Walking and dreaming in Cornwall

The weather forecaster is currently batting 100%. The day is supposed to be cloudy. It is. I decided to have a walk around a bit of the coastline, as it was not expected to rain, and the soil had dried out a little bit since the rains of Thursday. There is a pretty long walk that circles around through Mevagissey, but since I'd been to Mevagissey, and had no particular desire to make that a destination again, I decided to head Gorran Haven way instead, and stop more frequently for photos, food, and sketching. I walked down the lane to Hemmick Beach. Lovely. Windy. Some very fine ominous looking rocks just off the coast. There is definitely some fractal action happening here. The cliff sides also were peppered with holes, cavelets, inlets. I could see some particularly favoured bits of coastline becoming the hangout for a gang of smugglers. In fact, my whole time in Cornwall was fueling my imagination with romantic stories (mostly gothic) set in ye olden times. Blustery weather, weather-beaten houses and people, sailing boats, remote ominous looking stately houses. Narrow roads and narrower paths marked out by generations of sheep and cattle herders. The sky lowering over all, pressing down upon the insignificant little people, bending forward in the incessant, unfailing wind. Walking back at night, the wind worries through the trees and grasses, wailing and wuthering. The houses are stout, and you can't hear the weather through the windows and walls mostly. But as soon as you step outside, down comes the sky on you.

I did one sketch at Hemmick Beach; then the wind got to me. So onto the "Cornwall Path". Up and over the beach on a steepish path that fortunately was not too muddy. My poor boots are finally getting a beating. Between the daily walks to the bus stop, the rain and the mud, they are looking distinctly the worse for wear. The view very quickly becomes spectacular. I cross paths with a gent of undeterminable age walking sturdily with his dog, wellies and a stout stick. Clearly a native. Though one never knows. My foreignness sticks out here like a thumb, albeit not a terribly sore one.

After one larger livestock gate, I met up close and personal with a small group of horses; about five. They were standing in the narrow path looking at me with a most intelligent gaze, though that is surely anthropomorphising. Lovely fellows. I told them so, as well. This must be pretty fresh pasturage, as on the other side of the fence, there were a pack of cows quite close. When I got within spitting distance of the horses, your one on the path switched his tail and sauntered off to the side with his group. I have to say I am glad I did not have to scramble off the path around the horse, as the path was not only narrow but quite close to the edge of the cliff. I took a number of pictures of them, and one of them came out tolerably.

Through a number of cattle gates, the path I am following swings up and over, near the edge of the cliff. Goodness. That is higher than I usually like to be. The view is beyond spectacular, and I can barely keep my camera still enough to take pictures; the wind is blowing now without surcease. I am taking pictures of the long views and the individual plants. I hope that some of them will come out, as I would very much like to make some sketches of this scenery; maybe even a watercolour. The path keeps on climbing. According to my map, I should be heading for Dodman Point, and Dodman Cross; the highest point on the Cornish headlands at 400 (feet? meters? must check...). Dodman Cross was erected by Pastor Martin to both commemorate all the sailors who perished off this notoriously perilous bit of the coastline, and also to provide some visual landmarks to sailors. Though it seems to me a lighthouse would be a more useful landmark - particularly if it had a light in it...

Be as that may. As I wend my way up the path, periodically avoiding massive cow pats, I head into areas of the path that are grown up on either side higher than my head with hedges (perhaps over stone walls) and hemming the little path in. Above, the increasingly overcast sky combines with the closing hedge to provide a most satisfactory feeling of dismal and desolate wildness. To complete the picture, I see between the opening of the lane a large house off in the hills. Probably a farm, but I am transported to some gothic novel, where the hero/heroine is struggling through the foul weather, slogging through mud and rain, and greeted by an ancient, semi-ruined old abbey. Or maybe castle or family home. They engage in suitably gothic activities, punctuated by howling wind and rain, incidental violence and lust, and fraught with anxiety and uncertainty. Great stuff!!

In due time (not nearly enough time for my fervid imagination to finish going wild) I do round the point. There is a very handy series of markers and plaques that are part of the National Trust system; wooden stakes with an acorn symbol that denote the scenic path, and metal enamelled plaques that name the region that you are entering/passing through/leaving. Dodman is marked by both. Dodman Cross is suitably grim. The clouds certainly help. There is a somewhat bleak inscription around the base of the cross. I hang out there for a bit, taking pictures and admiring the very long way down to the rocks. Onwards.

Once turning the point, the wind starts to ease off a bit, though as the path twists and turns about the hill, the wind will curl around and give me a bit of a spin. I pass through several fields (and cow gates) and see the wide sweeping arc of the cliff. Below, Vault Beach. In the distance, the harbour of Gorran Haven and my destination.

Gorran Haven is a bit bigger than Gorran Churchtown. Both are part of St. Gorran Parish, though the two are spread apart a bit. It reminds me a bit of Crosshaven, though I did not see any ramps or other devices to facilitate getting boats into the sea. There must be some other system. In Myrtleville, anyway, the ramp facilitated the sea spume into flying halfway up the hill to the Cork road on a stormy day; sometimes as much as a mile up the road. Although the weather was still cloudy and windy, there was no major sea activity going on. Not really winter yet, anyway. I came down the path into the village, passed by The Mermaid (a coffee and tea place), and started my usual yawing maneuver to locate Chute Lane, where the Llawnroc Inn was supposed to be located. I did in fact locate the Llawnroc, and located the ale of my choice there. The pub had an outside patio (for smokers and others) with a fine side view of a street full of picturesque houses. I am actually feeling quite warm after my jaunt over the hillside, and the pub (it being mid-day) is full of noisy, silly tourists. I opt for outside. My pint, a bite to eat, and my sketchbook. There is one other gent outside with his pint and a cigar. I sketch away in peace (and cold) for about a half an hour. Lovely. Every so once in a while, someone will come out to join the gent in the "leper's colony" as I hear him call the smoker's patio. Some trivial event occurs, and we get to chatting. Right! Here is the last chance-met companion of my journey, I think. His name is Gawain, I estimate he must be in his early to mid sixties, though he looks quite a bit older. Cornwall weather is not very friendly to face and figure. Certainly not in as good shape as Tony, that's for sure. A very nice fellow, though. Moderate liberal, two sons, married, doesn't smoke at home; enjoys his pint and cigar at the pub. He is mad about sports, follows all the games and variants. He is a business consultant, though in the direction of accounting rather than computer systems. Educated, literate, amusing. After I finish my sketch, he buys me a pint, and we engage in the conversation that all such chance-met companions must to establish their mutual credentials. Much like Peta.

Finally, it gets cold enough. I offer to buy him a pint (I've had enough! It is cold!!), and go inside. One of his sons arrives to collect him (clearly deputized by the wife), and that is that. I finish my pint in a leisurely way, and chat with the "second shift" of drinkers. Ah, just like the good old days...

It is starting to get a bit dark before I finally wend my way back to the hostel. I have a couple of worrisome moments, as I turn the wrong way twice on my way out of town. The usual "Felicity has no internal GPS" issue. How come I had no difficulties at all with directions in the country, and I get into a new city/town, and I immediately lose all sense of direction? In any case, before the light starts to fade entirely, I have found the first set of cross-meadow footpaths, and am back on familiar territory. By the time I reached the last narrow road to Boswinger, it was quite dark. I had my last deja vous moment, as I was transported back in time to the last bus to Crosshaven dropping me off at the crossroads, and walking down the road in the pitch dark to the house I was staying in in Myrtleville. Old times.