August 9, 1991: Portreath to Hayle

As we were finishing breakfast this morning I saw our former M.S.U. colleagues, Howard and Jennifer, entering the parking lot above the beach. It was just as well that I had spotted them because I could see them making their way into the lobby of the Watergate Bay Hotel (if only) where I caught up with them – steering them back to the more mundane environs of our own establishment.

They used the loos and Jennifer switched to shorts. Howard was impeccable in twill trousers and brown brogues. It was his fourth day of walking with me and Jennifer’s third, but  – surprisingly – these newlyweds had never been on an outing of this sort together. For that matter, their joining us now was a most unusual occurrence – the first time anyone had just dropped in on a non-London walk.

We left at 9:15 for the long ride back to Portreath. The others did some shopping in the same markets that had produced yesterday’s ice lollies while I waited with the dog. Then we got as far as the town loos before there was an interruption for picture taking (Dorothy snapping a lolling local into our group portrait in her impatience). Finally, we were able to follow tarmac over a little hill and down into a suburban valley – where there was a choice of routes.

I chose the most direct return to the coast, cutting off the summit of Tregea Hill on our right – as we made our way up a slit in the luxuriant foliage. At the top of this ascent we encountered a magnificent view of the rock promontories of Ralph’s Cupboard and The Horse. There were two other steep climbs out of Porth Cadjack and Basset Coves, but I was able to assure the troops that the dreaded black arrows had been exhausted for the day.

I walked sometimes with Howard, sometimes with Jenny (getting all the East Lansing gossip), and sometimes alone. Wildflowers were again in wonderful display as we walked along a plateau, indented by the occasional cove, with views of the Godrevy Light ahead and the sounds of the traffic of the coast road growing louder as it came closer to the sea.

There were quite a few parking lots about and we were often in the middle of families unloading deck chairs and coolers. Howard had bought some pastries in Portreath and we tucked into these. Fortunately there was always a narrow path for walkers, even when we were quite close to the road, and Toby – who was having a great time looking after a party of six – never had to go on lead. A recent wreck was caught on the rocks beneath Hudder Down and a dad was pedantically explaining to his lad that wood rots and that is why you couldn’t see all of the ship. We escaped the road for a while as the coast path circumnavigated a large field. Some of our party were straggling far behind and we had to wait for them to catch up. I said that Dorothy and Jenny had the Gerald Ford syndrome this morning – they couldn’t walk and talk at the same time.

There was a café at the spot where the road turns away from the coast to shortcut the Godrevy headland and some of our lot went down for refreshments and loos. Howard managed to get in a cup of coffee, his elixir. I remained back on the opposite hillside with the dog, studying the route ahead. No one wanted to take the road, although this might have saved several miles. So we turned away from the highway, all alone on the trail for once, and used stiles to cross several fields as we worked our way out to Navax Point. Great views across the water to Carbis Bay and St. Ives were opening up all the time. We turned west and, amid legions of trippers again, continued on to Godrevy Point, with its little offshore island and its famous lighthouse. Virginia Woolf, according to the guidebooks, had Godrevy Light in mind when she wrote To The Lighthouse, but the literary mavens in our party disputed this – insisting that Virginia must have been writing about Skye. Nevertheless they all agreed to pose with their backs to the white tower sparkling out at sea.

While I was sitting on the point I noticed, on my OS map, that there was a public house not too far away. This was a useful discovery because it was getting near 1:00 and I was afraid that the pub in Gwithian might be closed by the time we got there. So we continued along the edges of a road (with the dog patrol van vigilantly on patrol) finding the pub in question (The Sandsifter Hotel) on its own access road just up from Gwithian Bridge. Here we had a very nice lunch under an umbrella in the forecourt.

Dorothy had asked me how many miles Toby had walked and I had no figure to give her at the time, but later I worked it out: the dog had just completed his 500th official mile on British footpaths. (But how many more had he actually accomplished with all his running about? His official total at the end of the trip was 505.5) I was also impressed with Dorothy’s total on this trip; I could not have imagined that she would walk for five days and fifty-five miles, only five less than the rest of us, when this holiday had been booked. Now she and Marge were both talking about the next trip.

I had my last scampi of the trip, which means that Toby had his last chips. The special of the day was off but the others had some form of seafood as well. Howard drank a mineral water and smoked a cigar. I made sure that he, Harold, and Marge ordered coffee at the mid-point of the meal because we still had some distance to cover and it was now past 2:00.

We had to use roads to get just north of Gwithian village, where a coast path sign put us back on a sandy path to Gwithian Towans. There were lots of dogs around and Toby met quite a few as we plodded through the sand dunes and came up opposite the beach. Some of us used a loo and then we continued along the cliff top, with dozens of paths to choose from in the undulating dunes. I decided to take the recommendation of the guidebooks and put us down on the beach itself but it was not easy finding a way down the cliff and many false leads were followed up to sheer drops before we located a sandy chute that could be used in safety. Often I had to wait for others to catch up with me but we were at last assembled on the margin of the sea.

In fact there wasn’t the usual hard shelf to walk on here. The sea splashed right up to the sand castles and other encampments of the hundreds of holidaymakers and it was often a chore making your way through all that carbohydrate-wrecked flesh in order to make progress down St. Ives Bay. Toby peed on their sand castles while an Old English Sheep Dog barked nervously at his mistress in the waves. “Shut up, shut up, shut up,” she implored, but it was no use.

I was keeping my eyes open for a pillbox at the end of this stretch because I knew that here we would be able to escape the sands. At last I could see it and slowly we struggled through the sands to reach its foot. We had to scramble up a very steep sandy ladder in order to reach a lifeguard’s hut first. Howard had managed to complete three miles of beach walking without a grain of sand on his brogues.

We walked over Black Cliff and into a chalet village at Hayle Towans. The route was not that clear but I had a good idea of what we needed to do. At one point Toby got into a furious barking match with several large dogs (including a St. Bernard) who were trapped behind their own back fence. I managed to get him away from there before they broke the fence down; it did seem a possibility.

We reached the waters of the Hayle Estuary and turned left, making our way through a very unpromising series of boat yards, dumps, and industrial sites along roads. Workmen were doing roadworks and I asked them if it was okay for us to walk across the canal swing bridge; it was. We had reached the main highway in Hayle. We dashed across the A 30 and turned a corner to continue forward to the railway bridge. “Last chance to buy a mint choc ice,” I warned Marge as we passed a parade of shops. Soon we were climbing up the station access road and at 5:17, thirteen minutes early, we were able to sit down on the platform of the unmanned Hayle Station. Here is where we would begin the next coast path walk.

Colin soon arrived and Dorothy took his picture and we piled into the scenicruiser. The ride back seemed to go a bit faster because Colin used the inland motorway for much of the route. He dropped us off at 6:30 and this gave us time to get cleaned up for our evening meal in Newquay. Jennifer and Howard both took showers in our room (Howard using a shower cap) and then they all went to have a drink in the Watergate Bay Hotel, while I fed the dog and got cleaned up. Then I joined them and had a quick gin and tonic.

Colin, who had recommended our restaurant, had offered us free transportation to and from the Olde Dolphin on Fore Street as a thank you for our weeklong custom. The Andersons followed him in their car and he got them situated in a supermarket parking lot. We had time for more drinks and a long study of the menu before going into our table. I believe everyone had a good time and the food (salmon and sole) was well done. It was 10:00 when we emerged at the end of this meal. The street – with its amusement arcades –was crowded with young people. I walked the Andersons back to their car and we made arrangements to meet in London. Dorothy called Colin and he soon arrived. Newquay looked different in neon, but not very inviting to me.

I took Toby out for a last nighttime walk on the coast path; it was very dark in spots and I was glad we both knew the way. In the morning I repeated this peregrination before our last breakfast (even I, by this time, was down to poached egg on toast). We then packed and paid our bills. Harold got charged for the missing Tosh. Colin picked us up at 10:00. He had had a busy night ejecting drunks from the Burger King at the request of the police. He accepted a check from Harold for what we still owed him. It had cost about  £180 for us to have had his extremely useful services this week.

There was plenty of time for last minute shopping and we took turns standing next to our luggage cart at the railway station with the dog. I had something in my eye and went to the chemist for some drops. I couldn’t find any t-shirt, in a town of t-shirt shops, that wouldn’t make me look ridiculous. Dorothy didn’t buy anything either.

At 11:30 we were off, again enjoying the extra legroom of reserved seats in a first class compartment. I tried to listen to my walkman (after dropping a tape on Marge’s hand) and to read, but the trip seemed to drag for me. We settled all our accounts and I ended up with a goodly supply of cash for the weekend. We were once again on a through train; it arrived only twenty minutes or so late in Paddington, near 5:00; we said goodbye to our companions after a most successful outing – and took a cab home.

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

Day 23: Hayle to St. Ives