June 30, 1995: Looe to Crafthole
Looking back from Bodigga Cliff
Well, I was certainly prepared for our ninth coast path expedition – if mental preparation is all that counts. The trip came at an opportune moment for one seeking re-creation – beginning for me just a few days after an exhausting year as head of the English department. I had dozed for much of the previous week, trying to recover some of my depleted energies. My back ached from sorting out the book cabinets and I was in deplorable shape, having had no country walks at all this year, that is, no time to break in my new Italian boots on the trail. But I had done a careful job of planning and I was eager to see if it could now be accomplished on the ground. “This is a trip full of incident,” I predicted to my two companions, the ever-faithful Lees, as we sped westward on the 7:40 from Paddington on the morning of Friday, June 30th. I was right.
We had finished our British Rail sandwiches by 11:49, when it was time to leave the train at Liskeard and wander around the corner to pick up the little Looe shuttle. It was very warm and I began to have my doubts about my hiking trousers, a pair of tan polyester slacks that seemed to lap up the heat. I was happier with my white UCLA baseball cap and a Les Decouverts white t-shirt from last fall’s Alternatives. We reached Looe after our little valley ride at 12:25 and paused outside the station to add the first layer of sun blocker to the exposed portions of our skin. Tosh managed to find half a dozen reasons to stop (including a search for a loo in Looe) as we inched our way through the crowds of tourists on Fore Street. I think another of her stops was at the same greengrocer we had used a year before – when Tosh was sporting a swollen eye after having crashed off the trail a mile from the end of the previous walk.
Eventually the Lees caught up with me as I turned steeply uphill on Castle Street, following a winding route on tarmac to the top of the cliff. The crowds were thinner up here, but there were still plenty of people about as we continued forward on a high level route, eventually descending to Plaidy Lane. The colorful flowers in the gardens were a delight, though it was obvious that there had not been much rain in this region lately and some grassy sections of the path were yellow rather than green. There was a good deal of welcome shade about as we continued forward on tarmac, taking a series of tracks up and down behind houses until it was time to descend to the beach at Millendreath. Here Tosh used a shop (catering for the holiday village folk) to buy us mint Magnum ice cream bars. The flavor was in homage to Marge Rogers, who was missing a Coast Path walk for the first time in a number of years. I began to lick my bar appreciatively as I studied the angle of ascent of the road climbing the valley wall ahead of us. I was still munching away as the first steep steps of this tarmac ribbon beckoned us forward. Why is my pack always so much heavier than the others? Why are my steps so much shorter than those of my companions – who were always disappearing around the corner ahead of me? I found them waiting at a National Trust sign welcoming the walker onto Bodigga Cliff – where I paused for a slug of water from my new UCLA plastic bottle and straw.
The next section of two miles is described as one of “moderate ups and downs” by James Skinner in the South West Way Association’s booklet. I don’t know what is meant by the word “moderate” but on the ground the ascents were far steeper and more protracted than I had anticipated. It was approaching 3:00 by this time and the afternoon sun was in its full force. I pinned a handkerchief to the back of my cap to protect the nape of my neck and tried to make steady progress on a path that often had no shade at all. The Lees had naturally sprinted ahead and so, except for those occasional moments when they waited for me at some stile, I was on my own. This meant that I often had to throw off my pack just to get at my water supply or to lather up with more sun blocker. In short, this opening day was proving to me far more strenuous than I had anticipated.
Eventually woodland provided some relief from the intensity of the sun and after crossing eight stiles (one more than advertised) we reached a road that permitted a descent to Seaton. It was 3:30 and I was certain that we had missed opening hours, but the local pub, “Ye Old Smugglers Inn,” was still open and I lead us on a charge along the last of the road and into its car park. A dark entrance beckoned and we were soon supping ale in a room inhabited by a louche crowd of lounge lizards. One guy was complaining about the difficulties of having to make love to his own wife.
When it was time to depart we followed the beach for a mile, our progress slowed by the infirmity of the sand and by our chronic search for interesting rocks to add to our collections. I was looking for a second stream descending from Downderry, our signal to abandon the beach, but I never saw any streams and we had just about reached the end of the sands before some people identified an escape route. This did, in fact, begin at the outlet of the second stream (which seemed to be encased in a pipe) and put us along a walkway past houses and the local primary school. At the main road we rejoined the coastal footpath again and turned right to search for the continuation of our route at a hairpin turn.
Atop Battern Cliffs
The next section, the ascent of Battern Cliffs, was also quite steep at points but there were trees throughout much of the stretch and the afternoon shadows were beginning to lengthen. At the top there was a brief rest in the grass as we turned inland and followed a hedgerow. “When you reach the tumulus, I said to the Lees, “keep it on your right.” Not surprisingly I soon looked up to see them passing this flower-bedecked burial mound on the right. I called them back and we used a little bit of additional pathway to reach the road along the ridgeway. It was by now close to 5:30.
There was an unofficial path along the cliff tops here but the official route still remained with this road for several miles. I wasn’t too perturbed by this need to take to the highway for it meant a stretch of level walking and, besides, since we were aiming for the village of Crafthole, already visible on a hilltop far ahead of us, I planned to stay with the road anyway, bypassing the usual descent to Portwrinkle. There weren’t too many cars about and though Tosh complained a lot about how much distance still had to be walked it was a pleasant enough, though still quite warm early evening as we marched off at some speed.
Looking inland from Cargloth
We paused once at Cobland Hill, a mile or so from the end, to commemorate Harold’s 1200th mile on British footpaths, a milestone Tosh had passed on the previous trip. I did begin to have my first doubts, as we pressed onward, about the friction I could feel building up in my heels. The backs of these were taped, as usual, but the soles of the heels themselves seemed to be very hot and I was very relieved as we reached the top of our final hill and began to search among the bungalows for the pink-painted Finnygook Inn. It was 7:00.
Mine host showed us to our rooms (both with en suite toilet and shower) and we had a refreshing clean-up before rendezvousing in the bar at 8:15. I had a gin and tonic and rested my sore feet, which certainly demonstrated a thickening callous along the heel line but no actual evidence of blistering. We munched on salted peanuts and studied the two menus, choosing to dine in the restaurant.
I had scampi and chips while the Lees had fish – Harold had a sole which came with head and tail intact. My companions complained a good deal about the food, which they saw as over-hyped – considering that all of the vegetables (even the new potatoes) seemed to come from cans. The dining room was oddly decorated, with a stuffed leopard sitting amid table settings decorated with fake flower arrangements made of feathers. “You could dust with these,” I proposed. There was a nice view from the dining room of the westward extension of the Tamar Estuary – with the lights of distant Plymouth twinkling in the twilight.
It was also very warm in the dining room and once or twice I stepped outside for some air, calling Dorothy from a red kiosk and watching exhaust from the cars in the car park drift into the open kitchen windows. My room was also quite warm and there wasn’t any way of widening the window opening or any opportunity of closing the curtains without shutting off all air supply. This was tough because there was a floodlight in a second car park slicing into my room. I went to sleep without worrying too much about this intrusion, however. I was tired enough to ignore its effects and, when the pub closed at about midnight, the light ceased its glare.
To continue with the next stage of our walk you need: