June 18, 1994: Place to Rosevine
Our group at Place Manor
Our eighth walk on the Southwest Peninsula Coast Path began the day after ASL’s Commencement, that is on the morning of Saturday, June 18. It was a complex beginning. I met the Lees and Marge Rogers at Paddington at 7:15. We had time to buy coffee and doughnuts before boarding our 7:35 train for the tedious journey westward. There was plenty of end of term gossip to keep the ASLers busy, and lots of motherly advice from Tosh on my new duties as department chairman; the others, in desperation, soon turned to their newspapers –while I stared out at a countryside I seemed to have memorized.
We reached Truro shortly after noon and there was only a brief wait. Tosh carried out a raid on the refreshment kiosk and we boarded the shuttle to Falmouth at 12:15. The train, however, just stood there and I was beginning to worry about all of the remaining connections when, after a trackside palaver among the BR staff, the train chugged off at last. By 12:50 we were climbing out at the Falmouth Town halt – not much evidence of its identity on the platform, but most of the other passengers were getting off and I seemed to remember the place too.
What a difference between our last visit here and today’s return. It had been a gloomy, dripping day in April of 1993 when we had set off for London from this spot; now it was warm, radiantly sunny, and very bright. We marched down through the parking lot and turned left to head into town. I took us down an alleyway to the crowded thoroughfare below – and was momentarily seduced by a St. Mawes ferry sign, but this first pier had no service on Saturdays and we were directed to the Prince of Wales pier some ten minutes to the north. Hoping to make the 1:15 crossing I lead us on a corking charge through the mass of tourists who clogged the pavements of Falmouth, reaching the pier with five minutes to spare. As I bought our tickets I was relieved to discover that the St. Mawes to Place ferry was running, as promised.
We sat on the stern of the little ship and used the few minutes before departure to spread sun blocker on the exposed portions of our skin – already I had shed my black ASL rugby sweatshirt. The journey to St. Mawes, which took about twenty minutes, was exhilarating, with wonderful views back to Falmouth, up the arms of the estuary, out to sea, and across to the St. Mawes peninsula, where one of Henry the Eighth’s castles stood guard. What I could not see was our next destination, Place Manor, across the Percuil River – but this was hidden by Amsterdam Point. I could see the Place ferry itself heading across the waters in front of us. We had about twenty minutes in St. Mawes and Tosh tried to get a beer at a hotel, but they weren’t serving the likes of us. Harold disappeared into a pub for a pee and the rest of us found a shop, ironically called Ralph’s – though not a branch of the L.A. supermarket – where we bought more liquid and snacks.
I was anxious for my troops not to scatter because the little ferry took only ten passengers and I was hoping to be aboard the next crossing. A hippie boatman soon docked and let us aboard at 2:00. We were soon joined by some locals and some tourists and we set out in quite choppy seas that splashed up against Harold’s back as we bobbed across the water. One little old lady was sure that the weight of our walking boots would soon sink us. A jolly fat man and his wife had just purchased a 36th interest in a local yacht and he was full of local lore, including information about what to see in Place. We were well entertained during the ten-minute crossing, which ended on the pier in front of the chateau-like Place Manor House. The fat man took the obligatory group photo for us and I arranged my pack, my camera, and my map case. We were able to begin walking at 2:20 – even earlier than I had hoped, after two trains and two ferries had all come through for us. All of this is needed to get the coast path walker, who last used his feet in Falmouth, into position for further adventures in walking.
The girls headed up the wooded lane and Harold and I followed slowly. There was a footpath sign after several hundred yards and this led us behind the manor house on a shady path past a cemetery and up to the 13th century church, which we visited. Then I led us up some steps and we joined a lane that led seaward. I was happy to have more shade than I had anticipated on this warm afternoon, and there were some breezes stirring so it never got too oppressive. We passed a cove full of kids playing in the water and then entered a field to climb steeply up to a hilltop stile. I remarked that we were, in fact, heading in the exact opposite direction from the required line of march, and this was greeted with cries of protest.
At the top of the hill the views were again magnificent. We could see the entire estuary before us and to our left St. Anthony’s Head, our next destination. There are two routes and Harold opted for the high level one, much of which I improvised, some of it through gaps at the sides of wheat fields. We did save a black arrow by keeping our elevation, I think, but eventually we had to descend to a stream in order to follow the path out to the famous St. Anthony lighthouse. Tosh wanted me to find out if it was necessary to descend the 46 meters to the lighthouse itself because Margie didn’t want any unnecessary re-ascent, but while I was figuring this out both of the girls trailed along, became intrigued by the lighthouse business, climbed to the top of the structure, and visited with the resident keepers. Harold, who had been nursing a sore knee, which he kept bound in an ace bandage throughout the journey, remained below, and I stayed with him.
The four of us then climbed up to the top of the headland, where there is a parking lot and loos. I stood above the latter structure and directed the others on which path to take as they emerged. We were now headed northeast, our direction for much of this trip, and we had begun several hours of delightful coast path walking on occasionally overgrown tracks amid wild flowers which we had not seen in bloom during any of our previous walks. We paused to rest and drink water and re-lather ourselves with coconut-scented sun blocker – but there was no rush and our pace was quite leisurely. Once, trying to squeeze through a very tight kissing gate, I backed up against a nettle bush and dragged my left arm through the plants. Tosh escaped these but described the gate as “like having a mammogram.”
Towan Beach and Greeb Point
To our right there was the amazingly bright blue sea crashing against the headlands and above us, on the top of the Roseland Peninsula we could see the rooftops of farms and eventually the church at Gerrans. None of my companions seemed particularly interested in donning swimming costumes., which we had remembered to bring this time (though Tosh had forgotten her towel) but there was one very inviting spot at Towan Beach that I would have tried if the others had been willing.
Entering Portscatho
Shortly before six we rounded a corner by a house and were instantly in Portscatho, heretofore unsighted. The Plume of Feathers beckoned us forward but it was not open and we asked some locals about opening hours. One of these chaps was the publican himself, about to unlock the doors. We sat out in front on a bench, unwilling to exchange the wonderful light and warm summer air for the dark smokiness of a pub. The girls went across the street to admire some yellow irises in a front yard.
While we were drinking our lager we got advice from several people about how to reach our hotel. This required us to descend to the local beach and pick up a road that had reached its terminus at the bottom of a steep hill. For the first time we saw for sale, in a lobster cage, a pile of local sea urchins at £1.50. Tosh was clearly tempted, but waited for several days until she found a display where the round brightly colored objects (which I denounced as sea kitsch) could be purchased for a pound only. Thereafter she fretted constantly about whether or not it had survived in her pack. There were many complaints about the steepness of our ascent and requests for definitive assertions on the distance still to be covered but I knew exactly where the Roseland House Hotel was located (it was the Rosevine spot named Hotel on the OS map) and, after seven miles, we arrived at 7:10 – with plenty of time to bathe before dinner.
The place was splendid, though only the Lees had en suite facilities. Marge and I each had our own exclusive bathrooms, but we had to go out in the hallway to reach them. My room, at the southeast corner of the hotel, offered magnificent vistas in two directions. Shortly before dinner I disappeared outside in order to scout out the path down to Porthbeor Beach, one that I knew we would be using the next morning. Then we had drinks and fresh vegetables and dips before taking our place at a table in the busy dining room. It was a lovely meal. I had fish almost every evening of this trip, having given up most meat the previous November. This restricted my menu choices somewhat but I was able to survive quite happily. It was ten o’clock when we rose from our table and headed off to bed after a very successful first day.
To continue with the next stage of our walk you need: