August 8, 1991: Perranporth to Portreath

St. Agnes

We had a sunny morning for our fifth day on the trail, a walk from Perranporth to Portreath. Colin picked us up at 9:15 and we were ready to begin our walk at about 10:00. His instructions on where we should meet at the end of the day made no sense to me (he was thinking of another village completely) – so I had to take the OS map out of my pack and spread it on the back of the van so we could agree on the head of the harbor as the rendezvous place at 5:30.

We began our walk with a steep climb up from the Perranporth harbor on tarmac – but before long we were back in the familiar scene of crashing surf, cliff edge, wheeling birds, and stone walls. We passed Droskyn Point and began a long trek up to the headland of Cligga Point. Harold was enjoying his new tennis shoes, Dorothy was doing well in spite of a sore foot, Marge’s knees were obviously holding out, and Toby had regained some of his vigor.

We circled Hanover Cove and began to get glimpses of a number of interesting islands at sea. These included Green Island and a pair, one much larger than its twin, called Man and his man. We rounded the next headland and had the unusual prospect of St. Agnes, on its hill in the far distance, and – much closer – the deep valley of Trevellas Combe. Our problem was how to get to St. Agnes. You could scramble over the rocks at low tide, but the troops did not have much enthusiasm for this prospect. Alternately you could cross the stream, and scramble over a very impressive hill to reach the foot of St. Agnes. I chose to take an indirect assault on the hill, heading up the combe first to look at an interesting industrial ruin.

When we turned from the road over Trevellas Combe, to begin our ascent of the hill, we found the going very steep indeed, but there was a wide track to follow and footing was decent. Needless to say there were dozens of trippers everywhere. At the crest of the hill we could look down into Trevaunance Cove, a very attractive spot which serves as St. Agnes’ only access to the sea. At the bottom of a steep descent there was a pub (and a cafe called the Frying Dutchman) but the outdoor tables for the pub seemed to be situated in the parking lot so we headed back out to the sea along a road that lead us to a very nice hotel  – also called Trevaunance Cove  – it even had its own hairdresser and there were nice tables among the hydrangeas.

Everyone seemed to have a dog at this establishment and the hotel had cats as well. Service was slow and the extensive menu had some missing items but we waited patiently and had a jolly lunch. It was sunny but not too hot in the garden; I did put some sun blocker on the back of my neck. I think my lot could have stayed another half an hour but near 1:00 I suggested we needed to think about moving off. We were able to continue on the same road coastward and after another steep scramble we had rounded the immediate headland and turned west.

Wheal Coates

We passed Newdowns Head and a coastguard lookout at St. Agnes Head. We could now see ahead the Towan Roath shaft of the Wheal Coates Mine, one of the most dramatic ruins on the coast. Other mining buildings also invited attention and we strolled around among them, wandering off the coast path a bit. Harold ate an apple and I gave Toby some water as we had a good rest and photo session.

There were lots of paths around and I improvised a route, in the warm afternoon sun, down to Chapel Porth. Much of this was steep and Dorothy made slow progress, clutching the back of my pack as she descended. Someone had written Chapel Porth in small stones on the opposite side of the valley. At the head of the very crowded beach there was a kiosk in the parking lot. While some of us went to the loos I bought two “hedgehogs,” ice cream cones dipped in clotted cream and a mixture of honey and nuts. Needless to say Dorothy wouldn’t eat hers because of the cream – so I had to eat mine and then lick the topping off Dorothy’s as well. The cream did not sit so well as we scrambled up the steep side of the valley – disdaining a more inland route – and heading southwest.

Porth Towan

Our next obstacle was Porth Towan. First came the ubiquitous no dogs on the beach signs. There appeared to be a crossing of the valley farther inland, still on sand, but it was hard to figure out how to continue. Harold made some inquiries and was directed forward on what turned out to be a very open and precipitous scramble up the headland. I was beginning to look intently at my watch because, with more scrambling today than on any other, we were only barely on schedule.

Nevertheless we did well on the last stretch. We had to make two more descents and ascents but steps often helped. The wildflowers were again very lovely on this stretch, a combination of purple heather and yellow gorse. For much of our last two hours we were accompanied, on our left, by the fence of the Nancecuke MoD property. The guidebooks complain about this but I didn’t find it too oppressive. There was more fencing after Gooden Heane Point but we were on the last stretch now and it was about 5:15 when we began our descent into Portreath.

Colin and I had agreed to meet at the head of the harbor but it was a little hard to find it amid the apartment complexes. Nearby there was a bus shelter and a market and while I sat on lookout for Colin the others went across the street to buy ice lollies. We had just finished these when Colin, accompanied by another driver, a lady more knowledgeable in the lore of Portreath, sped by. We flagged them down and were soon aboard for almost an hour’s ride back to Watergate Bay. As Colin and his friend chatted I learned more about the Newquay taxi business than I wanted (“it’s a jungle out there”).

I carried my lager in to dinner, as there had not been much time to get properly ready for this meal. At the end of quite a warm day our proprietor was offering roast beef. Dorothy and I ordered the ham salad. The others could not stop talking about food throughout these meals; you felt that every bite was being judged and weighed on some moral scale, with Marge as the head of the food police. At least this was the last of these meals; our host had been informed that we would be dining out on the morrow. By this time he must have written us off as kooks. We kept asking for luxuries like coffee sachets and soap in our room. For that matter, our assault on his bed linen was not at an end. That night I rolled over in my sleep, scratched my elbow on the bedside shelf and woke to find a dried pool of blood in the middle of the sheet.

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

Day 22: Portreath to Hayle