April 8, 1990: Bude to Crackington Haven

On Saturday, April 7, 1990 I met the Lees at Paddington Station for a third Easter Holiday excursion on the South West Coast Path. Our fourth trip on this route, this week’s venture would see us complete days thirteen to sixteen on Britain’s longest path, an all-Cornwall trip from Bude to Padstow. A limping Dorothy and a tummy-troubled Toby remained behind.

It was shortly past 10:00. There weren’t any Lees about so I went into the bookstore for some candy bars and met an ASL student, Ben Gordon, who was about to go down to Cornwall for some surfboarding with his family. (Ten days later I met him in the lobby of a theatre on Shaftesbury Avenue; he told me the surfing had been disappointing.) I ran across Tosh, on her way to the loo, and she told me that Harold was having coffee in the restaurant with the red facade. This turned out to be a pub but I found Harold nearby anyway. He had lost this morning’s copy of The Independent and was being sent back to the newsagent for another one.

We had seat reservations, albeit in a smoking section of the train, and we found our places shortly before departure time at 10:25. I drank a cup of coffee and chatted with Tosh about school affairs; fortunately we exhausted this topic in one go. The Lees read the papers and the time passed pretty rapidly as our train sped non-stop to Exeter. We got off at about 12:30 and crossed the bridge twice because the station-side loos were being repaired.

When we were squared away at last we had a decision to make. We could put our bags in lockers before going up into town or take them with us while we had lunch and visited Exeter Cathedral. A friendly BR guard put on a fake American accent (“It’s make your mind up time”) after he had explained the various options. One of these was to catch our Bude bus directly in town; with this in mind we decided to keep our bags and take a taxi up to the top of the town.

Our driver was a dour chap. When asked what else there was to see in Exeter beside the cathedral he couldn’t think of anything. Perhaps he was disconcerted when an obliging Tosh waxed rhapsodic over a ten-year old parking structure. He let us off in the Cathedral close, and we walked around the corner to the busy Ship, “Sir Francis Drake’s Favorite Tavern,” where we found a tiny table and a place to dump our packs. It was just as well that there was plenty of time to kill because it took a long time for our food to arrive. Tosh ordered three different kinds of bitter for us to experiment with. I had a pint of Flowers to wash down my cheeseburger and chips.  The pub was crowded and smoky but quite cheerful.

It was dark inside and we convinced ourselves that the sunny weather had disappeared too but I had a peek out of the loo window and discovered that all was still bright. At about 2:15 we headed out into the light, pausing once to buy postcards before crossing over to the Cathedral. The Lees had the first look around the interior and when they came back out they met some acquaintances from Grinnell College. I left them chatting while I wandered off for an exterior photo and a trudge round the inside. Some choirboys were just concluding a practice.

There were some mirrors that allowed excellent views of the bosses in the vaulting. I shambled about reading plaques and then returned to my friends, who were still comparing notes about travel in India with the Grinnell couple. I wanted to find a Boots and Tosh wanted an off-license but neither of us was successful, even though I ventured out into the High Street and wandered about for a bit – while Tosh’s off-license turned out to be a delicatessen. By now it was getting time for us to head off to the bus station. Tosh made some inquiries and we began a ten-minute stroll. We passed a wedding party, with bride and groom surrounded by a high school drill team, or so it seemed.

At the station Tosh bought some Lockets, claiming the beginnings of a cold – which was worrying. I had trouble locating our Jennings bus to Bude, but we finally found it behind the rest of the station, downstairs. It was pretty crowded and by the time we had yielded up our packs and gotten in a queue most of the remaining seats were pushed back against the smoking section. This bothered me a good deal for the first half of the trip, though as people got off I was able to move forward.

I didn’t enjoy the trip as much as a year before; a thunder storm had given a romantic cast to the adventure then but the shabbiness of much of what we passed was now on better display in the bright sunlight. I was also a little motion sick and I was certainly glad when the bus ended its run and the lady with the two German shepherds got off before us. It was now 5:15.

We disdained the Strand Hotel, which I had found overpriced and unfriendly, and headed up the hill toward the Mornish Hotel, a small family-run guesthouse on Summerleaze Crescent. This time we found a Boots (where we bought some barley sugar and some Anadin Extra) and an off-license where Tosh bought some gin. It was 5:45 before we entered our hotel.

John Hilder limped up to the first floor to show us our rooms. I had a nice twin, with a shower I didn’t really need, and an en suite toilet. I never enjoyed such luxury on this trip again. Unfortunately there wasn’t a great deal of time to get used to the space because Mr. Hilder wanted to serve us dinner at 6:30 – along with the geology students who were his only other guests. We agreed to this and to the chicken curry but it left me only about twenty minutes to have a lie down and get my stomach settled.

I got a lemonade at the bar before going in to eat with the Lees. There were about ten mature students here, including one retired grandpa, filling up three tables. One young girl was triumphantly announcing rain for tomorrow – perhaps this meant some onerous assignment would have to be cancelled on Dartmoor. They were obviously using the room as a lecture theatre as well, because they had maps and charts everywhere. We had a nice meal, with soup, second helpings, and trifle for pudding.

After dinner we sat for a while in the lounge and then decided to have a walk. But it was so cold outside that we got no further than the high road before turning back. We were joined in the lounge by the black cat, Dulci, and by Mr. Hilder – who spent some time chatting with us while the geologists had a class. Tosh asked about his infirmities and he said he had lupus, which had lead to his being passed over for promotion in his job as a salesman in London. So he had bought this hotel several years earlier and moved his family (wife and two daughters) to Cornwall. He was only the first of several landlords who were quite frank about the ins and outs of the b&b trade: maybe this was because it was so early in the season and they were lonely for company. Tosh also got our landlord onto politics, using the poll tax as an opening wedge. Mr. Hilder used to be a Tory in Ted Heath’s time but he had lost his affection for Mrs. Thatcher. Cornwall was obviously in a depressed state and he didn’t see much hope for change coming from the politicians.

Grandpa also came by to chat, escaping his lessons no doubt, but when it got to be 9:00 the Lees went up to bed and I dozed through thirty something before heading upstairs myself. Here I took two Anadin and a sleeping tablet and clipped on my walkman for some Rachmaninoff Paganini Variations.

The next morning, Sunday, April 8, was gloriously clear, bright and sunny – in short my lifelong principle not to pay heed to the weather advice of others on walking trips was vindicated. We had breakfast at 8:30, a mumbling Harold missing out on his eggs the first time. Mr. Hilder had seen to our lunches, which we stored in the last crannies of our packs, and we were off at 9:45. We didn’t get far. Tosh had to get papers at the local newsagent. He was only the first of half a dozen people encountered on this trip who enquired, “What part of North America do you folks come from?” He also remarked on the freshness of the weather, for it was quite windy and cold outside.

Tosh had neglected to bring a scarf so I loaned her my MSU green and white one. We had on our coats, our hats, and our mittens as we strolled past the Strand, crossed a bridge and headed back up the opposite side of the river. We walked around the “Castle,” the offices of the town council, and past some windswept tennis courts on our way to the canal. There was a bridge at the lock and we used this to approach the lifeboat station. Here some steps put us onto a paved path making toward the headland. We were on the coast path at last.

Soon we were on grass, heading diagonally up the hill toward the Storm Tower on top. This structure was little more than a wind tunnel today and it took a while to find where we might sit down with some relief from the blast. We didn’t linger, therefore, but headed west climbing higher on the cliffs on green turf without much evidence of path. The views were beginning to be lovely and it was thrilling to be among this compelling coastal scenery again.

After a few stiles we approached the top end of Widemouth Bay. There were lots of daytrippers about now. We were just about to pass a large group of them when Harold’s porkpie hat went walkabout in a stiff breeze – over the edge of the cliff. There was no way of beginning a search for it so we continued up to the road and followed paths that paralleled tarmac from some distance.

I had considered hunting for a pub at the far end of the long beach but the chill wind put us more in the mood for morning coffee and we began to examine the signs in front of hotels in search of such an opportunity. Once, near the Upton turnoff, I approached a sign expectantly – only to discovered that it was not for the nearby hotel but for some boarding kennels nearby; they were not offering morning coffee.

