July 1, 1995: Crafthole to Plymouth
Rame Head
Sunny skies again predominated on the morning of Saturday, July 1 – our fortieth day on the coast path, and I arrived in the dining room for breakfast wearing my shorts and my Michigan Neighborhood Corps t-shirt. (I wore shorts for the rest of the trip.) Ordinarily I would have been perturbed by a breakfast service that did not begin until 9:00, but I knew that we had a relatively short distance to go until lunchtime and therefore we really didn’t need an early start. I had the full breakfast, on this and every morning of the trip – a year ago at this time Dorothy and I were still vegetarians – but the Lees usually settled for something more modest like poached eggs on toast. We tried to get an explanation from our waitress about the odd name of the inn, but the best she could come up with was that a “gook” was a ghost and a “finny” a smuggler. It took a long time for the Lees to get packed and even after Harold had settled the bill we got no further than the village shop – where Tosh loaded up on candy bars, drinks (I drank an apple juice on the spot) and the morning’s newspapers. Today she broke a longstanding rule and even bought a tabloid so that she could get all the dirt on the Hugh Grant-Elizabeth Hurley scandal. This and the Tory leadership contest were the dominating news events of the week.
I must say that all was not well within my new boots. My heels felt very rough, in spite of massive amounts of tape on the ball of the heel, and I moved forward somewhat gingerly as we left Crafthole – heading east on the same road, the B3247, that had brought us to this village from the west the night before. It was 10:00. It was interesting to see ahead of us some of the landmarks I had been reading about in the guidebooks, including Tregantle Fort – a mile and a half away. A half mile from Crafthole we were rejoined by the coast path, which had climbed up from Portwrinkle through one of the many local golf courses. Tosh saw the sign and wanted to know why we didn’t follow the path to Portwrinkle – which would have meant going in a direction opposite from that required. At least we were able to escape the traffic of the road for a while because walkers were now provided with a path just inside a hedge for about half a mile. I wasn’t certain that the rougher surfaces of this grassy sward were any kinder on my feet than the tarmac had been.
Much of our progress was downhill but at a road junction we had to take to the verge again for a steep climb up around the fort. We were making good time, however, and as we began a descent toward the sea we could feel the first of the breezes that made today’s walk somewhat more pleasant than yesterday’s. Still, there were too many cars, including many that were parked on the verge and this did not make the walk a pleasant one. As we turned north, passing Sharrow Point (where a naval man named Lugger had excavated a grotto as a cure for gout), I began to look for a shady spot where we could have a rest. This proved to be on a path that climbed a little valley above the road, just at the entrance to the summertime village of Freathy. We sat on the trail in the semi-shade and I tried to warn the Lees not to spoil their appetites with snacks because we had less than an hour to go to lunch. We were at the three-mile mark.
Freathy seemed to be full of less than lovely chalets and bungalows, with no pub or shop, just a ribbon of summer houses, many for sale, on a road that rose quite steeply back up to the ridge top. We disdained a return to genuine coast path, which would have involved yet more steep ups and downs, partly because this would have necessitated missing a spot that the guidebooks mention as a good place for lunch. This establishment came into view at about 12:15, the Rame View Café and Cabin Bar.
We tried to order our drinks first but the suspicious waitress wanted to make sure that we were here for a meal; “We’re a restaurant,” she reminded all thirsty visitors. We had the inside of this establishment to ourselves and the white-hatted chef, who agreed that we could have our beer, was soon at work on our orders. Harold had a tuna sandwich, Tosh a cheese ploughmans, and I ordered a tuna salad. The portions were huge and two of us left a lot of food on our plates. Tosh was given three huge wedges of cheddar and it appeared that a whole can of tuna had been dumped into a shell on my dish. “The chef thinks everybody has as big an appetite as he does,” the waitress confided.
At about 1:00, with only four and a quarter of the day’s thirteen and half miles covered so far, we decided to push on, again keeping to the road as far as the Wiggle turnoff, where a coast path sign put us onto a steep seaward descent before straightening out to head in a more easterly direction toward Rame Head – another of those dominating headlands that are so characteristic of coast path walking. The sun, which had been hazy at best, was asserting itself in clearer skies and by the time we had descended behind some coastguard cottages and an old fort above Polhuan Cove it was quite warm. Steps were needed to get us up to the Rame Head path itself and I called for a gasping rest in the shade of some bushes – which is where a party of walkers soon climbed over us as they began their assault on the headland.
Fortunately, as we climbed we also encountered strong sea breezes and as we neared the neck of the peninsula I was quite content to lather up with more sun blocker in the direct sun itself – for the wind cooled everything off delightfully. Tosh toyed with the idea of climbing up to the chapel on the tip of Rame Head, but eventually thought better of it. Not so the squads of young people for whom the chapel was yet another milestone to be marked off in their adventure course. As we began our mostly level progress along the northeast side of Rame Head we encountered a number of such groups, first in yellow shirts, then in red, and finally two groups in green. Harold tried to convince us that the red-shirts were the Socialist Workers but they seemed to be quasi-military like the rest. We also encountered cyclists laboring to get their bikes over the stiles (they really don’t belong on such footpaths) and at Penlee Point a large group of young people of mixed races stopped to ask me for directions, having spotted my map case.
I told the Lees that we would soon have shade because the Earl’s Drive, which we now joined, passes through woodland on its way to Cawsand. This did indeed prove to be a delightful and easy stretch, full of cooling shade provided by tall trees. Once I found the Lees and the young people waiting for me at a turnoff, anxious to discover if this was the right fork. It was. As we neared Cawsand I could see Picklescombe Fort, now an apartment complex, guarding our last headland of the day. We soon reached a tarmac road that descended steeply into Cawsand. It was 3:30 and this time I could tell that the pub (just plain old “Smuggler’s Inn,” with no “Ye Old” today) was closed. But, after loo stops at the harbor, the Lees had their hearts set on ice cream and coffee. We sat down at a table in a cafe and Harold twice waited out a long queue of parents and kids stocking up on carbohydrates. I ate an orange ice lolly and drank a Diet Coke while a disapproving mother-in-law dissected in critical detail the poor diet that daughter-in-law was administering to the grandkids. Well, someone had to be the food police – as Marge was absent on this trip.
Kingsand
Shortly after 4:00 he made a last pass at the beachfront loos and began the steep climb out of Cawsand, a village twinned with neighboring Kingsand over the hill. On the descent into the later we passed a wrought-iron wall sign (“Devon-Corn.”), representing the old county boundary. I made a mistake at the bottom of the hill, turning left instead of right, but I discovered my error quickly and returned to the sub-post office – where Market Street turns right. Tosh, unfortunately, got interested in the post office and I had to wait in the shadows of the clock tower for the Lees to catch up. We were now aiming for the ferry at Cremyl, three and a half miles away, and I didn’t want to arrive too late for the last service to Plymouth. There were indeed some very picturesque narrow streets in these two villages but, after a steep but short climb, we were at last able to penetrate the precincts of Mount Edgcumbe Park to continue forward on a long park-like finger of grass and gravel paths north of Kingsand.
Fortunately the stretches in the hot sun became less and less frequent as we neared Picklescombe Fort. I thought I saw the Irish flag flying from a campground and this was later confirmed by a chap from the Dublin Boy Scouts. The route followed paths and wooded lanes as it rounded the headland, even passing an eighteenth century ornamental seat, which Tosh denounced as right out of Charles Addams. Once again we traveled on the Earl’s Drive, our direction shifting from north to west and views of Plymouth Sound emerging through the trees. There was a brief rest at the back of a rocky beach and then it was on through the increasingly populated regions of Mount Edgcumbe Park. We passed beneath a hilltop folly, around a decaying temple, in front of an artificial lake, past the formal gardens and the canons and, circumnavigating the Orangery, we arrived at the ferry point.
In Mt. Edgcumbe Park
We needn’t have worried about missing the last ferry, since the service seemed to go on to 9:00; now we had just ten minutes to wait for the 6:00 service. The Lees ran off to buy coffee from a kiosk, bringing me back a Lilt, which I was still drinking as we boarded the ferry for the ten minute journey. Our ship was quite large by the usual standards and it brought back to Plymouth dozens of deck-chair carrying red-nosed trippers after their outing. On the other side I searched about for a trash receptacle in which to deposit my Lilt can and all of us used some local loos. I passed some of the young people who had waited for my instructions earlier in the day. They were now trying to figure out the bus system. “You’re on your own now,” I advised one chap as we climbed up to Durnford Street.
We still had a mile or so to walk, though the route was rather depressing. The Stonehouse section of Plymouth was obviously up for redevelopment as the Royal Navy retreated (they were still guarding the entrance to barracks across the street) and the local inhabitants were not at all happy with the plans. In one window we read a newspaper headline, “Plymouth Planning Director Sacked,” but Tosh was not certain if this was for real or only wishful thinking. We turned right at Milbray Road and continued in an easterly direction past dockland, across a roundabout, and – as we neared The Hoe – on to Citadel Road. Layabouts were lounging on parapets with the day’s catch of lager cans. Another ten minutes brought us to the yellow clad Kynance Hotel and at 6:40 our long day was over. Various members of the Brown family were there to greet us and show us to our rooms (with Tosh instantly thrown into a tizzy by an inadequate fire escape route) and I called the Lees from my room to arrange a 7:45 rendezvous for dinner. My first floor room was small but it had toilet and working shower, though only one of the six lights was working (at the Finnygook it had been only two out of five).
I took a shower, keeping all my tape on, and returned to the street with my pink, blue, and green short-sleeved shirt and my white cotton trousers, an evening outfit that proved remarkably resistant to wrinkling. Mr. Brown found me wandering around outside and began a history lesson, identifying the home of Scott of the Antarctic down the street. The Lees were late and when they did emerge Harold wanted to eat at another hotel on Citadel Road, but when we entered there wasn’t a soul about in the bar or the stuffy dining room so we abandoned this in favor of the nearby Thai Palace. Here we were treated very well, with drinks and (free) nuts in the lounge and a multi-course meal upstairs in the restaurant. Although it was nice to have a spicy alternative to the usual bland trip fare, I’m not that great a fan of Thai food and, for the second time that day, there were lots of leftovers. But the Tiger beer was very refreshing and it seemed a very pleasant evening outside.
I phoned Dorothy from a BT kiosk and we returned to the hotel for another early night. Someone in an adjoining room was complaining about the lights in his room and Mr. Brown, when I added my complaint, began an investigation. An electrician who had installed a hall light that day had obviously shorted some fuse and when this was repaired we had full electric service once again. I went to bed at 10:00, but my room overlooked the main street itself and I had all the Saturday night noise to contend with, druggies on crack, gay lovers expressing their fondness for one another, a love song sung in a cracking tenor. I was too tired to be distracted for long by any of this.
To continue with the next stage of our walk you need: