wasn’t long before curiosity got the better of us and we snuck off the track for a little explore. With a large rocky pinnacle as our backdrop and we clambered up and down the tallest of the hills, finding the best views of the day.

The last stop was at Ladies’ Window which was surprisingly good. Not just a hole in a rock, it was possible to walk through the arch and continue around the corner. Once we had taken obligatory photos of each other in the archway, we went through and admired the rock. Once a geologist always a geologist i.e. a person that, no matter how much they hate themselves for doing so, forces rock facts upon the people they care about, eventually leaving them desperately alone. Alone in terms of human interaction of course, because when you love rocks are you ever really alone? Who says rocks won’t keep you warm at night, have you heard of Iceland, friend?

Lads on Tor

Another joint adventure and this time it was to be a little more challenging. We had been exploring the coast for the last few days and so I suggested we go inland to see what Bodmin Moor might offer us. Not completely confident in the likelihood of fun in my plan and sensing a lack of enthusiasm from Emma, I amassed all the forces of enthusiasm and persuasion to my aid. However, in the end I didn’t need them because, not being one to turn down an adventure, Emma agreed and we were Bodmin bound. After careening through a few cute hamlets tucked into the deepening valleys we pulled into Minions. The village, named before the jacked up little tic tacs graced our screens for the first time, is located on the eastern flank of the moor and is scattered with historical sites, old men and hungry sheep. With the car parked and our stomachs full of stodgy Cornish fastfood, we headed towards the Cheesewring Tor. 

The tors of Dartmoor and Bodmin Moor are not just emblematic of the desolate beauty of the moor, but they also serve as proof of a much more geologically dynamic ancient volcanic history millions of years before. Stretching from Dartmoor to the Isles of Scilly is a mass of ancient buoyant magma (a batholith) that formed and cooled between 300 and 275 million years ago (during the later stages of a mountain building event as Pangaea started to form). From this mass of magma five major offshoots (plutons) formed and rose higher into the Earth’s crust. As all the granite cooled beneath the giant mountains of Pangaea, weaknesses (joints) formed in its structure. Eventually, after the surface rocks were eroded and weathered away over millions of years, the five granite plutons became exposed, one of which now forms Bodmin Moor. Harder than the surrounding rocks, they form the highlands of the West Country. However, the persistent British weather still finds a way to exploit a weakness. Whether it be in your local granite, in your emotional resolve or in your “waterproof” jacket, prepare your body and soul for ten very British months of oppressive climatic greyness. This exploitation of the granite’s joints allowed large blocks to form. These were then smoothed by time and separated by continued weathering. These large blocks now form the pillowy stacks and rounded monoliths that keep watch over the mires, rivers and bogs that define the West Country’s wild landscape. 

Cheesewring Tor on Stowe’s Hill is one of these granite stacks. But its position, so precariously stacked on the side of a steep hill, makes it hard to believe that nature could construct such a structure. In fact, a legend surrounds the strange rock formation. The legend goes that Christianity had just reached Cornwall and the giants of the highlands were displeased with the new rules and regulations imposed by God’s errand boys. The wells of the land had suddenly been ruled sacred and the council of giants wanted to regain control, to kick the saints out of Cornwall claiming, “They’re not even from round ‘ere.” One of the strongest of the giants (Uther) was given this task and just before he got up to begin this purge of the God squad, the frail Saint Tue appeared out of the mist. He proposed a rock throwing challenge to the giants, to which all the giants smiled widely. Throwing enormous rocks around the moor was a pastime of the giants and looking at Saint Tue they thought he’d struggle to fight his way out of a wet paper bag never mind pick up a rock. The conditions of the contest were that if the giants won the saints would leave Cornwall, but if the saint won the giants would have to convert to Christianity. Uther agreed and the giants ran off to find the biggest rocks they could, leaving Saint Tue little hope of winning. But as the saint went to pick up his first stone he prayed and suddenly the rock was light in his hands. Uther and Tue exchanged throws until each had one throw left. Uther, absolutely spent from hurling car sized rocks around, missed the mark and his rock rolled down the hill. Tue’s last rock landed and was carefully balanced on top of the other stones by an angel (who didn’t have anything better to do). The giants converted to Christianity and then all migrated to South Africa to play for the national rugby team. The End.

Once we had explored the rest of Stowe’s hill, we walked down through ferns, passing windswept trees and traversing a narrow stretch of farmland that interrupted the moor’s otherwise unfettered landscape. Soon we were climbing back to higher ground at Sharptor admiring views over to the East, where the sun was warming the patchwork of fields into the distance. Then, eager for a little more exploration, we decided to tackle the northern ridgeline which seemed to join tor after tor with rockhopping fun. Feet a little wet but spirits high, we jumped, scrambled and climbed the length of the ridge appreciating the utterly bizarre shapes of the rocks and trying not to fall to our deaths. After the ridge running fun, we returned to the fluffy lambs and their wary mothers, walked through the three ancient stone circles and made it back to the car for one more mini adventure. 

From the trail earlier in the day we had spotted a beautiful looking abandoned mine and better still, there didn’t seem to be any one there. It was the Phoenix United Mine which operated from 1836 to 1914 extracting copper at a rate of knots in the 1850s until that began to run out. Then an investor took a stab and bought the mine hoping to hit tin, which he did and the mine kicked into top gear by the 1870s, employing 600 people. However, now it is a ruin but a beautiful ruin at that. With beautiful brick arches, walls made from an assortment of dark Cornish rock and vines draping the surface with colour, it was well worth the detour. But to explain why they put this industrial yet architecturally stunning building here, let’s quickly return to those massive underground globules of magma cooling 300 million years ago.

As they slowly began to cool tens of kilometres down in the insulated earth, hot mineral rich water was pushed out of the magma and into the surrounding rocks. Those rocks were chemically altered by this hot fluid and as the granite cooled, more and more fractures formed. This fracturing allowed more fluids to escape into the surrounding rocks and as the mineral-rich fluid got further from magma, cooling as it went, different minerals started mineralise out of the solution. These veins of minerals were the source of Cornish fortunes for millennia. 

By 2000 BC, Cornwall and Devon were already famous as tin producers. The tin was likely washed into streams by the erosion of the mineral veins and then smelted for sale through the ancient port of Ictis (either St Michael’s Mount or Mount Batten in Plymouth). Tin was highly sought after in the ancient world due to it being a key ingredient in the manufacture of bronze. We know from Pliny and Herodotus that the rich and advanced ancient Greeks received tin from Cornwall and Devon. So, when Aeneas landed in tribal Italy after fleeing Troy, or when the Spartan armies stared down the might of the Persian Empire, they were likely gripping something forged thanks to our little rainy island. For centuries things remained settled, but soon Rome lost control over its mines in Spain so it needed somewhere to gather the natural resources to fuel a greedy war mongering empire, Britain seemed like a good answer. Despite the Roman occupation of Britain from 43 – 410 AD, Devon and Cornwall (Dumnonia) had strong local control perhaps even self-governance. This may have been due to the Damnonii (the tribe of Dumnonia) having a distinctly different language and culture to rest of southern England for millennia, in fact their culture was more closely tied to Amorica (a portion of the north-western peninsula of France), Wales and Ireland. At this time, ancient pagan polytheism was mixed with Roman polytheism which made for a diverse belief system with different communities venerating a wide range of tribal, local and empire wide deities. However, among these belief systems were also small eastern cults which had travelled with the flow of the empire, Christianity was one of such small cults. After Rome had lost control of Britain, different Germanic tribes began to migrate to our shores where they interacted with each other and indigenous British groups. The Anglo-Saxons were born. With them they brought Germanic polytheism and destroyed most of the Christian places of worship as they went. Despite a little bit of religious oppression, generally between 450 and 1066 they established a strong cultural identity within the populace and brought the concept of a unified kingdom of England to society. Today, only 26% of our words come from the Anglo-Saxons but interestingly these are the most common words of our speech. 

In 595 (the Early Middle Ages) Pope Gregory I sent a mission to Britain to convert the Anglo-Saxons and restore Christianity to the island. In 597 a man called Augustine (with his trusty sidekick Laurence) arrived to the Kingdom of Kent and they made their way to Canterbury, the King’s main town. There, Augustine turned on the charm and convinced the King to convert to Christianity. Soon, churches were established and wide scale conversion began in his Kingdom. Christianity had existed in pockets of Britain for a while but Augustine was the first guy to actively try and convert the Anglo Saxon populace because I guess Heaven’s motto is, “The more the merrier”? I mean, if I was religious, I wouldn’t be spouting off about the Elysian bliss of eternal life to any old person. Keep that miraculous theological foresight to yourself and then get more one to one time with everyone’s favourite autocrat, God. Either way, Augustine was named the first Archbishop of Canterbury and is venerated as a Saint for founding the English Church (an act widely regarded as a terrible idea by the following 15 centuries of history *cough cough* Crusades *cough*). At this time, the Anglo Saxons were split into large kingdoms such as Murcia and Wessex, which continued pushing into new areas. In the early 700s, one of these “new areas” was Dumnonia (modern day Cornwall of Devon) and the king, Geraint, was less than pleased. In 710 he died as the last unified king of Dumnoia because soon, the Kingdom of Wessex took modern day Devon. Unbeknownst to the Anglo-Saxon kingdoms, somebody was about to shuffle the deck and bring chaos to an already unsettled land, changing British history forever. In 793 some hefty axe wielding folk arrived on our shores. The Vikings landed and charged about finding a monastery or two. They had never really had contact with Christianity before and were completely astonished that there were buildings with such vast wealth but with no armed protection. With so many places ripe for the plunder, Viking raids dominated from 793 to 853 AD. At this time the remnants of Dumnonia were hanging onto autonomy by the skin of their teeth. As the kingdom of Wessex raided modern day Cornwall, the Cornish allied with the “great ship army” of the Vikings in 838 but were defeated by the Wessex army, thus ending the long line of Dumnonian royalty with a man called Dungarth. 

By 865, the Vikings had tried enough Yorkshire puddings to know that full scale invasion was nothing but a good idea. The Scandinavian army known as the “Great Heathen Army” arrived in East Anglia and after gathering resources they went north and captured York to use as their base (presumably due to the greater density of their favourite food). In the following years they cruised around England from Tyneside to Exeter, fighting, killing and pillaging. When every kingdom capitulated under the weight of the assault, Wessex held strong again. Alfred the Great, who had taken the burden of the crown at the height of Viking pressure in 871, sued for peace in Wilton, only 25 minutes from my house. But it wasn’t long before the Vikings were back, sneaking through Wessex and occupying towns within Alfred’s borders. After the Vikings had broken oaths and killed hostages, Alfred the Great took the fight to the randy Scandis. Uniting militias in my neck of the woods (Hampshire, Wiltshire and Somerset) he met the Vikings on the field of battle at Edington (between Salisbury and Bath). Alfred’s forces won a decisive victory in 878 and forced the Viking army back to Chippenham where they surrendered. One of the terms of the surrender was that their leader Guthrum had to convert to Christianity. So, alongside 29 of his chiefs he was baptised and soon after (in 886) a formalised treaty was drawn up to define the boundaries of their kingdoms. The area under the control of the Danes and other Norsemen came to be called Danelaw and it stretched through the shires of Leicester, York, Nottingham, Derby, Lincoln, Essex, Cambridge, Suffolk, Norfolk, Northampton, Bedford, Hertford, Middlesex and Buckingham. In this enormous swathe of England the Vikings lived normal lives, ploughing the fields, going to the pub and playing laser quest but it wouldn’t last long. Alfred was having to contend with other Vikings arriving on his shores who hadn’t signed any treaty and couldn’t care less about laser quest. This angered him and when he died his family inherited this anger. By the time Alfred’s grandson (Æthelstan) took the Wessex throne, things were hotting up. Æthelstan had stormed north, ousted the Vikings from York and got seriously carried away with the whole fighting malarkey and decided to invade Scotland as an added bonus. I mean why not? You’re up there anyway, make the most of it, treat yourself. The Scottish King submitted to Æthelstan and so he headed home. Scotland and the Vikings quickly amalgamated their hatred of the English and reforged themselves into one blood-soaked sword of freedom. However, no matter how much of the yet to be born William Wallace energy they channelled, Æthelstan defeated them both again. This gave him enough prestige to ward away all foes but not enough prestige to halt the uniting human experience that is the indomitable march towards death. He died, the Vikings took back York under the might of a man called Eric Bloodaxe and I assume Scotland breathed a sigh of freedom tinted relief. Back in York, Eric Bloodaxe was struggling to effectively split his time between his death metal band and killing Englishmen. Falling in and out of favour with the local Northumbrians he got fed up and chased Æthelstan’s son’s fleeing army after a battle causing a “great slaughter” and then finally got kicked out in 954. Thus, Mr Bloodaxe was the last Norse king of Northumbria. 

For a few decades things cooled down, Norsemen and Anglosaxons took a breather in the shade of a stable political climate. But that never lasts, Britain got a weak king and the Vikings jumped right back on the “stab first ask questions later” bandwagon of their ancestors. The Anglo Saxons, decided to pay the Vikings protection money in order to be left alone. Unsurprisingly this didn’t work, the price went up and up, and normal folk started to get annoyed with the lack of all-out war. So, the English King announced all Danes in England would be executed. This was called St Brice’s Day massacre and news of it reached King Sweyn Forkbeard (not as confident in his battle skills as Eric Bloodaxe, but damn he knew a thing or two about fashion conscious personal grooming). He believed his sister had been one of the victims so he got on a boat and raided for a few years but eventually decided to invade England taking the throne in 1013. He died and after a very small breather Cnut (the man most thankful for a typo on his birth certificate) returned to claim his father’s (Forkbeard’s) throne. Cnut united the kingdoms of Denmark and England calling himself “King of all England and Denmark and the Norwegians and of some of the Swedes” in a letter written on his way back from attending the Holy Roman Emperor’s coronation. He died in 1035 but is thought of as “the most effective king in Anglo-Saxon history”.

All of this considered, there was one Scandinavian bloke that would simultaneously usher in a new dynasty and bring to a close an age revered by historians and Halloween costume designers alike. This man was Harald Hardrada. After 15 years in exile, where he gained notoriety and wealth as a member of the Byzantine Emperor’s elite personal guard (Varangian Guard), Harold headed home and seized the Norwegian throne. In 1066, hearing of the dispute for the throne of the recently deceased King of England (Edward the Confessor), he decided to invade Britain bringing with him 300 longships and 10,000 men. In the meantime Harold Godwinson (a prominent earl) was chosen to take the throne on the 6^thof January 1066. Put to work quickly Harold met Harald in September of the same year in battle. Harold Godwinson marched his army north from London meeting the Viking army in Yorkshire after 3 weeks of forced marching. Despite the unimaginable tiredness of the English forces, the battle of Stamford Bridge was an English success. They repelled the Norwegian attack and most of the enemy were slaughtered on the field of battle. This battle marks the end of Viking Britain but also the end of Britain as the Anglo Saxons knew it because in the south another foreign army was rocking up on the shores of Sussex. William the Conqueror had familial ties to the previous king (Edward the Confessor) so with thousands of Normans, Bretons and Flemish at his side he sailed to Britain. Harold Godwinson had only just defeated the Vikings on the 25^thof September but on the 28^ththe Normans arrived. Absolutely knackered from all the stabbing, slicing, dicing, dodging, murdering and running about, the King’s army was in no fit state to march south, so leaving some in the north he took the rest to meet William. The battle of Hastings lasted 9 hours on the 14^thof October and by the end the King was dead, the English were defeated and a new era began.

From William the Conqueror’s coronation, Cornwall and Devon enjoyed semi-autonomy under the loose control of the crown. The ancient customs and liberties of the miners were expressly protected by the subsequent kings, but the still powerful ancient royal family lines of the old Dumnonian kings were slowly dissolved by the new royal family. While production from the mines kept going up, heavy taxes were levied against the West Country which caused rebellions in the 1400s. These rebellions were met with swift military action which left Cornwall’s mining industry better off but the rebellion leaders without their heads and limbs. From here, mining in Cornwall and Devon never faltered, with each new mining technique there was a new boom in activity across the South West. This all culminated in the West Country’s mining industry reaching its zenith in the 19^thcentury. At this time some areas of Cornwall were among the richest mining areas in the world. In fact, within walking distance from the Phoenix mine (that started this history lesson) was the largest copper mine in the UK at the time. The legacy of West Country mining lives on today through crumbling pump houses, abandoned railway lines and, of course, the most wishy washy pouty drivel on TV, Poldark. I haven’t watched more than one episode but I hope he dies in a manner befitting the time, crippled by arsenic poisoning from mishandled mine tailings.

Lovely Clovelly

Back to the walks. 

This final walk as a twosome was one I concocted from a mysteriously remote national trust carpark in Brownsham, North Devon. We left the car and descended through a dense oak forest. Zigzagging through the undergrowth, which clung as desperately to the steep slope as the ancient trees, we were heading towards Mouth Mill Beach. Once we emerged from leafy shade, we passed an old lime kiln and explored the shoreline. Clambering over the rocks at the side of the bay to try and get a better view of a large rocky arch, we were defeated by the high tide but still had a good scramble around. Back on the path we ascended the offensively steep slope to the top of the vertical cliffs. From there it was smooth sailing through a strangely out of place forest that advanced all the way to the very edge of the cliff and then through the grounds of a large estate. Soon after, we reached Clovelly.

This village, nestled at the edge of a wide sweeping bay on the North Devon coast, is strikingly beautiful from the get go. With no vehicular access to the village, due to the undriveably steep, beautifully preserved cobblestone street, the village retains the narrow charms of country life from a bygone era. The whole village is privately owned by the estate (Clovelly Court) and has been associated with only three families since the 13^thcentury. Now, after the dedicated preservation of the village in the 1880s by the lady of the estate, Christine Hamlyn, 80 cottages, two chapels, a woodland and a harbour are in perfect condition and have become tourist attractions. Despite the number of tourists throughout the tiny village it was a fascinating and beautiful place to behold for the day. As soon as you set foot on the rounded and precisely placed cobblestones, which wind along the contour of the hill, giving you glimpses of the roofs steeply dropping away to the sea, you have to marvel at the craftsmanship of the place. This upper section of cobblestone road is bordered by a dry stone wall and old street lamps which wouldn’t look out of place in a smoggy Victorian novel. But as you reach the straight and punishingly steep main street, Clovelly really comes alive. Colourful grade-listed houses with small seats laid out beside tiny doors, narrow side streets with covered sections and dead ends, and flowers springing from every garden, it’s a picture of rural idyll. Until the 1990s donkeys were still used to carry things up the village’s main street but to bring things down? Sledges. Actual sledges are still used to move things around. However, looking around this visually stunning village was only half of the story for me. What really fascinated me were the people who actually live in the village and those who lived there long before tourists began to traipse their streets. I wanted to sit in the old pub, lit by the weak glare of oil lamps and get to the know the villagers, their lives and the struggles and joys of living in such a pristine yet geographically awkward place. But, I think we had arrived a few decades (or centuries) too late. 

After a very subpar cream tea, we headed back to the car via some more woodlands, a Norman church and a funny boat. 

Hadrian would’ve been furious 

That’s right Hadrian, it wasn’t just one Scot south of the wall, there’s a whole bloody family of them. 

A Stoke Circular

Uniting with Emma’s sister Christina and her boyfriend Josh for the day, we headed for an area that would allow us to walk to a specific stretch of coast. After failing to park in the first village, tensions were high due to the patented James approach to planning. Josh suggested another village and luckily we managed to park there. Stoke was the hamlet of choice and we parked outside the magnificent 700 year old church which has for a long time been a landmark for sailors on the nearby rocky coast. Before long we were heading downhill through the woods, but I got distracted by a stream running through an old stone bridge. It looked like it needed exploring and Josh agreed. Jumping the little stream we shimmied along its length until the only way to proceed was to cross. Too wide to jump (even for two generously proportioned human beings such as ourselves) I was happy to see someone had tied a rope between two trees. Josh, unsure of the sagging blue rope decided to let me go first so I hopped on and pulled my way across. Josh followed suit and then he went first as we clambered through underbelly of the bridge. Back above, we continued to the coastpath and then up to the top of the cliff. From here we got our first views of the coastline which completely blew me away. Neither a stony nor a sandy beach, the coast was made up of parallel lines of dipping strata. They ran from the base of the cliff to the sea and then for while they were visible beneath the clear water. This geological set up was very visually pleasing and meant that in sections the beds continued upwards in their steep dip forming tooth like projections from the ground, sheer walls and terraced promontories. After nosing around a small ruin on the clifftop surrounded by sheep, I gave Josh a Geology 101 lesson (that he actually asked for) and we rocked up to Hartland Quay. This old harbour dates back to Henry VIII, but now the old custom’s house and stables are a hotel and pub respectively. We got ourselves some pub grub and a cheeky pint before, much to my sadness, heading onwards.

The reason for my sadness was that I wanted to jump the carpark’s “do not go over this railing” sign but apparently we had places to be and jail cells to stay out of. Back on the cliff tops the views just got better and better. We could see the dark outline of Lundy (which means puffin island in Old Norse, thanks again Vikings) on the horizon beckoning me for a little explore. However, without my viking longship to hand, I instead insisted on climbing something, anything, so I set off for a ridge covered in long grasses and flowers with Josh. The ridge separated two striking beaches that had rock pools running along the strata, the deeper of which were startling shades of cobalt blue. While I stood there, staring at millions of years of dynamic physical history exposed in a moment of rare dormancy, out to sea the overcast skies were breaking. The veiled sun was bursting through the clouds to illuminate a chosen oval of wind lacerated ocean.

Eventually we made it down to the shore where we immediately walked off to explore the alien landscape that had been tipped on its side by the Earth’s restlessness. Feeling the anxiety of the squad rising, I ran back so we could head off towards the car. Apart from the occasional comedically tight squeeze into the undergrowth to allow a car to pass along the country road, it was smooth sailing and the rain only began to fall as we approached the other side of Stoke. 

Bedruthan or Bahamas

With a couple of walks under our belt, this was the day for a full group outing. Bedruthan Steps was suggested as the locale for the day’s activities and knowing it to be a stunning beach I was excited, if a little sad it wasn’t going to be somewhere new for me. My sadness was soon to vanish though, never to return. We arrived to the car park and the number of people was nauseating. However, with violent hunger rearing its ugly head, the issue of too many people became just a mere inconvenience. After a hungry wait in the sun, I got my sausage baguette and the squad rolled out. Within 100m we heard that the beach was closed due to damage to the steep steps which ferry the masses down the cliff. I was ready and waiting to perform a less than graceful gate vault (like the last time I had visited the beach 9 years before) but this time I knew jumping the gate would be an unpopular choice. So, we walked along the clifftop to find another way down to the pristine white sand. From this cliff the view is masterful. Bedruthan is known for its pinnacle-like rock stacks that emerge from the beach like sails on a long sunken ship, buried beneath the sand, but on this day the weather was elevating the beach to something else. The water was breathtakingly blue, the verdant cliffs contrasted with the dark greys and browns of the angular rock beneath and the sand was… It was… *I’m welling up*, it was almost empty. After the busy café and car park, I was beyond excited to escape the anthropic squalor. Emma and I found a well-worn but unofficial path to the sand and then waited for Christina, Josh, Sandra and Alex to join us not long after. 

In the immediate vicinity of the path there were people but as soon as we went through and round one of the largest rock stacks, we had the enormous beach completely to ourselves, not a person in sight. We decided on a stretch of sand, and while everyone put their bags down and got sorted, I dropped my bag and ran straight for the large rock/sand pool to my right at full tilt. A successful jump and a 8.5/10 from the judges, I emerged from the cool water grinning like a spaniel (I’m not sure the simile makes sense but I can imagine it in my head so it stays). Instead of the usual reaction I’m used to from my family (a polite nod if I’m lucky), I was met with the astonished faces of people who I assume had thought I had hurled myself at a rock for fun. Realising the rock pool was deep enough, people joined me and soon everyone had at least had a paddle in the sea. Despite the warm still air, the waves were up and so we had a lot of fun playing in the surf too. 

