England
June 2023
The Acorn Trail
Introduction
It was May of 2023. I had just returned from Mexico and had some time off between travel and jobs. Living in North Somerset with my Grandma, I was helping her out while I planned my next move. Some heat was due at the end of May and I’ve always wanted to walk a significant chunk the southwest coast path in one go.
Six hundred miles of unspoiled, uninterrupted coast line footpath sits peacefully in the south west of corner of England. Spanning four counties, it starts in North Somerset, heads down to Lands End in Cornwall before turning east along the bottom of England to Poole in Dorset, and boasts the same elevation gain as climbing Everest four times. In all my travels, it is without a doubt one of the most beautiful places on earth.
I’ve walked small sections of the coast path, using campsites or staying in Airbnb’s, but it always has been disjointed. The path would be over far too quickly before having to walk back inland to the car, or catch the last bus back somewhere.
Wild camping is technically not permitted, but as long as you respect nature and leave a site exactly as you found it, then in my view there’s no harm done. This for me would be the only real way to walk the path and be truly free and untethered from timings and locations.
One of my great friends, Jess was getting married at the end of June in Falmouth. Which at first presented a logistical conundrum until a moment of madness led me to the idea of combining the two. Could I walk to the wedding? Falmouth is also the exact halfway marker of the path.
I did some quick calculations. The wedding was 4 weeks away and it would take me approximately 3-4 weeks to walk there. It would be touch and go but the stars were aligning. I had all the equipment I needed, I had my target, and the weather was looking perfect. I rang up my friend James from the west country who without hesitation agreed to drive me to the start in Minehead, where he also suggested we walk and camp the first night together. It was set.
I took my Canon 80D with me and a 24mm pancake lens as I needed to travel light and suspected most of the images I would be taking would be wider landscapes, but also great for macro shots if needed. I also like being confined to one focal length as it forces you to get creative with framing.
Finally, I took a notebook so I could write a short diary from each day, so here it is, the diary of my adventure…
I’ve supplemented the photos in the blog with a few of images from my iPhone to fill in the gaps. These can be identified by rounded corners, as above.
28th May
10 milesDay 1 - Woodland beginnings
I threw my bag (and my home) for next 3 weeks in the back of James’s car. It was a Sunday morning of May BHWE. We’d just been to a day festival the day before so woke up with a pair of sore heads and legs, but what better way to blow the cobwebs away than getting out onto the coast path.
The sun was shining on the Minehead promenade, which was bustling with families and children wielding ice creams. As we walked away from the car, bags strapped to our backs, I realised I left behind a key item for walking in England - my jumper. Great start. But what to do. Onwards and westwards.
The first section of path climbs out of Minehead on a steep track which was quite a shock to the already danced out legs, but we soon picked up a good pace through beautiful rolling coastline of heather and gorse. At Porlock weir we had a dip in the sea on the large cobble beach for a cool off before a wood-fired Pizza and lemonade at the pub. Bear Grills wouldn’t have approved.
At dusk we hit the path again to find camp for the night. After Porlock the path enters a dense woodland section for quite a few miles, so our choices for camp were limited to woods, woods or woods. When we felt we had walked enough we decided to jump down off the track, and into the trees to find somewhere secluded and with level ground for camp.
We found a pair of suitable trees and rigged up James’s tarp shelter and for me, my one man bivvy tent called the Salamander slithered up alongside. With the camp looking cosy, Bear Grylls nowhere to be seen, so Ray Mears did the marking this time and awarded gold stars for camp and shortness of our shorts.
We just had time to watch the sunset filtering through the trees, silhouetting the woodland foliage before returning to our respective shelters for some ghost stories, and drifting off to the gentle rustle of a million leaves whispering in the night breeze.
Greater Spotted Stitchwort, Camp, and Sunset in woodland west of Porlock Weir
29th May
20 milesDay 2 - Fox’s Ledge
James and I woke at eight, both horrified with ourselves that we’d had a lie in. I slept like a log, and James had a breezy start to the night with the tarp not giving much protection. We made a cup of instant coffee, packed up camp, and hiked back up to the path to say goodbye, he kindly donated me his jumper for the journey.
And that was that. I was on my own.
I stared into tunnel of dense oak woodland before me and it stared back. I looked behind me, James had already gone. It was deafeningly silent. I heard a twig drop somewhere in the distance, its sound carried by the layer of morning mist hanging in the air. The leaf mulch underfoot silenced my footsteps and added a rich hummus fragrance to the air. Rounding one corner, three roe deer eating shoots on the path stood completely unaware of my existence. I stopped for a minute, watching. Soon they caught my scent, all three flung their heads up to eye level and locked stares with me for a brief second before springing off the path and down the steep drop without a sound.
After two hours my woodland portal finally spat me out, back to planet earth, and into the fresh bright summer air. I was presented with a stunning view of pink rhododendron carpeting the every slope down to the ocean. The path was alive with birdsong as I surfed the terrestrial waves of pink and green.
I found a donation snack box where met two girls out on a day hike, Tish and Megan. We were 3 miles shy of Lynmouth, so walked the last stretch all together and finished the morning with lunch on the lawn by the harbour. I purchased an enormous prawn baguette staring at me through the window of a local bakery struggling to contain its own filling.
After Lunch I headed up the funicular path to the Valley of the Rocks. A hair-raising stretch of coast path. Narrow paths edge around the cliffs littered with huge boulders. Goats stand, looking important, peering off every ledge teetering high above the ocean.
Nearing sunset, I had reached Heddons Mouth where the 200m high cliff path is interrupted by a steep valley to a rather depressing descend to sea level before climbing back up to altitude again.
I met a chap called Jim at the bottom cooling his feet off in the river. I joined him. He was also from Bristol and started yesterday and spent the night in the same woods. He was a man of little words and had quickly got his feet back into his holey Vans, toes poking out the end and a sole flapping off the bottom. Speedy Jim was much faster than me and had quickly vanished into the distance.
