I need to make progress on the ECP, but lack of time and a desire to avoid the holiday season crowds in the South West delayed my return. Walking in November will mean cheaper comfortable accommodation (most campsites are closed), to compensate for high winds, rain, and muddy paths. No excuse. I clicked to pay for a one-way ticket to St.Ives and set off with a pack of clothing for a wet week.
St.Ives was dark and moody and devoid of tourists. Listless seagulls patrolled the streets, knowing the low season is coming and contemplating migrating south. The local surfer hostel was unavailable, but I could find a cheap, fully digital, and unattended cottage in the backstreets. One other adventurer was staying, cycling the South West peninsula. We were both up early to catch a sunrise. I lazily walked towards Carbis Bay, gently letting my legs know they had some work to do this week.
St.Michaels Way, a pilgrimage route connecting ultimately to Santiago de Compostela, provided guidance to Lelant with familiar scallop shell signposts. The sun was doing its best to break through an overcast and damp day as I walked into Hayle and one of many ‘best pastie in Cornwall’ shops to buy lunch, if I could only find my wallet. I was in a panic, searching every pocket. Losing this (or a smartphone) would be a complete disaster, but luckily it had caught in the backpack rain cover. I resolved to place an emergency fund and card in a separate pocket.
Walking through yet another property development, I reach the long strand of St.Ives Bay and walk to Godrevy Point. There is no one on the beach. The wind is strong and the surf wild, in stark contrast to a summer’s day, when this beach would be heaving with suntanned bodies and surfboards. The small seal colony were huddled high on Mutton Cove, seemingly knowing what the worst weather and highest tide would bring. Likewise, my waterproofs and freshly Nikwax boots kept me reasonably dry until I could reach Portreath. I had to apologise for the puddle I would leave behind in many a cafe over the next week as my gear drained to the floor. The local hotel was superb and unexpected.
The nights were lengthening, and I needed an early start to reach Newquay that day, some 23 miles ahead. The strong onshore wind had the benefit of signalling the arrival of quite vicious squalls – Atlantic power showers with the cold turned to maximum. I braced for their arrival, but they soon blew through, until the next one. It was exhilarating. I navigated through the industrial archaeology of former Cornish mine works and factories, avoiding falling into a shaft which had not been protected with a conical bat cage frame.
Perranporth was quiet, and I was the only customer in a trendy cafe – they served the soup and toastie needed to fuel me for the final run to Newquay, firstly along a deserted Perran Beach. Just me a my thoughts as I walked along the surf line, frequently scooting inland to avoid my boots getting wet. A pair of sanderlings had perfected the art, as they fed at the lowest extent of the wave-line, before dancing inland with a cadence that I could barely count.
Kite surfers were in their element at Crantock Beach, displaying superb skills as they found their edge across the bay. One intrepid surfer followed me down The Gannel as if casually going home. His movement suggested he might jump the Penpol Bridge, but he walked over before mounting his surfboard and continued on his way. I had to walk around Fistral Bay to see dedicated surfers oblivious to cold yet thriving on the size of the swells crashing into the bay. One of many surf hostels, almost empty, was a good choice – simple, cheap and friendly.
The YHA hostel at Treyarnon Bay was my next objective, a slightly shorter distance than I could cover, so I carried on around Trevose Head to Harlyn Bridge and caught a bus back. A local laughed at me as I stood at the bus stop: “You’ll be lucky at this time of year”; he suggested. Yet moments later, precisely on time, a double-decker stopped to pick me up and navigate along the single lanes to Constantine Bay. The YHA was alive and vibrant, with great staff and that rare pleasure of a dorm to myself. Many other YHA’s are closed, but this one seemed to take a more modern and enlightened approach to taking care of independent travellers – other YHA hostels need to take note as I feel this organisation has lost its direction.
My next destination was Port Isaac, via Padstow ferry, quite a long walk again. The weather conditions did not ease, and the strong winds made certain sections tough to walk. The monument at Stepper Point provided a brief respite from the wind, but I had to keep moving to keep warm. There were very few walkers on the path until I approached Padstow to buy another pastie from the Chough Bakery, nicely named as I had just seen a pair of choughs performing their usual aerobatic display on the cliff edge. It was a surprise to see them on the north Cornish coastline. They are starting to nest in the area, which is fitting for the national bird of Cornwall. The ferry was just leaving and reversed to collect me, which save an hour I would later be thankful for later. I could eat the pastie at Pentire Point, which has to be one of the finest views along this section. The lee of a nice boulder providing protection as I dreamily gazed along the swells and breaking waves, privileged to observe the elemental forces of nature: wind, water, earth and the occasional shaft of sunlight illuminating intense rainbows.
Port Quin, with its welcome water tap, indicated only a few more miles until Port Isaac. The bus to my accommodation in Wadebridge (options in Port Isaac being eye-wateringly expensive) was delayed, but a taxi dropped someone off. The driver, a kite surfer, and I had a pleasant natter, where we calculated that it is cheaper to take a taxi around the SWCP than pay for accommodation in high season. Managing costs as a long-distance walker is a challenge, and I have sympathy with wild campers pitching in a remote area for the night, even though it is discouraged. Why shouldn’t walking the coast be accessible to all people of different means and not become a Disneyfied community devoid of life.
The weather was getting worse, as 60 mph gusts were forecast, with a Yellow MetOffice warning and landlubber forecast suggesting peak gusts of 70-80 mph. What should I do? I decided to set out towards Tintagel and note some bale-out points along the route if things got too hairy. Luckily the offshore wind direction provided some shelter behind inland hedges and walls, but other sections, with waterfalls being blown back and upwards prove a challenge to walk through. I am a strong walker, but the wind tunnel effect down the combes accelerated the wind to speeds making it difficult to walk. I fell into Boscastle exhausted to a welcoming B&B. The following day looked no better.
I was now studying bus routes and seriously considering taking the 10 o’clock service to Bude, where I had booked a pub stay. I saw an excellent bale out point at Crackington Haven, so left before dark. If walking became too difficult I would have a coffee in the cafe and stop. The section was defined as strenuous in normal conditions. I met no one as I reached the cafe – The Cabin Cafe is probably my favourite on the SWCP, they made a tired wet walker very welcome and the ‘farmers’ breakfast was the fuel I needed to reach Bude. I carried on walking, full of energy, reaching Widemouth Bay in conditions ideal for Type 2 fun (the type you enjoy after the event). I had traversed the highest cliff in Cornwall (High Cliff at 223m), descended into countless wind tunnels and vertical waterfalls, but survived to walk the last few miles to Bude, with weather conditions that looked and felt as wild as you can imagine.
I had every intention of reaching Hartland Quay the following day, the most demanding section on the SWCP. But every fibre of my body said bale-out as I crossed the car park into an intense onshore wind. 15-miles of this would be unpleasant and dangerous: wind chill, few bale out points, arduous descents and ascents and wind that was too strong to walk in. One false footstep would be disastrous. So I took stock, cancelled accommodation, and took a bus to Plymouth to catch the GWR rail service back home. I wanted to reach Minehead, but the coast path wasn’t going anywhere; besides, I had some time to do more work on the Beach of Dreams project. I now have to plan how to organise a walk over 10,000-miles in May 2025. If you are a keen coastal walker and can survey a 250-mile section please get in touch at martyn@kinetika.co.uk
I plan to start walking north to Gretna in 2023, so I will have covered the English and Welsh before 2025.
You can read more about my earlier journey along the South West Coast Path, in my book, Tales from the Big Trails. This journey finished in 15-years ago in 2007. Walking in the opposite direction and with the passage of time has made this quite a new experience and reminded me just how good this coastal walking can be.
Tales from the Big Trails, in print on 2nd September 2021, available now for pre-order from Vertebrate Publishing. Featuring all 15 National Trails in England and Wales, and the 4 designated long-distance Scotland’s Great Trails. This is the story of the people I meet, the landscapes and coastal scenery and the sheer joy of walking these iconic long-distance routes in the UK. Click on a link below for a copy.
Trail Planner 
A lovely story and also photographs, too. Thank you.
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