April 6, 1993: Cadgwith to Porthallow
At the stream south of Spernic Cove
We had a sunny morning on April 6th, the fourth day of our walk, and the wind was not howling as fiercely as the night before. The Lees confirmed a nighttime memory – a brief but intense shower had fallen sometime before dawn. From one of the loos I spotted a coast path sign, showing the way up to the next headland, and after the usual breakfast (which was by this time just scrambled eggs for me) we were ready to depart at 9:25.
We did not make very fast progress in the morning: both Harold and Tosh made frequent stops We dropped down to the Poltesco Valley and used a footbridge over a stream, then resumed a very nice cliff top walk over a series of headlands. Someone was mowing the grass of a caravan park on our left as we reached a motor road – which we needed to take us down to sea level. Here there was a beach at the southern end of Kennack Sands and in a parking lot they were just attempting to get their counters open for the day’s trippers. I was afraid our lot would now wait around to be the first customers but they were seduced by some loos on the hillside behind the store and by the time they had emerged we were ready to continue on a sandy path down to a sluggish stream spanned by a footbridge.
More inland sandy paths lead us over to the northern end of Kennack Sands and from here there was a steep climb up to the cliff tops again. We continued forward amid the gorse and other blossoming plants, passing Spernic Cove and the road at Borgwirtha. The next headland gave us views of the deep Downas Valley below us and we had a toe twanging descent of a very steep hillside to reach the footbridge at the bottom. The steps heading uphill on the other side reminded me of sections of the North Devon path – but there was nothing for it but to breathe deeply and start a slow progress up the stairs. Well, my progress was slow. Tosh (just having celebrated her 60th birthday) darted uphill without pause.
At the top we found a more level path over Beagles Point and Black Head, where we obtained good views of some of the hotels on the outskirts of Coverack, our next target. In fact the path was a bit overgrown in this section and, out in the lead again, I had to fight my way through the undergrowth and the mud underfoot to keep us going. As we neared some of the outlying buildings of Trewillis Farm Tosh asked innocently if this were not another quarry. As a familiar stench grew in intensity I was able to answer, “Yes, a bacon quarry.”
Approaching Coverack
We followed some farm tracks for a short distance and then another stream before climbing up to a hotel access road. I had been worrying about arriving too late for lunch in Coverack but it was 1:20 and I began to relax. The way led downhill, along a marvelous line of cottages, each resplendent in spring blooms. Tosh paused to chat with some of the gardeners and at one point asked them for directions to the Paris Hotel, the town pub. This was denounced as a “cheerless place” by the locals but we were thirsty and so we headed out to Dolor Point, at one end of Coverack’s harbor, and tried our luck.
There seemed to be one harried barman on duty and it took him quite a while to fill our orders. The menu was not very promising and each room had less to offer than the rest. I ran into the walking couple from the Cadgwith Cove Hotel and John later told me that he had grown so impatient with the service that he had gone into the kitchens, prepared his own sandwiches, and washed some of the dishes! The Lees had discovered from other customers that there were additional places to eat in this town so we left after our drinks and followed the road around the harbor. A cat jumped up onto the sea wall as we neared the Harbour Lights Cafe.
We left our packs outside and settled in for a very nice feed, even starting with soup and finishing with hot desserts – Tosh had spotted dick and custard and I had chocolate sponge and custard – but neither of these was a great success. They were very nice at this restaurant and even refilled our canteens. But we had wasted quite a bit of time in Coverack and I was anxious to get going when we finally paid up at 3:00. We still had the better part of five miles to go.
Tosh, of course, had to buy things in every kiosk we passed and Margie and I spent a long time on a suburban street waiting for the Lees to catch up. Just before the sewage works we left our track and followed a low level path, often very muddy, above low cliffs along the sea. Tosh tried unsuccessfully to find less muddy alternatives but cows had dug up the era pretty thoroughly and there wasn’t much choice. There were a few daytrippers about but Lowland Point was pretty desolate, more so because a fine mist began to descend at this point, and we all paused to put on raingear.
Our way forward was now dominated by the huge Dean Quarry. I had been worried about the possibility of a hold up here, for the path is often closed during blasting periods, but there was a notice board indicating that there was another hour to go before blasting would begin again. Margie led the way through this well-marked site but we got a fascinating view of every stage of the quarrying operation. There was even a ship being loaded in the little harbor, conveyer belts were shuttling along, and crushed rock (for highway construction, I believe) was rattling through chutes. A lorry driver waved at me as I headed away from the huge crater then being excavated.
This part of the coast path had only recently been opened to the public, thus cutting off an inland detour, but at Godrevy Cove the path, indeed, had to turn inland for want of a negotiated right away through still more quarries to the north. I had been reading up on this route, which was just as well, because I didn’t want to get my Countryside Commission book out in the rain. Tosh was muttering, however, as I left the beach, following a useful signpost and threading my way through a wet reed bed and up along a stream. We walked through a farmer’s field, gradually getting higher and eventually encountering the buildings of Chenhale Farm; a coast path sign confirmed our direction, out to the collection of buildings in the hamlet of Rosenithon.
The Lees and Margie above Porthoustock
We used a road to head briefly seaward again. A disconsolate dog was lying on top of a wet stone wall, eyeing us passively as we headed uphill. I had warned the others to be on the lookout for a shortcut and sure enough we were invited to cut a corner of a field to reach the Porthoustock Road. There followed a steep descent into this village. There were loos here and I spent some time in the gents with Harold, protected from the mist, looking at the guidebook description of the next section. The girls had lost track of us (since they are usually the last to leave a loo) and were quite surprised when we finally emerged. Tosh, we later discovered, had lost her gloves in this space; that night I gave her mine for the rest of the journey. There is an official coast path alternative (involving a trod through potato fields) to the road walking we now had to undertake, but Harold was adamant that we keep to the road.
This involved a very steep climb uphill – with views of St. Keverne over on our left as we leveled off. At a road junction (totally missing from my map) I got a bit confused. I knew I had to look for a spot 300 meters beyond Trenance Farm, and a track invited us forward to check out the prize cows of this establishment, but when we took it a kindly gentleman poked his head over a wall and informed us that this was certainly not the way to Porthallow and that we needed to return to the junction in order to take the right-hand fork. This lead to a t-junction from which a path made a rapid descent downhill toward our village.
There was also a bit of road walking needed to reach this harbor town. Someone had put up a sign reminding drivers that there were “free range children” about. We reached the bottom. The seaman on the pub sign at the Five Pilchards was wearing the same yellow mac and cap as Margie. A young couple in a car was just making inquiries at a local marine outfitters about the whereabouts of the Gallen-Treath guesthouse – which is where we were headed. We had a little more road walking back up the valley and a last hill to climb before reaching our b&b. We were greeted by our hostess at 5:55.
She showed us to a series of quite comfortable rooms, each with en suite shower, and we made a quick business of getting cleaned up because she planned on serving the evening meal at 6:30. She was able to offer her guests alcohol and Tosh and I had lagers while the others drank wine. We had ox-tail soup and a very salty piece of gammon steak. This, of course, put us in mind of the Five Pilchards but Margie said she wasn’t coming and Harold declined also – his new brothel creepers were a size too small and he didn’t feel like putting them on for a walk back down the hill.
So Tosh and I started off alone – in the dark now – but Harold changed his mind and followed along in a few minutes. I drank a lager and a gin and orange. The Cottingtons, who had shown up at the Gallen-Treath – after learning from me the night before that there was accommodation in Porthallow – were also present. He was an ex-army officer who had started three other lines of work after his retirement from the military. One of these, which he shared with his wife, was the establishment of an animal sanctuary on Dartmoor, one that specialized in programs for the physically and emotionally disabled. It was quite interesting talking to them – though I was a bit disconcerted by his pipe tobacco, which (in odor) strongly resembled marijuana. The bartender said he wouldn’t mind a change of career either. I phoned Dorothy at the bar and learned for the first time that my stepmother had died a month earlier.
About nine we three left the others and walked back up the hill in the blackness. The mist had lifted a bit. I plugged in my walkman and had a good rest – after another strenuous ten and a half mile day.
To continue with the next stage of our walk you need: