April 10, 1990: Bosinney Haven to Port Isaac

Tintagel Head

The grey skies that had appeared at the end of the previous day continued to dominate in the early hours of Tuesday, April 10. At breakfast both Harold and I convinced ourselves that it was drizzling outside – but it was not. We discovered this after we had paid up (Harold always acting as treasurer), picked up our lunches, and hefted our packs at 9:35. It was a good start time at last.

We returned through the garden gate and walked down the grass to find the coast path. Then we continued down to a streambed and steeply up the other side, heading for the end of the second Willapark peninsula. Things soon leveled off and we had a delightful walk along the cliff side, with Bosinney Haven on our right. At the top of the promontory we took a short cut over the top; ahead there was the large Tintagel hotel that we had been able to see since day one.

A discussion began on the differences between gorse and broom. I mentioned that I had read in one of the South West Way Association guidebooks that because of the spray of gorse on their headgear the Plantagenets had earned their family name – because the Latin for this yellow flower was planta genista. Harold, wearing his medieval historian’s hat, was delighted with this bit of idle chatter. He had been trying to figure out the origin of the name – and his research had not been successful. Just as we were discussing this the sun broke through behind us – “Harold, I can see my shadow!” However this boast lead to no sequel. The clouds soon returned and we spent the rest of the day looking at squalls at sea and wondering when we might be included in the wetness.

The walls of Tintagel Castle were now in view and the island setting was quite dramatic. Soon, however, we were back in tourist Tintagel, with a National Trust shop, a bakery selling expensive cookies, and loos. “Now I know what it tastes like to eat diamonds,” a parsimonious Tosh remarked as she washed down some peanut butter concoction with an orangeade. Tourists were strolling down from the town (which my route had neatly avoided) and we did not linger long. We climbed out of a hollow, disdained paying an admission price to gain access to the Castle, and continued forward toward the tower of Tintagel Church.

This was slightly off route but I wanted us to pause here briefly because we were about to celebrate Tosh’s 900th mile! Then we dropped down to the Youth Hostel. Ward and Mason suggest in their guide that the former quarryman’s cottage must have the grandest site of any British youth hostel; it was magnificent (though I would nominate Pwll Deri instead).

Trebarwith Strand

We now had an easy march around Penhallic Point before beginning a steep descent to Trebarwith Strand and the tiny village of Port William. Ward and Mason had suggested that the pub might be open in summer only, but the closer we got the more obvious it became that it was open all year, and, at 11:45, it was open now! This was a most welcome surprise. I stood in the main street (while Tosh went in search of a shop) and kicked a ball to an exercise-seeking mongrel four times. Then we went up some steps to the pub (also called Port William) and had a nice rest, out of the cold.

I had a pint of lager and we had some peanuts, but Tosh complained that the latter were too salty and didn’t agree with her. We were in the pub about half and hour and then decided to continue. This meant an ascent of Dennis Point and a descent into the Backways Valley. We were beginning a good deal of up and down, disproving my theory that the farther we got into our trip the easier the walk would become.

Jacket’s Point

After Tregonnick Tail we descended to a valley with a jagged hill called, over-optimistically, The Mountain. Then it was over Tregardock Cliff and down to Jacket’s Point and then up a very steep valley-side, with steps cut to aid our progress, and past an old coastguard lookout before descending to another stream crossing. We were looking for a sheltered spot for lunch and when we spotted the wholesome foursome from the Combe Barton Hotel having a rest below us we decided to head for the same spot, not far from a tunnel (known as the Donkey Hole) down to the next beach

Soon we had the spot to ourselves, but not before I was quizzed about my camera by a chap with funny teeth. Tosh had our sandwiches and managed to roll a quarter of my cheese and pickle onto the path. Later I used the path to walk around the corner for a pee. There was a spectacular view of the sea crashing below. We were out of the worst of the wind but it was still chilly and I put my coat on while we were seated. When the next ascent began I packed it away.

We now climbed up out of our valley and down into the next, Barret’s Zawn. The wholesome foursome could be seen heading off to the left on the grass after having made their climb out of the valley. The Letts guide promised a primrose bedecked streambed at the bottom, but there were primroses everywhere at this time of year. A very steep climb was now needed by us to get up onto Ranie Point. I was annoyed that Ward and Mason had neglected to put in one of their black arrows (signifying a steep ascent) in their guidebook. I left the Lees behind in my eagerness to get to the top. They were below me waving to the geriatric walkers who were just beginning their descent to the primroses.

When we met again at the top we followed a prominent path through the grass, just as our predecessors had done, but it soon petered out. There was a gate ahead but no acorn and I grew increasingly convinced that we needed to be nearer the cliff edge. So I did some scouting and came across a stile in a slate fence off to the right. There was no acorn but I decided to use it. There followed quite a few other stiles, each built in stone at the end of wonderful slate fences – often featuring a herringbone pattern and sometimes topped with interesting seaside-loving plants.

Gradually we descended Bound’s Cliff and at last an acorn made its appearance. I was quite relived to have got it right but I kept wondering what happened to the other walkers, none of whom we saw again. We had one more stream to cross before rounding Tregunsers Point and getting a close up of Port Gaverne and Port Isaac, adjacent villages that we had been able to see off in the distance for several miles.

We hit tarmac on the outskirts of Port Gaverne. A sign pointed down to the main coast road and I actually climbed a stile before realizing that I could walk around it to get to the path in question – after ten up and down miles I must have been a little punchy. There was a wonderful tree with blue blossoms growing in someone’s backyard and of course the Lees wanted one. I told them that if they got one of every kind of plant they had admired in someone’s garden on this trip they would have to move to Kew. At the bottom of the hill we reached the coast road and began to climb a steep hill leading to Port Isaac.

I should have realized something was not quite right when a car began reversing down the hill. The next thing I saw was a giant Scania truck using all the roadway and heading downhill at speed. I rushed to an elevated verge that allowed me to get off the pavement but I landed on my right knee, which had been giving me some problems when I used it to rise from a squatting position. This hurt a good deal, but as I continued walking uphill after the truck had passed the pain gradually lessened. I had noticed before that straightforward walking made the knee feel better.

There was some debate about the turnoff to our hotel, which had a number of signs about, and an anxious Tosh asked some local youths at a bus queue. We turned off on The Terrace, just at the top of our hill, and found our hotel just a few meters on.  It was 5:25. Our bespectacled hostess came out to greet Harold with, “Mr. Linick, welcome,” but we soon had that sorted out. She had been watching people all afternoon coming over the hill opposite and had spotted us, as the most likely guest candidates, some minutes earlier.

We stowed our packs on the second floor and went down for a drink in the pub. The lager wasn’t very cold. Leo, the hotel dog, bounded in to give us a greeting. Host and hostess spent a good deal of time filling us in on the ins and outs of the b&b trade in Port Isaac. Host was angry at the National Trust for saying no to ambitious plans to turn Port Gaverne into a Jet Ski championship site (Go, Trust!). I was finally driven to my bath by the incessant cigarette smoke of our hostess (not to mention the mindless chatter) but the smoke followed me all the way upstairs.

I had a nice bath and telephoned Dorothy. Then I got a ginger ale (no ice) to take with me into dinner. There was only one other party at the hotel: a teenage son who was never without camera or binoculars, a bull dyke of a mum with straight grey hair cut with a cereal bowl and shoulders that looked like they were used to shoveling cement, and a fat Mafia father who wore dark glasses at all times of the day. They kept their distance.

We all had the halibut. Veg was the unusual combination of honeyed carrots and canned corn. I had ice cream for dessert. We were invited to take coffee on the sun lounge, but of course it was now completely black outside and cold on the porch and so we retreated to the lounge and watched the news on the TV. Here we were joined by Bella, the seventeen year-old cat, who was missing a foot.

Again we had an early night.

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

Day 16: Port Isaac to Rock