After getting out and realising the full extent of my terrible choice in swimming shorts (the inner thigh chafe was intense), I proceeded to ignore the pain and focus on beating Josh in a race. After he had already beaten me in a throwing contest earlier in the week by a metre or so, I knew that this challenge was my one chance to regain any sort of athletic pride. Luckily, running was much more in my wheelhouse than throwing ever was, so I strode to victory with a smile. Next Emma and Christina raced and, Emma being the ex-national level heptathlete, I was confident in her cementing herself as champion and us as the No.1 athletic couple on the beach. She won (but only by a hair) and then Josh raced Christina while running backwards which I’m expecting to see brought into the next Olympics. After the athletics drew to a close, Sandra and Alex decided they were heading back to the first beach to avoid any issues with the incoming tide. Sure that we would be fine for a bit longer, the rest of us headed onwards to the far end of the beach. After clambering over some rocks, I reached the next beach first and ran straight for the seagulls who were chilling on the sand. Because of my sheer turn of speed Emma didn’t manage to get a photo of the act but as the seagulls took to the air they briefly flew as a synchronised line towards the final cliff. Christina and Josh turned back and we continued to the far end, where dozens of purple jellyfish were stranded in the thin sheets of water that receded slowly along the almost flat sand. We took some photos in front of the large cave and then headed back, sneaking back to the first beach before the tide approached any further. 

Rock Around The Clock

The final day to mention was a beach day in a place I had never been to before. On the opposite bank of the river from Padstow is the village of Rock. With the highest number of second homes in the county and being the domain of Doombar (a stalwart of British Beer), I was interested to see the place for myself. Undoubtedly, the hottest day of the week, every man and his dog was out to enjoy the rays. Emma and I grabbed a dirty great bowl of mussels and a panini as soon as we arrived and then we passed the dinghies and ferry stop and headed for the beach. More impressive than I expected, the beach was a wide swathe of sand coming off the dunes. We all set up after the busiest section and despite an attempt at a paddle, the number of jellyfish and the chilly wind at the water’s edge put us off. Instead, I did something I would never consider doing. Something against my very nature. I sat still and relaxed on a beach. No snorkelling, running, swimming, football, boules, frisbee or sandcastles. I read my book and lay about like an adult until dinner. What have a become? After getting a little burnt, I donned a bucket hat and Emma’s sunglasses which for some reason got me some strange looks as we entered the restaurant for dinner. 

Final Thoughts

Before we get on to my final thoughts of the whole Cornish experience I must pay homage to two specific pieces of food. On one night, Sandra and Alex treated us all to a fantastic meal out at Temple in Bude. The starters were a selection of little bites spread over the table and one stood out. On the bottom was a savoury sunflower brittle which was topped with a thick yogurt and then the star of the show was the thinly sliced smoked carrot. But as delicious as this was it was only a warm up for the main event, porchetta. Usually pork is something I would avoid in a restaurant because I firmly believe pork to be at its sumptuous best in sandwiches: sausages, bacon and apple pork baps I’m looking at you. However, this porchetta was a sensation of flavour. It was to me, what Citizen Kane is to film nerds, bloody good. Juicy pork belly enclosed in a crispy duvet of its own flavourful skin is almost sinful in its culinary magnetism (as we discovered, to our arteries’ detriment, in Taipei) but this porchetta was a little more sophisticated. On top of the slices of pork were pickled sweet shallots which when paired with the charred courgette and a herby green concoction, made for serious eating. 

Good meals aside, meeting Emma’s family and walking the wild West Country made for an excellent week away. Despite many childhood trips walking and camping our way through Cornwall, the beauty on offer in this section of the South West surprised me at every turn. And when we returned from a walk, the house was somewhere to eat to our hearts content, watch an unruly amount of football and bask in another stunning sunset. I wish we had never left. The real world is awful. Seeing as I can’t go back, I’ll settle for being given a Viking alter ego instead. I guess I just need to build a reputation for bloodthirsty murder first. Shouldn’t be hard.