We abandoned our sandy path for the pavements of the town and discovered that the Trelawny Hotel was open. Its bearded proprietor, dressed in a paint streaked sweater, made us welcome, got us our coffee, and chatted non-stop for the next half hour – “And what part of North America do you folks come from?” We had to hear about which states he did and did not like, why (“54 and made redundant”) he had bought this hotel, – “I like to say I’m in the hospitality business and my wife’s in the hostility business.” We heard about his plans to open an American style addition, “The Bay Diner,” and the history of several of his more recent guests. Then we were shown his budgies and his cockatiels. All we asked for was a cup of coffee.

It was nearing noon when we resumed our walk through the parking lots that fronted the sandy bay. We turned left at an abandoned pair of shiny blue knickers and returned to a path around a little headland, returning to the road at the little stream down to Wanson Mouth. There was some road walking now, more than we expected, because erosion had done its job on the next section of the coast path. At least we didn’t have to fight it out with the bulldozer, which was having its Sunday rest after having just smoothed out sections of the hill we were climbing.

The climb up from Millook Haven also confronted us with a diversion sign, but I’m sure that much more than the promised quarter mile was required on the road to reach the house at Conclave, where a stile let us back onto pathway. A large group of geriatric walkers was assembling here for a guided walk. Before descending to the first of a number of combes we decided to find a spot sheltered from the wind for lunch.

Tosh found a good place with a wonderful view forward. I had taken off my coat and was back to my UCLA sweatshirt, and lying on my back in the sun I was even tempted to strip down to my t-shirt. In short, the wind was dying down and the temperature was rising and it was becoming a splendid afternoon.

After lunch we continued on our way towards Crackington Haven, rising and falling as we encountered several combes. At the wooded bottom of one of these we encountered Sam, an eager Labrador who was getting a biscuit as a reward for paddling playfully in the little stream. He was accompanied by two jolly old gents, one with a gap where his lower front teeth should have been. Sam was having the time of his life, scampering about in the blossoming hawthorns; we encountered this trio throughout the rest of the afternoon.

After passing over Coxford Water we encountered a wonderful path leading out to sea on an arete. I was a bit confused since this was a relatively sign-free section of the route, one that had been negotiated since my Letts Guide had been published – but things turned out just fine. Tosh wanted to go to the bathroom but was afraid of being discovered by other walkers. Harold and I kept finding her good places. Sam’s companions were somewhere behind us struggling to get the dog over a chicken-wire embedded stile.

After a lovely afternoon of walking we at last reached the end of the arete and could see into the harbor of Crackington Haven. A sharp descent, with Sam passing once going downhill and once returning uphill, put us out on the road – just a few yards from the large inn, the Combe Barton, where we had booked for the night. It was 4:55 and we had walked nine miles.

I was encouraged by the sign on the inn’s van – “Mrs Barton’s Charcoal Grilled Foods” – but dinner was some time off. Curiously, another abandoned pair of knickers stood outside the rear entrance of the hotel. We were shown to our rooms upstairs and then each of us had a half lager in the large back room of the pub. I had a bath, called Dorothy, and fussed with my pack and at 7:00 we went into the pub proper for gin and tonics. There were two other groups of walkers, a couple the Lee’s age and a slightly younger foursome who had been intently listening to Songs of Praise on their telly.

The waitress who took our order was having trouble on her pins and almost tripped over Harold once. We went into the dining room when our starters were ready. I had prawn cocktail. Then we waited a long time for our entrees. Each of us had a lovely steak. Then we had ice cream for dessert. Our table looked out over the setting sun, the bay, and a sagging farm building. It was a lovely setting for a meal.

They took our orders for sandwiches for the next day and then we went upstairs for an early night. We weren’t bothered by the sounds of activity going on below and soon fell asleep. Harold complained that Tosh snored because of her cold, which didn’t seem to be slowing her down too much, and she complained that he had been rattling around their room looking for pills in the dark.

To continue with the next stage of our walk you need:

Day 14: Crackington Haven to Bosinney