April 4, 1992: Hayle to St. Ives

Lelant churchyard

On the morning of Saturday, April 4, 1992, I left Maida Vale shortly after 7:00 am. I was heading for the tube stop and Paddington Station, where I was about to begin a five-day expedition on the Southwest Peninsula Coast Path. Toby was distressed to see me leave without him – but he had to remain with Dorothy, who was in her first weeks of work at the St. Nicholas Montessori Centre.

For once, or so it seemed as I trotted through the brisk morning sunshine, I was beginning a walking enterprise with no overt maladies. Today was the first day of a long holiday for me and I was certainly tired enough from the strain of school. My immediate problem was my pack. I had loaned my new one to Marjorie Rogers and Janet’s big black monster, I had discovered only the night before, had been ripped by Air France during last October’s Alternative. I had patched it with safety pins, which I hoped would work, but I had neglected to pull out the straps, stored for air travel, and in my morning rush I couldn’t figure out where they were! So I had to lug the pack to Paddington; alternatively, I tried hoisting it on my shoulders. A week later I still had a crick in my neck as a reward for this maneuver. I finally found the straps while waiting for the Bakerloo Line.

I saw Marge and the Lees as I emerged from the tube stop at 7:30. They had already purchased the necessary newspapers, snacks, and drinks and I had time to buy a coffee and a doughnut. Harold had made seat reservations for us and we were well settled when the train began its five-hour journey at 7:45. Only the very end of the route was new to me and the trip was a bit on the tedious side, especially after Tosh and I had exhausted school gossip in the first two hours. At other times Marge and the Lees chatted about people I had never met and this was a big bore. I was glad when we approached our first destination, St. Erth, shortly before 1:00.

In order to reach Hayle by train it was necessary to pass by its platform, get off at St. Erth, change to the other side of the tracks, and wait about 25 minutes for a return local. Tosh was extremely impatient, even after she had used the station loo, and insisted we take a taxi back to Hayle. She made Harold get a number from the station master and he informed us that a red Citroen would be picking us up in three or four minutes. I disapproved of the whole venture. By the time the cab came we were only ten minutes shy of train time anyway. The cab ride lasted less than five minutes. Tosh wanted to be taken to the nearest nice pub and I had to remind her that we needed to get to the Hayle halt in order to link up with our last steps on the footpath. It took a long time for Harold to convince her that I was right. In the event the cabbie drove us up to the halt, the spot where Colin had retrieved us last August, and then back to the nearby White Hart Hotel, where the pub food was recommended. There was an estate wagon out front bearing the escutcheon of the local Tory candidate – “Don’t believe a word of what they tell you,” the cabbie said.

There was a friendly crowd in the pub. An ex-publican and his wife were getting quietly sozzled at the next table; he kept talking about his visit to Baltimore, Mary-Land. A grizzled artisan was bugging the proprietors about a TV they had promised to furnish for devotees of the Grand National at Aintree. The set arrived and he went off to watch the races. Poor Harold, I now discovered, was on his second ulcer and it was now necessary for him to order the blandest item on the bar menu. I drank most of a pint and Margie agreed to accept a Perrier. The food was quite good and I succeeded in getting down my first order of scampi and chips. Just as we were ready to leave Tosh ordered a cup of coffee.

At 2:40, sped on by the good wishes of the staff and the other patrons, we emerged into the breezy sunshine of the mid-afternoon. I told the others that they could do as they liked but I intended to walk back the two blocks to the halt approach (getting there by cab didn’t count) – so as to leave no gap in my SWPCP record. They accompanied me across the whizzing streets of the major road junction that is Hayle. On the way back I noticed something funny. For two hours I had been mindlessly humming “Hayle Hayle Rock And Roll.” Now I discovered that someone had carved “Rock and Roll” into the cement of a civic planter at Hayle crossroads! The others insisted on posing me in from of these flowers before we headed up to the railway viaduct at the south end of town. Here we found our cabbie. He had spotted us and wanted to know if he could give us a lift along the road section that now beckoned. We had to decline, since we were officially on the path now – but we took his card for use on the morrow.

I had read about a brief diversion, saving some road walking in the bargain, around Carnsew Pool. The turn-off to reach this enclosed body of water was near at hand and we circled three sides of it. The views were lovely, though we seemed tantalizingly close to the opposite shore – which we would have to take over an hour to reach. I took a photo of Lelant church on the hill above us. A bike rider pulled off to let us pass him on the narrow path. “It’s all right, he said, “I’ll be pausing for a cigarette soon enough anyway.” Eventually we rejoined the B301 and used a pavement to approach a petrol station and takeaway café and then the bridge over the Hayle River. The highway had already approached dual carriageway size when we dashed across it to continue on the little road at Griggs Quay.

We passed another pub and, after walking under the St. Ives railway line, by several potteries. We wandered into one of these briefly but its compendium of kitsch was of less interest to the ladies than its lack of loo. We turned right on the A30 and walked up to a carved cross at the head of a suburban road – one which brought us back in the direction of the estuary. It was obvious that the spring was well-advanced here and the Lees and Marge made very slow progress whenever there was a particularly interesting garden on this back road to Lelant Church. I wasn’t too bothered by the slow pace. It was a lovely afternoon, neither warm nor cold, but quite sunny and fresh. Once the girls ducked behind a wall near the railway line. While Harold and I waited for them I noticed that a healer lived in the house opposite. He/she promised to cure all indispositions so when Marge and Tosh returned I said I had made an appointment for them.

Hayle estuary

We climbed a steep hill, embowered in blossoms, to reach Lelant Church. I took several photos, including one of the graveyard. Then we descended along the sandy paths of a golf course, heading in the direction of the Porth Kidney Sands. There is a large tern colony here (though not much evidence of activity today) and I told the others how each fall the terns get drunk on the fermented local fruit – until there is “no tern unstoned.” There were several golf ball warning signs posted for walkers – as we left the course by tunneling under the railway and heading west amid sand dunes. The sea was now on our right and it was very beautiful in its blue green shades.

There was a bit more up and down than I had expected as we climbed up to the tracks and dropped down to Carbis Bay and we were breathing hard after climbing all the steps behind the Carbis Bay Hotel and up over the railway line.  Eventually, after some more up and down, we began to get good views of St. Ives itself. Harold could even point out our hotel on its little peninsula. We arrived at the Pedn Olva Hotel at 5:40, after covering six miles. It was quite posh, though still undergoing some renovations to the common parts, and we each had a bathroom en suite.

St. Ives

I took a bath and got my maps ready for the next day. I was using xeroxes from Ward & Mason and, blown up to 141% of their original size, the maps from the Southwest Way Association booklets. I brought some of my materials down for the others to read when we met for drinks at 7:15. Tosh spilled her first gin and tonic. There were wonderful views from the hotel dining room, even tough I was facing the St.Ives halt rather than the sea. I had soup and tagliatelli as starters and steak in a red wine sauce as my main dish. The Lees complained about the quality of the custard in the trifle. Harold drank a glass of milk. Marge seemed to be a little less vigilant in her role as food policeman on this trip –and I was allowed to eat most of my food without comments from Mitnick.

We had coffee in the lounge and discussed plans for the next day. Naturally I wanted to get an early start on what I knew would be a strenuous stretch – so I insisted on our taking advantage of the eight o’clock breakfast hour. Tosh, worried about whether or not we needed to take lunches with us, actually phoned the Tinner’s Arms in Zennor to find out if they would be serving food. This was confirmed, not only by the publican in question, but by two other members of the efficient Pedn Olva staff. I left the Lees chatting with some Londoners who had retired to the peninsula and were full of local lore. I had no trouble sleeping.

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

Day 24: St. Ives to Morvah