August 6, 1991: Newquay to Perranporth

It was another grey morning as our party piled into Colin’s van at 9:15. Even though we had not walked into Newquay itself yet I had decided to leave a little gap (which could be filled in some evening, if needed) and walk the section from Newquay to Perranporth now. Thus Colin only had to drive to us back to the train station at the outset of the day’s expedition.

We did not make a fast start from town center. Everyone had something they needed to buy in the parade of shops we were passing – and I spent a lot of time standing out in the wind with the dog. Marge had to buy postage stamps (she launched dozens of post cards on this expedition) and this took quite a while and we didn’t get going much before 10:30. I used the Ordnance Survey map to pick out the shortest route to the Fern Pit cafe, where, the guidebooks told me, I would find a ferry across the Gannel estuary.

There were some nice views back to the town as we headed west toward Pentire Point East; we passed innumerable bed and breakfast establishments and other strollers out with their dogs. There was pavement all the way, which was a relief, but with all the traffic this was not a particularly interesting stretch. To make matters worse a shower began blowing into our faces and we had to pause in the lee of a hedge to put on raingear. The moisture was only short-lived, it turned out, and clouds and sun alternated in a sky that was mostly overcast for the rest of the day: ideal walking weather.

As we left the main road and picked our way along the suburban streets that faced the Gannel I spoke to a few locals about the crossing. The best advice still seemed to be to proceed up the hill toward the Fern Pit cafe. When we reached this establishment Dorothy was sent on a mission of inquiry, soon returning with her hands in the air – the ferry wasn’t running but there was a bridge somewhere. I turned the dog over to her and went to make my own inquiries. The waitress at the cafe told me that the bridge in question was at the bottom of the cafe’s steps. So I reclaimed my troops (Toby much confused because there was a little boy in the street also named Toby).

I let the dog loose and he scrambled down the steep steps to the ferry hut. At the bottom we could see that the tide had not advanced far enough to make the ferry a necessity ­– but that we could make it across the river on a narrow plank bridge. Toby found this a very exciting moment and almost waded back to the other side when the others, whom I was trying to get into a photograph, were slow in making their own crossing.

We now walked over the sand on the opposite side, searching for a way up the opposite bank, entering a sandy side valley with its own parking lot and half a dozen young National Trust volunteers poking at litter with long sticks and dragging plastic sacks behind them. I discovered, after a scouting expedition, a sign indicating that the coast path crossed the parking lot, but it was hard to find any official route through the sand dunes that lead to Crantock Beach. In the event we found ourselves walking along the back of this lovely but almost deserted strand, encouraged by the sight of a path that climbed up from its far corner.

One problem was that the closer we got to the end of the cove the more the tide advanced and as we climbed over some rocks to reach our path the waves began to seep under our shoes. This was an exciting moment – if we didn’t make it to the bottom of the path before the tide was too high we would have to undertake a massive retreat. Fortunately we had just enough time to escape the advancing waves. The iron rail of the rocky path up to the cliff top was reached in the ebb of a wave that then flowed over the bottom step. We had made it! Much relieved, we ascended to the coast path again, suddenly surrounded by hotels and holidaymakers and the sun, which had poked its head through the clouds again.

Walking now became very easy again as we circled Pentire Point West and headed inland toward the head of Porth Joke. There were many tourists on the sands of the beach but there did not seem to be an easy way of joining them so we continued on a rough path through another semi-tropical stretch before crossing a stream on a little bridge. Toby had a nice drink here but he seemed to be taking a sip of everything today ­– and some of what he swallowed and ate could not have been the best diet for a dog.

There was a steep scramble up the opposite bank to continue on the coast path and we had a brief rest here in the sunshine. A tribe of dogs was paddling in the stream we had just crossed. We then moved forward around Kelsey Head, obtaining good views eventually of rocky islands at sea and the sands of Holywell Bay. Our immediate objective was the village of Holywell, with its pub. Harold led us on a circuitous passage to reach this oasis. Once we had to stop to let a group of novice riders pass by on horseback.

There was a useful garden behind the pub, which we reached at 1:30, and we found a table where I could tie up the dog. We enjoyed a nice meal, including desserts and coffee, with our drinks. Toby scoffed some chips and chased an inquisitive Cocker Spaniel from his patch. Everyone used the loos. I always had to keep an eye on the time during these expeditions, especially today, because Colin was supposed to pick us up in Perranporth at 5:30. Eventually I was able to get our lot into first gear again.

I had discovered that we could use a low gate just beyond the garden’s wet wash to rejoin the coast path. There were a number of dire warnings about straying into the Penhale Army camp as we began a very steep ascent up to the nose of Penhale Point. There were, indeed, quite a few paths about and I wasn’t entirely sure that we were using the official one as we climbed up to a spoil heap and headed south. Marge and Harold were well ahead of Dorothy and me and the dog was naturally with the frontrunners. As they passed the entrance gate to the army camp they were horrified to see that Toby had disdained the coast path, which runs on the seaward side of the barbed wire, and had enlisted instead. They reminded him of this problem and he found a way under the fence.

At another gate, above Hoblyn’s Cove, the path was diverted from the edge because of erosion. I was very concerned that the army might have changed its mind about letting people walk along the Perran Bay waterfront (earliest versions of the path required a considerable inland detour from Holywell) but the signs all seemed to deal with the erosion problem only. I picked out a way among the fence boards and we were soon climbing around Ligger Point.

Once again we had a choice of routes. The path itself wound up and down over sand dunes for several miles but there was an inviting stretch of sandy beach below us – and Harold decided to follow an alternative path down to the shore at the north end of the sands. We all duly followed but when we got to the cliff edge the path became very precipitous. I stayed behind to help Dorothy and Marge find footholds while Harold actually had to carry Toby down a few steep patches that were too deep for the dog to jump. Much of our progress was on our backsides.

Then Harold reported a new hazard. Just below us was a naked man playing beach tennis with his (clothed) family. The girls reported they had no objection to this (Dorothy said she might even give him a business card) so we literally dropped in on this surprised family. The father stretched out face down on his blanket while we made our way back to the beach. You could see no evidence of any path whatsoever staring back at the cliff we had just descended. I thought Dorothy, who suffers from vertigo, had done particularly well. I did not have my figures to hand but later I determined that just after lunch she had reached her 600th mile on British footpaths.

We now had a long stretch of beach walking. There was a fairly hard surface near the water so progress was pretty good. I picked up an interesting piece of petrified wood. Dorothy played at the water’s edge with the dog but I noticed that she had begun to flag far behind the rest of us as the afternoon wore on. It was growing overcast again and I had trouble picking out Harold and Marge as they disappeared into the ranks of the beach crowd at the south end of the strand. Toby was now having the devil of a time keeping everyone together as he raced back and forth several times.

Once again we had a bit of a scramble ahead of us. The tide was getting very near rocks at the end of the beach and Harold asked a lifeguard if we could use the sands all the way to Perranporth. He was told there was time so we continued forward but there were a lot of tide pools to be jumped over and the rocks were covered with slippery seaweed. Dorothy was obviously having trouble with a sore foot and found the going particularly rough. We persevered however and made our way across the crowded beach at Perranporth. I put Toby on lead and we crossed a stream and headed for the Dolphin café, our rendezvous point.

It was just going 5:00 so we tried to see if the hotel pub next door was open – but it was not. We then wandered back into town and found a pub with a nice garden but just as we were sitting down Colin pulled in, half an hour early, so we were soon heading back up the coast.

While we were having our before-dinner drinks in the little dining room bar Howard Anderson called me and our host gave me a portable phone (which went dead once) so that I could work out with Howard how he and Jenny, also visiting Cornwall, might have a day’s walking with us on Friday. In the meantime Harold had changed his mind about a full day’s walk tomorrow and we had cancelled our morning pickup.

After dinner I took Toby up the coast path to the south and he obliged this time, albeit with a rather sloppy gift. We watched an episode of The Doctor and again had an early night. But at 3:45 the dog began to retch. “Throw him off the bed,” I advised, but too late. The dog had thrown up all over Dorothy’s pillow and, later, on the floor as well. She set to work to sponge off the sheets while I prepared for the inevitable sequel to such misadventures. I laid newspaper all over the entranceway and sure enough the dog deposited two black, brackish turds. I crumpled up the papers and put them in a bin in the loo, replacing them with new sheets. These were soon in the bin too. The final act was a last vomit all over Dorothy’s raincoat. It didn’t smell too good in our room when we were at last able to get back to sleep.

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

Day 20: Watergate Bay to Newquay

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

Day 21: Perranporth to Portreath