After a couple of headlands, near Ellwill Bay, I found a neat little ledge the exact size of my Salamanda tent with a panoramic sea view. No swim sadly today as had spent the day flying miles above sea level. As the dusk light was fading an inquisitive fox appeared amongst the foxgloves. I hope he didn’t mind me having his spot for one night.
Hedge Garlic in the Porlock Woodlamd
Rhododendron forests before Lynmouth.
Lynton and Lynmouth
Sunset at Camp, nr. Ellwill Bay.
30th May
18 milesDay 3 - Orchids in the Dunes
I was woken at 5am by natures very own alarm, a sheep bleating at me through my tent window. Maybe it was his bed I’d stolen, not the fox’s. I sarcastically thanked him for getting me up and he trotted off looking rather pleased with himself. I decided to get up anyway as I heard my tent go bang in the night and was eager to inspect it. The verdict: my ledge was on an incline and I had rolled onto the side pole in the night and snapped it, not great for night two. As I continued packing up I found three slugs had finished my washing up and fallen asleep in my pan, I thanked them also.
Next, whilst stuffing my rucksack, I had somehow lost my sleeping bag. I spun around. Did the fox steal it? Maybe the sheep? And then the realisation hit me, the rugby ball shaped item probably didn’t last on this 45° slope for long. Fearing the worst and picturing my ball of feathers floating in the ocean like Wilson, I carefully down-climbed the grassy drop and thankfully saw it hanging precariously off the last piece of vegetation, a bent finger of hawthorn had caught one of the straps, with ocean fifty metres below. Nature saved me, a few lessons learned this morning.
Mishaps behind me, I was soon on my way with the sun rising and a hot thermos of coffee in hand. Descending into Combe Martin, I wondered why everything was shut as I was eager for a Full English after yesterday’s mountains. Oh yes - it’s 7am on a Tuesday, that’s why the pub isn’t open. I pressed onto Ilfracombe with my cereal bars, and finally collapsed into a delightful harbourside café at 10am. Full English finally delivered along with a latte, all gone in seconds.
I checked the map - I had already covered 10 miles and it was only noon. With time on my side I popped into a hardware shop where a young lad helped me saw the end off a long bolt to fashion a new pin for my tent pole. He charged me 7p. I paid by card.
The next stretch of National Trust clifftop, was even more breathtaking than the Valley of the rocks the day before. Rolling hilltops carpeted in Birdsfoot Trefoil, punctuated with Common Spotted Orchids above the shimmering water with jagged fins of rock poking through the turquoise. All before descending through Lee, a charming village lined with Cow Parsley, Ox Eye Daisies and postcard cottages wearing colourful jackets of red white and pink Valarian.
My knee had suddenly developed a sharp pain and still 4 miles to go until Woolacombe. With the help of a couple of paracetamols I made it to the vast beach. The town was heaving as it was half term. Tired and sunbaked, I sought refuge under a small square of shade offered by a pay and display parking sign (the only shade in Woolacombe) to eat my two pasties that I picked up at one of the cafés.
I decided it was time for camp so trudged a mile along the heavy sand dunes, before finding a perfect plateau nestled amongst the grasses, decorated with Orchids and Dog Rose. The tide was far out, but ran the marathon down the sand and through the shallows until it was deep enough to lie down and soothe the muscles after the long day. A freezing run back to my towel - I watched the sunset from my lookout whilst cooking some dinner, read my book, and passed out at nine.
Upper Torrs, Illfracombe
Wild Orchid, Woolacombe Beach
Camp, Woolacombe Dunes.
31st May
18 milesDay 4 - Thrifty
A peaceful nights sleep in Woolacome. Not a soul on the beach at 6am for my morning swim. A nice fresh walk out to baggy point in the cool morning breeze with coffee in hand. I hadn’t been here since with my university climbing club, so was nice to return ten years on, still just a beautiful. There’s a dramatic 100ft clifftop lookout at the end and you feel like you’re flying with the seagulls, a birds eye view of the sea crashing below, pink thrift billowing out of every crevice.
Today was overcast which was a pleasant break from the hot sun. A double pasty stop in Croyde bay, and, sitting on the sand I met a couple doing the whole path. Hannah, Jess and labrador, Penny, all in one tent. It sounded a lot cosier but also hairier than the Salamander.
The next stretch was bleak. Five miles of Staunton Sands. A long boring arrow straight fenced off path, taking you behind the golf course and military training ground. Nothing interesting to observe. Two hours later I finally made it to the end and promised “never again” whilst eating my second pasty, when, to my horror, I had spoken to soon… James’ jumper which was tied round my waist had gone.
Without hesitation, I ditched the sandles, donned the trainers, stashed my bag, and ran back along the road of perdition. Thankfully, I found it a mile back lying plum in between two dog poos. Precious energy and time wasted. I had another rest in the same spot I was 1.5 hours before, but this time no pasty to enjoy.
From here you can see Appledore just a stone’s throw across the large estuary mouth, where I would be in 2 days time. I had heard bad stories of this section of path, inland walking tracing the River Taw; Mostly following roads, not much nature and slim pickings for wild camping. It was low tide and I wandered down onto the beach where a man was scrubbing his catamaran. He was a liveaboard, and I thought no harm in asking if he could give me a lift to Appledore at high tide. He would have been keen, but sadly this portion of beach only floods on spring tides. I was high and dry too.
Feeling anxious about the next section, I suddenly remembered in the book I was reading, The Salt Path, They took the Bus! If they could cheat, I could too, and after a quick google the nearest bust stop wasn’t far away so headed straight for it. 1 hour, £2, and a delightful open top bus ride later I had cut out over a days hike. I had got to Instow at 5:30 on the dot for the last ferry over to Appledore. A gentle crossing to the sweet harbour town. I had a celebratory pint of cider and some fish and chips on the harbour wall with the sun going down. One crisis averted but onto the next, the sun! It was late and I needed to find camp.
I assembled my things and pressed on to Westward Ho! (yes it has an exclamation mark in the name). A quick Tesco shop before heading to the seafront to find water for the night. What a contrast to Appledore. Drunk holiday makers lined the ‘strip’ of booming clubs and touters offering cocktail promotions. I didn’t really have my dancing shoes on, so to save queuing at the bar, I filled up with water in the disabled public loos.
The sun now kissing the sea, I charged off with what little energy I had left leaving the noise slowly tapering off behind me. It wasn’t looking great. First, a tarmac car park. Second, a dog poo park. Third, a ledge covered in stinging nettles. My feet went numb. It was meant to be an easy day but even with bus assistance, my GPS watch just ticked over to twenty-one miles walking today.
Finally the path rounded a sharp bend and I was presented with a perfect, flat, bowling green of rabbit mown grass lined with pink thrift fit for a king! I was in bed before you could say Jack Rabbit.
Thrift, Baggy Point
Appledore Ferry
Thrift green, Westward Ho!
1st June
16 milesDay 5 - Set-aside
I woke up in the morning to a heavy dew. I have a deep aversion to packing away soaking camping equipment so laid everything out on the grass in the morning sun whilst I made breakfast and a cup of tea to let everything dry. The golden rays made short work of it and was soon on my way. Back to hills. Up. Down. Up. Down. I met two jolly ladies, who were gobsmacked I was walking in sandals. They told me to sort myself out with a proper pair of boots, walking poles and knee braces for the hills. Note taken.
I then caught up with a German lady who slept on the same beach as me, except instead of on the soft thrift grassland, she was down on the big pebbles and had quite an uncomfortable night. She explained in detail how she spent the entire evening engineering a bed frame from drift wood. We kept playing relay throughout the day.
First stop was Bucks Mills, the tiniest of villages, no more than five houses, nestled in a crease in the map, with a steep walk down to a big stony beach. Perfect for a swim, cup of tea, and some malt loaf.
The next village was Polperro, slightly larger than the last, let’s say twenty houses. This however, a well established tourist hot spot, complete with pay and display carpark and £5 Jeep shuttles if you can’t cope with the 100 yards of steep cobbles. The road quickly eliminates the Jeeps as it narrows into a two abreast path squeezing between the wonky houses before hairpinning down to a quaint harbour. Another swim and an ice cream. Idyllic.
Polperro Harbour.
Composed of 3 images. I never originally intended to make a panorama, so there were a few gaps. I’ve used AI tools to fill in the blanks, who would know?
I bumped into speedy Jim from day two in the pasty shop who didn’t cheat and catch the bus like me yesterday. He said he had a nightmare on the Taw Estuary, he never found a suitable place to wild camp and when he gave up looking at 1am he pitched up on side of the road. Sounds like I made a good call. He also got food poisoning from a beef pasty in Woolacombe and spent a delirious night in the dunes.
Some blisters had appeared so I finished early, a much more restrained day at sixteen miles and found a perfect spot on Hartland point in some meadows right by the big round satellite tower. Got to camp early today and had some good feet up time, dosing in the long grass. Life at sea aint bad. I drifted to sleep to the sound of a combine harvester in the next door field and prayed I wasn’t next on the combine’s menu before daybreak.
Sundown at camp on Hartland Point.
2nd June
19 milesDay 6 - Landsliding
Woke up at to the sound of birdsong and to my delight I hadn’t been consumed by a combine harvester and turned in a hay-bale.
Big day today. This section of coast path is notorious for having no refuges, bolt holes or towns for the fourteen miles, and boasts the highest cliffs of the whole path. I decided to break camp without breakfast as I was only 1hr from Hartland Quay, the last water stop where I could stock up before taking on the challenge. On route I stopped to do a photoshoot with some lovely baby sheep. I was lucky I had use of my eyes then as next I was pushing my way through the overgrown paths generating thick clouds of pollen. Even the slightest brush against the grass caused eruptions like mortars, plumes so thick I was choking on the air. My nose and eyes were streaming and my eyes sealed closed, and practically had to crawl my way to the quay. When I arrived, I managed to feel my way to an antihistamine tablet in my bag.
From the little I could see, Hartland Quay was a pretty soul-less place. The café wasn’t quite open but I proceeded to make use of their long picnic benches and spread all my items out to dry the morning dew like yesterday whilst I made breakfast. Once people started arriving, I became conscious people were leaving a very wide birth from me. I thought I should tidy my gypsy camp away and packed back up. Walking past the Cafe I caught my reflection in the window – I jumped out of my skin as I didn’t recognise my own face. The hayfever had turned me into Quasimodo. Looking like I’d been in a fist fight and quite embarrassed I scampered back to the path.
The warnings couldn’t have been more accurate. The midday sun beat down on me as I scaled the biggest ascents and descents I’d come across so far, but instead of two, there were ten of them. Back to back. I tried to take my time and stopped for lots of rests but after number seven I really started to slow. I regretted my large lunch which I thought I needed but instead made me sluggish. The only saving grace was that it was stunning. Each peak had limitless views of the ocean and each valley, a gargling stream with wooden bridge blooming with Oxeye Daisies. I had also passed the sign welcoming me to Cornwall!
At mile twelve of fourteen I had reached the first sign of civilisation, absolutely exhausted. It was a surfing beach with a cafe (sadly shut). I couldn’t do another mile. It was 6:30 and still 2 hours till Bude. I really needed to get to the Lidl supermarket as well as I had nothing substantial for dinner. I was out of options.
Out the corner of my eye I saw a friendly looking surfer closing the doors of his house on wheels and asked him where he was going. “unfortunately only Lidl in Bude. Why, do you want a lift?”
I collapsed into his front seat and almost squashed his tiny damp terrier with my huge bag. Thank you Aron, what a treat for the end of the long day.
With my larder restocked, and a family pack of strawberries in my stomach, I headed out of Bude. Bude gave me flashbacks from Westward Ho! So much noise. I quickly made a beeline for the path. Pacing to the path, it felt like I was running home. Every night I have been presented with the most perfect camping spots, nature always provided.
Really not wanting to walk another meter, I found a patch of grass on a cliff edge behind some thistles, but a rabbit with myxomatosis stared back at me with glazed over eyes. Surely not, this can’t be it, not. My focus shifted beyond the rabbit, to the beach below, complete with a rockpool for an evening bath. It’s only access was a huge landslide, so I scrambled down and found a slab of grass, which had presumably tobogganed it’s way down from the top, and landed butter side up, right next to the rock pool. I had a soapy bath with the limpets and made camp.
Mum and Baby sunbathing near Hartland Quay
Hawker’s Hut. The late poet built this hut from driftwood as a peaceful retreat for writing with incredible vistas.
Stairway to…?
3rd June
17 milesDay 7 - Rivendell
I woke up on landslide beach. There was no sign of sunlight under the cliffs, so I packed quickly in the cold and headed off to Widemouth bay. A full English breakfast in the sunshine from a nice café set me straight for the day.
Only seven miles to Crackington Haven and not many hills. I made good time and was there for lunch. Actually there was one valley, possibly the biggest yet with a giant staircase, but in isolation compared to yesterdays horrors it was a walk in the park.
Crackington Haven deserved it’s name. It certainly was a haven. Chalk and cheese to Bude. A tidy sandy, rock beach with lots of posh families. “Rory come back here, you need to finish your humous, the focaccia is getting cold”. I decided I deserved a few hours here, pasty, book, swim, repeat.
At 4pm I set off for almost Boscastle, as I planned to stop at a beach on the map just before. Another case of ‘shouldn’t be too hilly’ turned into three very hilly monsters, but paid for with dramatic views. The currency of the path is views. Put in a good hard days work and you’re paid in views. It’s a well paid job.
The final cliff was a very steep scary ledge which like most of the coast path was significantly lacking in any form of health and safety. I thought I would be rounding the headland into a nice sandy bay for the night, however I made the same mistake I’ve made a few times which was overlooking the gradient lines. The beach was there, just one hundred meters below me, at the bottom of the cliff. A bit dejected about another night on a cliff with no swim, however, I rounded the corner and out of nowhere like a theatrical performance the curtains were drawn back - the back stage crew had really been busy this time. Like a scene from Rivendell in Lord of the Rings, rocky outcrops were overflowing with wildflowers, complete with a sparkling waterfall spilling like champagne in the evening light off the end of the cliff. Not a soul in sight.
This was the first night in seven days I hadn’t watched the sun disappear below the water. Here, obscured behind the cliffs, I got a second hand sunset as I ate my rations watching three seals in the water below. They were lying on their backs, side by side, glowing in the tangerine water as they had taken their seats to watch the sun go down. Once the light faded, one by one, they disappeared under the water.
Long horned goats posed patiently for a photoshoot on Beeny Head
“Rivendell”, Pentargon Waterfall, near Boscastle
Boscastle camp. I like how this landscape and portrait image of the rocks and scenery have accidentally lined up to make an L shaped panorama! (This won’t be viewable if reading this on a mobile!)
4th June
16 milesDay 8 - Lee Rock
Waiting for the sun to reach my tent in the morning
I woke up cold, with my tent in the shade, and decided to read my book whilst I waited for the sunrise to slowly paint the land above me, like golden honey dripping down the rocks. One chapter later, I was suddenly bathed in nectar, and started the day in the warm morning rays, before saying goodbye to the magical waterfall and headed off to Boscastle.
The sleepy teenagers opening up the little café shooed me away as I knocked on the window way before opening time, so I pressed on to Tintagel. More valleys, but beautiful valleys. I stopped for breakfast on a rock by a river. Cooled my feet in the crystal water and made a coffee.
Half an hour later I rounded the corner to Tintagel with shiny modern access bridge to the castle and island in full view. I grabbed a double ice cream, and made use of the nice national trust loos before heading up the hill into the village for lunch. A crispy panini in the sun whilst chatting about my adventures to the neighbouring tables.
It was only 1pm so took on a nice pace to Port Isaac stopping often to quench my feet in the many streams, like a hot ingot into water. With a few kilometers of soft grass, I walked barefoot while I grazed on nuts.
I arrived at Port Gaverne, the inlet before Isaac and had a swim and made dinner as it was getting late. I operated on one of my blisters which had now filled with sand from yesterday and was quite a grainy crunch in my shoe.
Port Isaac was very old world, I think the film set from Doc Martin. Now a well seasoned wild camper, I was starting to get nonchalant with my camp spots. My mantra still stood: nature always provided something. I had a theory that I didn’t need to look for my spot each evening, I would know the spot when it was presented to me. Tonight didn’t change. A tiny headland with a bolder, in the lee of evening breeze with a flat patch of grass for the tent. The rock even featured shelves and a table for me to place my cooking items and toiletries. It’s the small things.
Sea Carrot Flower
5th June
17 milesDay 9 - Foraged
Last night I made an interesting decision to do some celestial alignment and position the opening of my tent towards where the sun would rise. I was woken up at 4:30am by our ball of fire, immediately regretted my decision, pulled my hat over my eyes, and retreated into my tent like a tortoise into it’s shell. By 7am when I was much more awake my efforts had paid off and it was a treat to have the morning sun warming my face. Everything dried before I packed today and I made my way to Port Quin where I sat on the slipway and made breakfast and a coffee whilst I chatted to some lycra’d up early morning cyclists.
Two girls in their 30’s appeared in their dry robes, stripped down to only their costumes, donned flippers and snorkels before penguining into the cold water and paddled off round the corner of the inlet out of sight. They still hadn’t returned 20 minutes later - Brave!
Today was an exciting today, no hills, lots of stops, towns, fields, shortcuts, and even a ferry! I started off but was immediately distracted by a rocky gully down to the sea, ram packed with bright blue mussels glinting in the morning light like an Aladdin’s cave. Sapphires reflecting in my eyes, I grabbed my pot and went foraging around the rock pools. I picked 20 of the biggest nuggets I could find, boiled them up in some sea water from the falling tide and ate them undressed, fresh from the rocks. A delicious second breakfast.
Port Quin, a chilly snorkelling spot.
A few fresh foraged Mussels
I cracked on and took a big headland shortcut and soon found myself in Polzeath. The tide was way out and I could walk across the sand all the way to Rock without any meandering on coast paths. The ferry crossing was only a few meters I could have swam it as the tide was so low, and I was in Padstow in no time. This was meant to be 11 miles and it had felt like I had only walked 2.
I tried to enjoy Padstow but it’s just a heaving tourist trap now. I stocked up on blister plasters and fudge. I also tried to find tent poles - no cigar - but did find some peace in a dark pub and bought a lemon and lime in exchange for some battery charge. At 2% charge I realised I had bought the entire of Polzeath beach in with me across the carpet so quickly unplugged, downed my drink and did a French exit.
I left Padstow and did some sneaky more headland shortcuts, through shimmering barley fields and high-banked verges which were welcome shade in the midday heat. First stop was Trevore Bay, a charming and inviting sandy beach and couldn’t resist stopping for the afternoon for a swim and to read my book, The Salt Path. I sat on the rocks and dried out my feet which worked wonders.
I set off at 5pm for Constantine, my third and final shortcut – I hoped for a pub, but when I arrived there was none. Luckily I had plenty of supplies on me. As I sat on the quiet calm sand dune beach, I decided almost immediately that the island on the north end would be a perfect home for the night. Crossing to the island over some rockpools, it was a flat low island and even had some natural steps into the sea for my evening swim as the sun went down.
I foraged some sea beet, purslane and rock samphire to add to my dinner. How resourceful, little island, and finished off a wonderful day of foraging.
Foraged Sea Beet and Rock Samphire on Constantine Island
6th June
15 milesDay 10 - Recharged
Mawgan Porth Beach
I woke up to a fisherman casting his line a few meters from my tent. I greeted him in my pants and packed my things away. In hindsight this spot was very exposed, the sandy path through the dunes looking down on my tent was teeming with dog walkers.
I grabbed a coffee from a café on Constantine beach and ate my £1 banana from the rip off Padstow farm shop. I zoomed my way along the next few headlands as not a slope in sight. I found the family of my friend Ed on one of the beaches having a morning paddle which was a semi surprise so had a quick catch up with them before continuing my zooming on the flat. Soft, sandy, rabbit mown grass, like a putting green – meant barefoot walking was best! Zoom zoom zoom. Although the rabbit raisins love getting stuck between your toes.
I was in Tregurrian, the beach before Newquay, ahead of time. So stopped for an amazing doughy, oily, garlic bread pizza and tried to charge my battery bank, but it only got to 5% during the hour I sat there. I needed to find overnight power somewhere soon…
Newquay. Three miles of tarmac and town was hot hard work. But there was a convenient Aldi right on the path for a re-stock. The map said I needed a ferry to shortcut Crantock beach. It is an annoying hill climb, to only have to descend all the way down to the ferry terminal. I found my ferry high and dry and so just walked off the jetty and across the sand. There was probably a much smarter way to tackle this at low tide, but sadly OS paper maps don’t have live water levels like a bewitched map Harry Potter might own.
I tried to shortcut my way all the way along the beach like in Polzeath but at the far end was a sanddune the size of a tsunami blotting out the sun which required scaling to escape the quickly rising tide. Climbing steep dry sand feels like two steps back for every one forward. After summiting I then got lost in a warren of brambles which tricked me into a few dead ends.
Finally out, the next stop was Holywell bay. I needed to find water on route for the night, but the pub on the map didn’t exist. My phone and battery bank also dead, I cracked on, nature would guide me. On my way towards Holywell I found I had to walk directly through a peaceful campsite. Was this the sign I was looking for? Overnight power and water. I took it as a yes and stopped here. The owner wasn’t in but I pitched my tiny tent anyway in the corner of the field, and spent half an hour in the hot power shower de-salting my body after 10 days ‘at sea’. Someone had even left some Herbal Essences “repair” in there for me.
Clean, watered, and batteries charging in the shed, I slinked off to bed.
Carb Loading - Garlic Bread Pizza at Tregurrian
7th June
15 milesDay 11 - Change in the Air
I left £5 and a note for the owner of the campsite, and explained my wild camping journey and headed off. The site was only a five minute walk from Joker beach, another beautiful sight. I skipped a swim as I’d never felt more clean, but something that was impossible to miss was a gigantic field of red poppies in bloom which I made a detour to explore. Pictures speak louder than words.
Poppy field, Joker Beach
Still keen for a swim, I held out for Holywell Beach. Hardly a person in sight I ran into the sea in my pants. The sea seemed much colder here, I guess I was getting closer to the Atlantic swell. The next few miles were military training grounds opening up onto the gargantuan 2 mile long Perran beach. I decided to stay high and walk through the sand dunes than climb down and along the beach. A walking group behind took the sea route with feet in the water and arrived at the other end at the same time as me and we grabbed some cheesy chips from a takeway in Perran town and discussed the pros and cons of our routes.
Holywell Beach
Perran Beach
Today was a slow day, only 5 miles and already 2pm. Nothing to write home about in Perran so I took to the cliffs again. The chips did some good and energised me though another 7 miles. There was some incredible scenery, ghostly old mining towns and quarries. Exposed rock faces glistening with minerals. White granite, green copper, red iron bleeding into the sea. The landscape suddenly changed from the colourful wildflower meadows I’d become accustomed to into short coarse heather.
The wind was building I was blown into Porthowan for a panini and a cider from a nice surf shack café. The atmosphere was changing, dark clouds had rolled in. I zipped up my coat to my neck as I took the cliffs for the night.
A burned out shell of a van sat slumped at the end of the track leading to the coast path. Light was fading fast, no sunset today. Everything had turned grayscale. The rusty heathland and corrugated steely sea melted into the metallic sky. It was slim pickings for camp. Only coarse prickly heather either side of the path, terrible for a tent. The larger bushes started making human shapes as the dusk fell away to darkness. For the first time since I started my journey I had the urge to check over my shoulder to see if anyone was following me. I pressed on, keeping faith in my method of knowing where my home would be when I saw it. Suddenly a lone orchid shone like a pink candle in the wind, and as I got closer it was guiding me to a tiny oasis of grass, the exact size of my tent. I pitched up with headtorch on. Luckily tiredness overcame my sudden fear of the ‘man with the balaclava’ my mum had warned me of, and I was soon sound asleep.
8th June
20 milesDay 12 - Wind and Rain
I woke up to high winds, and my tent canvas on my face as the pole fix from Illfracome had given way. I had decided to break camp even though it was 5am. I was basically camped on the footpath, and there was no doubt a dog walker round the corner.
The wind was strong, head on. Wind really makes a difference. It was like walking through soup. A thick leek and potato soup, not consomme. Two hours ended up taking four. Thankfully a café appeared like a mirage in the middle of nowhere and I was first in. The place soon filled with a menagerie of hikers, also looking for refuge from the soup outside.
It turned out it was a highly reviewed award winning café and tucked into a delicious breakfast burrito. As I was stuffing my face two old ladies burst in the door assisted by the wind, hooing and cooing they both leaned against the door to press it shut again. They sat down at the table next to me, and we immediately got chatting.
An hour later the three of us were outside in the wind negotiating ourselves and my big rucksack into the back of their tiny mini. During our breakfast chat they had insisted on driving me to the supermarket on their way home. After stocking up and demolishing a family sized punnet of grapes, I caught the coastal flyer to St. Ives missing a long section of busy road.
The wind was howling in off the Atlantic and had whipped the usually picture postcard harbour into a foam of Cornish clotted cream. I did a whistle stop tour of the town as I seem to have become allergic to tourists and large gatherings of humans in general after twelve days alone on the path. I stocked up on fudge and pasties before exiting the Disney Land that St Ives has become.
I was soon greeted with a new form of terrain: marsh, bogs and boulder fields. Pace slowed but I enjoyed the novelty, the wind was now at my back again. Like yesterday it seemed the weather was closing in, the skies were beginning to bruise - was my lucky sunny run of two weeks over?
I continued with the bogs and boulders for 3hrs and finally reached Zenner. The wind had not ceded, meadows were flattened, and trees looked like inverted umbrellas. I sought refuge in the Tinners arms, which was like stepping back in time 300 years. I bought a pint of local ale and mulled over my two options: Camp in the storm with broken tent or find a BnB. The mesmerising thought of a bath suddenly crossed my mind.
I decided to take an inland road to take the edge off the wind, which ran parallel with the coast. I passed a couple of BnBs but all looked quite uninviting, dark, or with “occupied” signs placed outside. I suddenly came to, and decided it wasn’t in spirit of the trip to throw in the towel over some wind, so, headed back to the path.
On the way I passed the Gurnards Head pub. A menu in a lightbox outside showed a set three courses for £80, dread to think what a room would cost. The path welcomed me home with a magnificent view, and unlike last night I was also spoilt for choice, lush grassy fields with dry stone walls to shelter from the wind. The coast path always provides. Sorry for doubting you. I chose the least secure field as I thought that would be least likely to have livestock or animals. Grass always makes me suspicious. I pitched up and sat down to my own set menu: Cup a Soup, lentils, can of tuna, chocolate and nuts. £2. Take that Gurnard.
I found a novel way to re-tie my guy ropes to hold my broken poles vaguely in place and I was set for the night. My rucksack doesn’t fit in my tint tent so I covered it with its rain cover just in case, but as soon as I got into my sleeping bag and zipped myself shut, the rain hit, and didn’t stop. I prayed to the coast path gods that my bag and I would wake up dry in the morning.
Stopping for a pause in the wind.
9th June
15 milesDay 13 - The End of the World
The morning after the rain, Zenner
It rained all night until 6am, but the Salamanda had kept me completely dry. I jumped out the tent into the still breeze and to my surprise the wind had already blow dried everything, even the grass. I upped sticks and got back to the boggy boulder fields.
After only an hour of walking I was surprised to find a pristine white sand beach, miles from civilisation near Pendeen. Portheras Cove. I took all my clothes off and ran in. I decided this was my favourite beach so far. It was awarded bonus points for ‘element of surprise’ and ‘absence of homo sapiens’.
Deserted beach just past Zenner
The next two hours was very smooth sailing. The wind still behind me and the paths were old mining tracks, built for trains, beautifully flat. I met a nice chap called Morwich from Rotterdam, and then bumped into a 18yr old guy on his gap year walking LE to JOG, on day two with a spring in his step. I thought the heartland hills will iron that spring out in no time.
There were a couple of fun scrambles through boulder crags to finally make it round to Sennen cove at 5pm and I was starving. I had a double dinner. Pasty shop followed by a pub, where I ordered a large curry. Feeling a stone heavier, I plodded on.
Lands End came into sight, a ghostly place. 7pm and not a person to be seen. The sky was grey, the sea was grey, the rocks were grey. The only colour came from the orange glow of the lighthouse pulsing like a firefly in the evening mist.
It started spitting with rain so I slipped under the barriers and scrambled down to the cliffs. I sat between two rocks and tied my tarp across for protection. Waves booming below, I stared out into the gray, and the whole journey flashed before my eyes. Two hundred and fifty miles, thirteen days, just me, the path and the sea. My eyes welled up and as I blinked a tear rolled down my cheek like and immediately got absorbed into my chapped lips. It tasted of the sea.
For tonight’s camp, I realised this was where I was meant to be. I’d come this far, and if I had made it to Rome, why not camp in Rome. I waited for the last spatter of rain to finish before setting up the tent for the night. Before I knew it, I was tucked up in bed staring out into the dark clouds above. Just me and my tent at the end of the world.
The Salamander on Lands End.
10th June
14 milesWaking up on Lands End was a real treat. I packed up and headed to the amusement park above me where I cooked breakfast on one of the park benches whilst I made use of loos, plug sockets and tap. A torrent of Park Run people arrived at 8am so I cleared off pretty quickly.
Fog horns bellowed away in the distance as I plodded through thick fog. I met three guys with wetsuits on their backs, hiking to St Ives for a surf. Next, a surreal giant red cone, emerged from the mist, sitting in the heather. For a moment I felt like it was a scene from Space Odyssey and then came to the realisation that it was navigation marker for ships which spoiled the moment.
Day 14 - Running the Gauntlet
Moody morning skies, Lands End.
The fog cleared as the day warmed up and I made it to the Minac theatre in time for a performance on it’s history. A beautiful handmade amphitheatre of lawn terraced seats surrounded by flowerbeds and crevices in the rocks overflowing with colourful succulents. I sat with a pasty and a coffee while the actors performed below with the sea as their backdrop.
I soon set off for Mousehole, where the path took a turn for the worse. For the next five miles I felt I was running the gauntlet. It was overgown with dense foliage, but not any old foliage. The only plants to qualify were those wielding the nastiest of spines, barbs, thorns and prickles. Nettles, Gorse, Hawthorn and brambles were the main thugs. I ended up pushing my way backwards through particularly tough sections, using my bag a shield. It also meant there was nothing to look at either, other than a 10ft high wall of spikes.
To top it off, some breakaway streams entered the path causing flooded areas, and steps of slippery rocks and bogs. I arrived in Moushole, a bit beaten up, so treated myself to a double clotted cream ice cream with fudge flake.
Amongst the thorns I had made some calculations. With only 4 days left until the wedding I didn’t want to be burned out for my arrival. I decided sto bus from Mousehole to Penzance for a Lidl shop and then onto Porthleven to allow a final relaxing 3 days on the lizard before heading up into Falmouth.
Porthleven another lovely harbour, where holiday makers enjoyed artisan pizzas and pale ales whilst surfers paddled out of the harbour mouth and caught some waves in the setting sun. I found an adequate spot, a grassy bank with waves crashing below. Very late, 9pm, dinner and straight to bed.
Penberth Cove
11th June
8 milesDay 15 - Soapy Sequence
With a radically reduced number of miles to accomplish on these final days, I had a lie in until 10am reading my book in the tent and set off at a leisurely pace – wondering why I hadn’t done this the whole way.
I walked to Church Cove, a nice family beach where I stopped for a lunch and a swim. The sea was still a bit rowdy from the windy days and the waves were tall and powerful, dumping onto the sand. A few people in wetsuits stood, debating whether or not to go in. I decided to use my experience from living on a surf beach in Mexico. When a wave looks like its going to kill you, the only escape is to swim at it and through it, otherwise you’ll be consumed.
I ran in, in my boxers past the wet-suiters and very soon realised I had bitten off more than I could chew. I stuck to my guns and battled through several huge waves until I ended up quite a way from the beach and after swallowing quite a bit of sea wondered when the punishment would end.
Finally a lull came after the seventh wave and I managed to body surf two smaller waves back to safety. As I expertly dismounted from the sea to sand, two dads in wetsuits gave me some praise. I brushed myself down, gave them a laddish nod and casually jogged back to my towel. Little did they know they were one more big wave away from phoning the coast guard.
A couple more coves later I found a little café and cleaned them out of pasties and flapjacks. My friend Ed had recommended Soapy Cove so headed for that for the night. I stupidly ran out of water before camp so made first use of my water filter in a fast flowing stream. There were cows grazing above it, so also boiled it at camp to be sure. It’s a shame all our English rivers are basically unusable for drinking.
Soapy Cove didn’t disappoint, probably the most photogenic spot of the trip. A narrow gulley with little white sand beach. The huge boulders protruding from the sand are from a rare sequence of red and black strata which should be miles below earth crust.
The tiny 8 miles I had achieved today meant blisters had almost vanished completely and my legs were thankful for the rest. Amazing how quickly the body heals. I didn’t see a single human since leaving the café at 2pm and enjoyed the peaceful afternoon of reading and relaxing at camp.
Soapy Cove
12th June
Day 16 - Flippers
11 milesI realised the secret to full nights sleep in my tiny cramped tent conditions was pure exhaustion. With my shortened milage, I was tossing and turning in my soggy coffin. Nevertheless, less energy spent meant less sleep needed.
Soapy Cove never saw much sunlight, with the morning overcast and a chilly wind, I skipped the morning swim. Luckily just forty minutes later I had dropped down into cosy sheltered Keynance cove. A picture perfect spot. I grabbed a coffee from the café and had a couple of swims in betwwen sunbathing in on the cobbles in the morning sun. Before long, a lot of punters had arrived so packed up and headed off up the hill.
It was a very pleasant walk to Lizard Point and lighthouse where I stopped for a delicious crab sandwich and chatted to walkers. The next hour was just as pleasant passing the wireless station and meandering around cliff edges.
Cadgwith was another swim spot I couldn’t refuse, but looks were deceiving - the beach seemed to be more bladderwrack seaweed than pebbles. Uptop, sundried, like walking on barbed wire in the sun and underwater, the texture of spaghetti vongole .
I left around 6pm and asked a woman closing up her fish and chip shop if I she could refill my bottle of water. She looked at me like I had asked for her first born child, and said no sorry we can’t do that, but I just served her an even more perplexed expression back and continued to hold my bottle out. She relented and said “ok, I don’t normally do this”, smacking the chewing gum between her teeth. Clearly not! I thought as she generously filled my bottle half way. Luckily I found a tap round the next corner.
I aimed at Kennack Sands for camp, the map suggest that it would be the best spot for a wild camp. I arrived and it wasn’t quite Keynance cove, but it would do. I walked along the beach and saw a couple of fins jump in the water, wow, a pod of Dolphins maybe?
I wandered down the beach where it was quieter and found an adequate spot under a dune cliff but, as a put my bag down a got a nosefull of a foul smell. My first thought was had I stepped in a dog shit? It didn’t take me long to spot a large grey lump in the sand a few meters away from me. I moved closer and to my horror it was a dolphin carcass, decomposing in the sand, half flesh, half skeleton, covered in flies. As rushed to picked up my bag.. I noticed the dunes above me had a little ledge, I climbed up and it was an ideal balcony above the beach.
It was an entertaining spot. No one knew I was there, and I watched walkers shout at their disobedient hounds and disobedient children whilst I made dinner. I then spotted two guys in black wetsuits and flippers wielding harpoon guns get out of the water. I never saw a pod of dolphins, just human flippers and a dead one on the beach. This spot ranked quite low on the scoreboard after all.
Cadgwith
Kennack Sands
Sunset Cirrus
13th June
10 milesDay 17 - Swallows and Amazons
Woke up at 6am on dolphin beach to someone whistling for their dog. Why on earth they get up so early is beyond me. This morning I made the executive decision to bin the bag of instant coffee I was carrying around. I hadn’t enjoyed a single cup, why was I carrying it around. I was much better off with my tea bags and buying a proper coffee if and when I passed a café.
My patience with my powdered milk was also wearing thin, like its bag, which had a many perforations. A dust cloud of milk would eject onto my damp clothes during my packing and squeezing routine, and various items of clothing were beginning to resemble a milk maid’s apron.
I scaled the cliff out of Kennack Sands and bumped into the Welsh man I met in a rockpool last night. We had discussed rockpool flora and fauna and he explained there was a worrying absence of British crabs, and could only find a European variety. He wished me well and said I was in for a treat at the next stop “Lovely lee harbor, nice for swimming and good café too”.
He wasn’t wrong at all. In fact spot on. I arrived in Coverack around 10am, already swealtering in the morning sun and threw my bag on the quay and jumped in. I hadn’t even had a chance to resurface, let alone catch my breath when I got an earful from a fisherman preparing his vessel. “Oi! Get out! This is a working harbour, we’re not insured for this to be used as a leisure centre”.
As I sat on the quay drying myself off, the grumpy fisherman putted his way out of the harbour in his boat and out of sight. Suddenly, like a Disney cartoon, the whole village seemed appear, window shutters opened and children ran down the slip way, filling the harbour with life and into the water. I dived straight back in. When the cat’s away…
I sat chatting to a nice man about engineering at Riverford farm on the harbour wall whilst eating a delicious caramelised onion and brie panini from the café. We both dived back in for a final swim. It probably was my favourite swim spot so far. Sandy beaches require so much de-sanding admin. Nothing more satisfying than using steps to exit the sea.
As I left the harbour, my Dad had called to surprise me that he had booked a posh hotel in Falmouth, for tomorrow for some R&R before the wedding. I was already worried about two more sleepless nights in my broken tent. Only one more to go, very exciting! Suddenly the reality had hit that this was the end of my journey.
After just a couple of headlands I had reached the Helford river. I found a mound of grass a bit like an island with a nice view of the moored boats. It was public land and there was a family enjoying the sunset with a beer, so stayed and chatted to them. It was a very Swallows and Amazons scene with the husband and son rocking around in a rowing boat casting a fishing line. After they packed up, left, and the sun had gone, I checked the coast was clear and unpacked to set up my final camp for the night. The gentle lap of the water and the navy blue sky lulled me to sleep in no time.
Coverack
14th June
12 milesDay 18 & 19 - Feet Up
I had no diary entries from my final days. Day 18 was an extremely overpriced ferry of £9 for 30 seconds, crossing the Helford. I had a word with the manager who didn’t seem to have any real excuses.
I found a beautiful beach on the approach to Falmouth, completely deserted and made up of rockpools which I had to hopscotch down to reach one deep enough underwater that I could swim in (and hope there wasn’t a lobster waiting to pinch my toe).
I made it to Falmouth at lunch time and checked into my fancy hotel. The reception staff looked me up and down in bemusement, as I stood there with my coat hanger stiff hair, matted with sand, t-shirt with a salty tidemark of sweat well seasoned pasty crumbs. I couldn’t do anything about my feral appearance, but for body odour I thankfully had a tin of sardines leak into my bag yesterday so helped create a nice distraction from my smell.
The couple queuing behind me in their Sunday best kept their distance, as the porter pointed me in the direction of the lift. The afternoon consisted of power shower, cider at the bar (ice in the cider), hydrotherapy spa, 3 course meal, and a crisp white bed which swallowed me whole. I slept for 15 hours. That’s what Dad’s are for.
On day 19 I explored Falmouth, charming high street bustling with people, charming waters bustling with boats, before catching the last ferry (reasonably priced this time) over the water to Flushing where I had a short 30 min walk to Mylor Harbour, my final destination, the wedding venue where my friends greeted me and the end of my amazing journey. Time to celebrate!
