June 21, 1994: Par to Fowey
Polkerris
There had been some lashing rain during the night and the ground was still wet when I got up on the morning of Tuesday, June 21. But there didn’t seem to be anything falling from the skies at 8:00 – when we repaired to the lounge for our breakfast. Our hostess was so flustered by our request for coffee instead of tea that none of us had the heart o tell her than we required neither sausage nor bacon. I cut my meat into little pieces to make it look as though I had evinced some interest in the rasher (avoiding bacon also helps reduce early trail thirst), and the girls graciously agreed to accept some fried tomatoes. We got the history of every child and grandchild, plus the employment history of dam and sire as we were preparing to leave. Our landlady agreed that she’d just a soon have cash as a check – since she was planning to do a little shopping later in the day. We left, once again at 9:00, amid promises from both host and hostess that better weather was on its way. It wasn’t.
Our route began at a path next to the Ship Inn. It wandered up and down, eventually passing the last of the Par sands, and heading in a mostly southerly direction toward Gribben Head. Much of the trail was overgrown at the sides and our boots were soon wet from the overnight moisture. It was very gray and once or twice mist blew in from the sea on winds so strong that they lofted my California baseball cap. At sea we were treated to a lacework of foamy whitecaps.
We climbed up to the top of the cliffs cradling the fishing village of Polkerris and began a slippery descent over rocks to the harbor below. There were some loos here and while the others were using them I tired to figure out how to continue – the placement of coast path signs was never consistent on this trip. Eventually I concluded that we had to take to the sands for a few feet, then climb up a steep zigzag path through woodland to reach to the top of the cliffs again.
Harold was a long way out in front at this point and I was fearful that he had taken a wrong turn when I saw his white cap bobbing up and down ahead of us. Just as we were beginning to climb to the top of Gribben Head itself a fine rain began to descend and I suggested we put on raingear. We paused near a stile and Margie slipped on her yellow sou’wester. Tosh wouldn’t put on her rain pants and soon had damp jeans. I put my pack on after donning rain pants and rain cape, but the pack was not sufficient to keep the cape from ballooning in the high winds and my progress was impeded by the inflation of my garments. Several times I felt almost airborne; the hump, which would ordinarily cover the pack, was blowing uselessly in front of me and progress was difficult.
View of Polruan from Gribben Head
I found the others sheltering behind a hedgerow and having a snack at a division of the ways near the summit. I slumped down beside them and had some water. When we continued we took the upper path, one that lead up to a fence opposite the red and white hoops of a tall day mark on the summit of Gribben Head. There were some more complete instructions on how to proceed in one of my guidebooks but I didn’t want to pause in this wet weather to delve into the matter, so I conservatively had us retreat to the lower path, and cross in woodland to the eastern side of the head. Here it was obvious that we could have continued on to the day mark above us and escaped without hindrance. At any rate, the way forward (which involved a steep descent over a grassy slope) was clear. All we had to do was follow some people and their dogs, cutting a few corners and saving a few steps as we climbed down to a distant stile. The skies had brightened momentarily and our somewhat gloomy mood had lifted.
We passed the mouth of a lake. An old man was standing naked in the living room of the adjacent cottage, getting a sponge bath. Grey cygnets were trailing their proud parents in the lake. I found a plank bridge over the outflow and led us up through woodland on the opposite side. A few more indentations followed as we reached the Coombe Hawn inlets and a number of stiff climbs. The closer we got to Fowey the more crowded the trail became with ancient trippers out for a stroll in unsuitable shoes.
We followed some not very well marked footpaths through the woodland behind St. Catherine’s Castle and another red lighthouse. There were dozens of dogs out for their walkies as I reached another bottom at Readymoney. Harold soon joined me but the girls disappeared into another loo and there was a long wait. In the interim real rain began to fall. I stood disconsolately in the drizzle while the dustbin men edged a huge lorry into Readymoney to pick up the local garbage. When the girls reemerged we followed the road into Fowey, with views of Polruan across the water obscured by the mist.
The Ship Inn, Fowey
Before long we were at the ferry slip, but a ferry had just started for the other side and there would be another twenty minutes or so before we could continue. No one felt like standing around in the rain so we decided to find a pub and consider our options. This necessitated a walk of some five minutes in a northerly direction. As we reached downtown Fowey we encountered another Ship Inn and took refuge here, piling our packs in a corner, ordering our drinks, and food, and watching the umbrellas of the shoppers as they passed outside our window.
Throughout our walk we had been keenly aware that we would not be able to return to London on Wednesday, as we had originally planned, because of a railway strike scheduled for that day by signalmen. We had even considered abandoning the trip at Par, which has rail service. Our decision to continue today was conditioned by the fact that we would now not return to London until Thursday – and this gave us an additional day to play around with. I now suggested that we give up today’s walk at this point – the six mile mark – take a taxi to our hotel in Polperro, and return to Polruan tomorrow – finishing off the remaining seven miles of today’s scheduled journey then. This would give us something to do on the extra day, and a better chance of seeing the next stretch of our walk, though we would have to see if we could book into our Polperro hotel for a second night as well.
This plan was accepted with enthusiasm by the others, none of whom wanted to continue walking in the rain. We had a leisurely lunch. I had scampi and chips and rhubarb and custard. I started with a pint of lager but soon switched to lemonade. The Lees darted out to do some shopping. Harold had stepped onto the end of his knee bandage, which he was dragging through the streets, and now needed to buy another one. I spoke to several people at the bar about taxis and tried three numbers, each with no success. The publican, a helpful young man in red shirt and white shorts, assured Tosh that he could get us a taxi but he had just as little luck. “Right,” he said in some frustration, “I’ll drive you to Polperro.”
He disappeared for ten minutes, pulled his car up in front of the Ship, and drove us up to a queue of cars waiting to use the Bodinnick Ferry. Huge clay ships were moving down the river, which also boasted a house belonging to Daphne Du Maurier on the other side. We got a wonderful lecture on the local economy from our driver, who sped along the country roads, stopping once for gas, and dropping us off, after some thirteen miles, at the top of Polperro. We insisted on paying him and he finally took a fiver each. He had saved our lives.
There were some motorized trams across the street and one of them was just about to take off for the harbor. The driver agreed to make the Claremont Hotel his first stop and shortly after 3:00 we arrived. It appeared they would be able to accommodate us a second night. The Lees had a double on the first floor and Margie and I had adjacent rooms on the second. Mine, at least, had a toilet and shower – though it too was the size of a postage stamp. We met downstairs for a preliminary stroll through Polperro, one of those famous Cornish villages, like Mousehole or Mevagissey, nestled in a ring above a hidden harbor. There were plenty of day-trippers combing for kitsch but some quite lovely old buildings as well. I spoke to an ice cream vendor (there was a “taxi service inquire within” sign outside) and he proved to be the husband of the local driver, who might be able to drive us to Polruan tomorrow. We stopped for tea at a cafe near the harbor. Harold ordered some shortbread cookies and I asked for a cherry coke and settled for an orange Fanta. Later I failed to get Mrs. Wright to take us to Polruan because she had other commitments, but she gave me the number of a firm in Looe and here I was more successful. I also phoned Dorothy from my room.
In the evening I met the others for drinks in our hotel lounge in which a self-propelling fountain burbled mindlessly while the hotel cat lounged playfully on a sofa. I had a gin and tonic from the chatty Australian waitress. We decided to eat in the hotel, but I wasn’t too happy with the warm seafood salad, which was about the only fishy choice I hadn’t already tried. We had some wine, then coffee in the lounge before another early night.
To continue with the next stage of our walk you need: