Tag Archives: Cornwall

After having to regress and re-install Jalbum for a reason that I still do not understand, I have finally managed to publish a web album summarizing our recent trip damper-than-we-would-like trip to Devon and Cornwall. You can find it at:

http://www.curdhome.co.uk/photos/2009_Southwest/index.htm

or, of course, just click on the flappy England flag beneath “2009_Southwest” on our photo album index page.

Well, so much for the few dry days in the offing. Now there is apparently another weather front that “may graze the north Cornwall coast” and “may bring a few showers” later in the day. The solid grey sky certainly looked a little angry this morning. We’re also reportedly in for another battering by the wind so we’ve decided to stay put in our relatively sheltered field rather than move 30 miles west to St. Agnes which is a windy location at the best of times.

We’ve twice tried on this trip to do the walk from Carnewas (Bedruthen Steps) towards Watergate Bay but the weather has had other ideas, raining on both occasions almost as soon as we arrived. We’re slow learners so we tried again. This time the heavens did not open as we parked and donned our boots. I’d just like to say that again: we donned our boots. Yes, this time I had both boots and socks in the boot of the car. Bravo!

The tide was in and, there being no possibility of descending the steep steps to the beach around Bedruthen Steps, we simply headed south along the coastal path towards Watergate Bay. The path remained high crossing the tops of dramatic cliffs for the majority of its route with little in the way of major ascents and descents. In better weather it would have been a majestic walk. As it was, today’s gale force winds screaming over the aforementioned dramatic cliffs into our faces became very tiresome and the flat grey sky did nothing for the scenery. I’m sure we both felt, at times, that we were doing it just because it was there. The spring flowers were particularly fine and formed a rewarding highlight, though, and, had there been some sun, they would have been elevated from rewarding to sublime. Still, it remained dry and you can’t have everything.

Having performed our about-turn overlooking Watergate Bay, we were now assisted by the howling wind on our return trip but we were both beginning to have had enough of the relentless battering. A cream tea at Carnewas National Trust cafe went some way to restoring Carol’s well-being. A shower and a bottle of wine should do the rest.

Our poor old damp, soggy field, just as it is beginning to think about drying out a little, more rain dampens it again. Such was the case last night, as forecast. However, we now believe that a few dry days are in the offing so maybe it will make more progress.

We certainly made progress. This time we avoided mechanized transport altogether and set off on foot from our field. The initial half mile is a tad life-threatening being on the relatively narrow but busy road into Rock but, after that we struck out across country towards Polzeath. I suppose crossing the golf course could be regarded as life-threatening, too, but we avoided all errant golf balls and made it to Polzeath unscathed.

We fought our way straight into the very stiff north-westerly wind to get out to Pentire Point, then let the same wind blow us back to Polzeath before continuing around Daymer Bay and along the beach beside the Camel estuary to Rock. As we approached Rock, we were a little taken aback to see three ladies on horses riding along in the estuary. I’ve heard of horses being exercised in water before but not with riders aboard. They were riding bareback because, I assume, that sea water and leather saddles probably do not make good companions. All six participants appeared to be enjoying it though I’d have thought the ladies’ wet riding clothes would have felt uncomfortably cold once out of the water and back in the stiff north-westerly. Brrr!

A dry day was forecast. Joy! The night would apparently be wet again but the day would be dry. A swift sortie to the local fresh fish shop revealed that Rock was beginning to sound more like Sloane Square than Cornwall as the well-shod descended for the Bank Holiday weekend. We took the opportunity to avoid most of the Bank Holiday traffic and travel the short distance to the handy-dandy National Trust car park at Port Quin to descend upon my favourite coastal walk from there to Port Isaac.

Although today was dry, the previous week’s rain had, of course, left all footpaths soggy and muddy. The coastal path wasn’t too bad, however, and some beneficial work seems to have been carried out putting in steps on some of the many climbs and descents along the three mile route. We paused to try a few snaps on the way and took our time dawdling towards our destination. We’d seen a couple of seals on this stretch last year but today the sea was quite turbulent, crashing quite forcefully against the rock so I was not hopeful of a repeat sighting. Nonetheless, I kept an eye peeled for seals again. Sure enough, in a more sheltered bay, we just spotted a tell-tale black head bobbing about in the waves. [Unfortunately too distant for our lenses – ed.]

Port Isaac doubles as Port Wenn in TV’s Doc Martin. The production crew is currently in the area filming a new series to screen later this year. There was no shooting today but a shooting schedule was posted on a notice board adjacent to the harbour. The usual nearly constant stream of tourists was posing for snaps outside the building that plays the part of Doc Martin’s surgery. More accurately, the building plays the external part of Doc Martin’s surgery; it is apparently not used for the interior. Complex stuff, this TV.

To make a change, we chose to return to Port Quin via the shorter inland footpath, the beginning of which proved to be considerably muddier than anything offered by the coastal route. We eventually slithered our way up the first very muddy ascent and emerged on higher ground that offered much easier walking. The path took us beside a sizeable farm complex which was clearly being used as a base by the Doc Martin production unit. In addition to a caravan or two and a few flashy motors, there, in all its glory, was a van dressed up in the colours of “Large Restaurant”. Being a TV star, the van happily posed for a photo but declined to sign an auto-graph.

Padstow celebrates the advent of summer on May 1st with its ‘obby ‘oss festivities. A”better day” was forecast and the morning began dry, if not sunny. There are childrens’ ‘oss processions to start the day but they begin a little too early for relaxed retired folks though, this year, they were still going as we arrived. Carol and I went to cheer on the blue ‘oss (the peace ‘oss) which emerges at 10:00 AM. The red ‘oss (the original ‘oss) emerges from its stable at 11:00 AM. Not being Padstonians, we didn’t have any preconceived allegiances but for the previous two years we’d managed to get close enough to actually see the blue ‘oss whereas we’d not managed to get anywhere near the red ‘oss. The blue ‘oss seems more accessible so it’s the blue ‘oss for us.

As well as an amazing amount of beer and cider being consumed, there’s also an extraordinary number of pasties sold. Given the variety available in Padstow on May Day, one could make a lifetime study of pasties but, to protect the waistline as much as possible, we settle for enjoying a pasty from the Chough Bakery for brunch.

Unfortunately, this year, someone forgot to tell the weather that this was the advent of summer. A lack of sun may remove any harsh shadows but the colours of Padstow’s May Day celebrations don’t sparkle as they might without it. Pictures of the maypole against a grey sky just don’t cut it. Nonetheless we clicked away with gay abandon burning up the pixels. Well, you have to, don’t you?

The morning remained dry for the various ‘oss processions. Dark clouds gathered and our now familiar old enemy rain set in the entire afternoon. It seems that the definition of a good or better day is now officially one in which it rains for only half the day, either in the morning or in the afternoon but not both.

Our longed-for grass pitch is squelchy and quite boggy. I may not particularly enjoy hard-standing but I’m beginning to see its advantage. I hope we don’t get stuck here.

We’d had another night of high winds thrashing Billy Bailey with rain and forcing draughts in through the fridge vents. By morning, the wind had calmed and the rain had stopped as advertised by the weather forecasters. The break proved to be just an intermission, however, and the rain returned for the rest of the morning. We thought it might be an opportunity for an essentially indoor pursuit and settled upon visiting the Eden Project. We’d visited it once before a few years ago and were keen to see how things had developed. Well, to be more accurate, Carol was keen to see how things had developed.

Even a passionate non-gardener such as myself can see that the Eden Project is a magnificent thing to do with an old China clay pit. The China clay workings around St. Austell may be one of Cornwall’s most striking features but they are also probably its most unattractive. Wind farms are works of art by comparison. If only projects similar to Eden could beautify the remaining scars on the landscape.

The planning behind Eden was little short of magnificent. In an extraordinarily un-British way, the signing is great, the approach roads have been well conceived and there is more than ample, well-designed parking with free shuttle buses for those who prefer not to walk to or from their car. Eden is essentially an old clay pit turned into an educational landscaped garden. Within these open-air plantings (the so-called outdoor biome) are the most striking features, the two stunningly architected rainforest and Mediterranean biomes. The rainforest biome is really a very large, hot and humid greenhouse. The Mediterranean biome is essentially a very large, warm and dry greenhouse.

On our previous visit, the extremely hot and humid rainforest biome had potentially resulted in the terminal misting-up of Carol’s then film camera. I say “potentially” because the camera had also suffered a very cold and humid (i.e. wet) walk along some coastal cliffs in a disturbingly porous camera rucksack. In any event, having been taken out of Eden’s external cold air and into the hot and humid rainforest biome, said camera instantly misted up. It never worked properly again. What did we do this time? We went straight from the cold external air into the hot and humid rainforest biome. Carol’s replacement digital camera pretty much instantly misted up. Enter phone cam. A “real” camera, being large and bulky, takes quite a while for its mass to warm up and to acclimatize. A phoney camera, being small and light, whilst it also initially mists up, has much less mass and warms up and acclimatizes much more quickly. Carol snapped away with her phone.

Carol’s new real camera did dry out and no permanent damage was done. I think the coastal path soaking  was the real culprit leading to the previous camera’s demise on our earlier trip. However, I’d advise that it is pointless taking real photographic kit into the rainforest biome, at least straight from the outside biome. I’m wondering if going into the Mediterranean biome first might warm up any photographic kit and minimize the devastation of the humidity of the rainforest biome … but we haven’t tried it.

My only negative is that I can’t help but wonder where Eden’s collective brains were when they built the new architectural disaster know as The Stage. Where there used to be a pleasantly soothing pool fronting the architecturally elegant biomes, there is now a white monstrosity that clashes horribly with the rest of the surroundings. It is an eyesore that detracts from everything else. It matches nothing, not even itself. It is just plain awful.

Despite The Stage, Eden is brilliant and should be supported– GO!

There was yet more wind-assisted rain forecast for this afternoon but the morning was quite pleasant in a grey sort of way. So, rather than waste part of the morning driving too far, we chose to explore a close stretch of the coastal path between Pentire Point and Port Quin. We took our waterproofs and, this time, I took my boots.

I’m never quite sure whether to be impressed or frustrated at what seems to be a typical British over-optimistic assessment of our weather. I think on the whole I verge towards frustration. Having lulled us into a false sense of security by allowing us to begin our trip with four or five very pleasant, essentially sunny, days, nature has more recently been making us pay, and pay dearly. We began paying with “cyclonic” winds battering us with rain for the best part of 24 hours and have continued paying with what will have been at least five subsequent days featuring various quantities of rain, several of which were large. Oh, and let’s not forget the hail.

With this background, we began our walk and soon met a couple on the coastal path. As I eyed the approaching solid dark mass of cloud in the west that would bring this afternoon’s rain, they greeted us with a cheery, “lovely day”. “Well, so far it’s OK”, I reluctantly allowed. “It’s nice at the moment”, amended the lady. Nice?

Further along our walk, what turned out to be an advanced guard of the advertised band of rain began spitting at us. We met another couple. “Isn’t it beautiful?”, said the lady of the couple as sporadic rain spots splashed on my unprotected head. Really, this ridiculous over-generosity was just more than I could take. “It might be alright without the rain”, I retorted. “But the primroses are so lovely, don’t you think?”, she tried. Ye Gods! “Yes, indeed the primroses are lovely; all the spring flowers are an absolute delight”, I agreed, thinking that it was little short of a miracle that any delightful spring flowers remained after the severe battering they must have sustained from Mother Nature over the previous week.

Is it a mark of just how bad our British weather is that people assess a grey day with approaching storm clouds as “lovely” or “beautiful”? The light may be flat and unscintillating doing nothing to flatter nature but it’s “beautiful”. Are we that undiscerning? It seems to be a lovely or beautiful day if it isn’t actually raining at the moment.

What a complete crock! A lovely or beautiful day is one in which the sky is essentially blue rather than grey. There may be a few fluffy white clouds to break what some (not me) could regard as the blue monotony but no more. It is one in which the sun shines more often than not producing golden light which enhances the colours of nature making them glow and sparkle. Birdsong should be audible above nothing stronger than a moderate breeze. It is a day on which I can wear something less than a fleece and not have to carry my waterproof. That’s a beautiful day.

The morning was acceptable and our walk was very enjoyable. The rain spots ceased and the main rain held off until we had returned. It has now been raining for the last four hours and looks set to continue into the night.

We seemed to be in for an OK day in that only showers, some heavy or thundery, had been forecast. Treats! We headed for Bedruthen Steps (Carnowas) to go, “ooh, ah” at the rock formations and to walk south on the coastal path, perhaps as far as Jamie Oliver’s Fifteen restaurant at Watergate Bay – just for coffee, don’t get excited.

Not long after leaving our field, I had an uncomfortable feeling that I had not packed any walking socks but Carol said she’d seen some in my boot bag. We continued to Bedruthen and arrived under some very dark clouds. I opened the car’s boot. The car’s boot contained only two boots whereas it should have contained four boots. Only Carol actually had boots. Never mind not grabbing socks, I hadn’t even put my boots in the boot; they were still back at our field. I was firmly booted out of our coastal path walkers club.

I slipped on an old pair of trainers (without socks!) to go and have a look at Bedruthen Steps but the large black clouds soon started discharging their obviously large load of rain and we were fairly quickly very wet.

We went to have a look at Padstow instead.

This weather sucks and Mr. Forgetful wasn’t helping.

After a final night at Looe disturbed by further generous helpings of wind and rain, we breathed a small sigh of relief when a respite in the weather arrived just after breakfast. We were moving on to one of our favourite fields just outside St. Minver Lowlands near Rock and packing and hitching up in inclement conditions is far from being an enjoyable experience. We almost made it. With pretty much everything and as it became time to hitch up, a vary large and very black cloud decided that our Looe total weather experience would be incomplete without the final thrill of a hearty hail storm. We waited it out sitting in the car, finally got the towing mirrors on and set off on yet another strenuous 40 miles or so.

We were looking forward to Rock. Not only would we have grass instead of a gravel hard-standing but, after our communication-free six days at Looe, we knew of a pub near Polzeath that had sold a fine pint of Cornish Rattler (cider) and provided free wifi – what a civilized combination. As a result of the severe weather suffered particularly by northern Cornwall last weekend, the grass in our longed-for field was decidedly squidgy underfoot but it was grass nonetheless and we soon had Billy Bailey installed without any traction problems.

Apart from the weather, all was well with the world. We arrived at Carters, the aforementioned pub, and found free wifi together with not one but two Cornish Rattlers; the original apple Rattler had been joined by pear Rattler. The nice barkeep provided me with their wifi key and a small sample of the pear cider which proved a bit sweet for my taste, though Carol liked it.

Subsequently, a jaunt around a local well-known supermarket revealed a few cider companies now producing pear cider. In my now distant youth I recall a drink that rejoiced under the name of Babycham, a so-called champagne perry, that was marketed at the ladies and was sold in very small bottles. (Well, we wouldn’t want to get the ladies tipsy now, would we?) I’m pretty sure that was a fizzy pear concoction. Maybe all this pear cider is a rebranded Babycham revival. A pint or two of pear Rattler should certainly get the ladies relaxed.

Carol and I spent many happy years camping variously in France, Germany, Switzerland or Austria during the height of the season. Our timing was in large part dictated by the fact that, though we ourselves were unencumbered by rugrats, we frequently travelled with close friends who were encumbered by rugrats. So, we got quite used to campsites that were approaching capacity and therefore always having neighbouring pitches occupied.

When we did more solo travelling, we deliberately avoided rugrat season and went to France typically for the first two or three weeks of September after the main rush had ended. We became accustomed to visiting camp sites that were less than half full and really enjoyed the extra space. Now, happy in retirement, we tend to go to France for six weeks encompassing June and have become thoroughly wedded to half empty sites with almost too much choice as to pitch selection. Whilst we are basically sociable creatures and generally enjoy friendly interactions with fellow campers, we also value privacy and seclusion and typically strive to choose a pitch that puts as much space as possible between ourselves and any immediate neighbours.

It has always struck us as odd, therefore, when on occasions we’ve watched new arrivals who seem to enjoy creating a crowd; folks who appear to shun relatively sparsely populated sections of a site and seem inexorably drawn into close proximity with others. Are they perhaps looking for security in numbers?

Such was the case today. Having first cleaned our car and caravan of all the cherry blossom stripped from the surrounding trees by yesterday’s gales, we drove out to investigate the Torpoint peninsula. Upon our return we noticed a new arrival. Behind us are two rows of ten and eight pitches each, a mere four of which were occupied. Opposite us is another file of seven pitches, none of which were occupied. Where was the new arrival? Directly between ourselves and our erstwhile nearest neighbour two pitches away. You have to have worked really hard to find a pitch on this site with two immediate neighbours but these folks had valiantly succeeded. It’s not as though their chosen pitch has a particularly great aspect, either – they have artfully treated themselves to a view of the roof of les sanitaires (the facilities block).

It’s not a problem, the spaces here are reasonably generous so nobody is exactly crowded. I just don’t understand the mentality. Why would anyone ignore strings of empty pitches in favour of plonking themselves directly between two others? Weird!

Oh, and it’s pissing with rain again.