Walking the Cornish Coast Path by Daniel Scott

Wallop!

It’s not quite the introduction to Cornwall that I’d been hoping for. There I am, minding my own business outside the regional Tate gallery in St Ives, when I am assaulted and robbed in broad daylight.

As the thief wheels away toward the sea, dropping bits of my delicious freshly-baked cornish pastie along the way, I turn to see that one of my fellow walkers – Eric – is sporting what appear to be a number of silvery-white highlights at the front of his black hair.

“They must be on steroids!” fumes Eric, nursing his left eye.

Being dive-bombed by a marauding squadron of giant seagulls with digestive problems is perhaps not the most auspicious start to our four-day walk along part of the Cornish coastal path. But, as we leave St Ives to begin our 60-odd kilometre trek to Penzance, along mainland England’s western-most coast, our skirmish with the local hooligan-wildlife is quickly laughed-off.

In any case, we are soon captivated by the beauty of the coastal scenery. The color of the sea is the first revelation, particularly as we’d been expecting waters of uniform grey off the shores of England. Here, though, the ocean gathers in quiet coves in such sparkling shades of green and blue that it is as if it has got lost on its way to the Greek islands.

Then there is the weather. While the rest of Britain drowns in a summer deluge, the only clouds in Cornwall seem purely decorative, white whisps drifting about on an intense sapphire sky.

Almost the moment we climb out of St Ives the coast begins to dink and dive, leading up along the cliffs’ edge to boulder-strewn moorlands, and dropping down again to the water’s edge. Offshore, seals loaf around on the Carracks, two rocky islets and the odd small fishing boat bounces across the surf. In places, as at battered Zennor Head, the cliffs rise up sheer and lofty. In others the coast is worn and cut by deep clefts.

This is not the sort of landscape through which you want to rush. Rather, we amble through it, with the cooling lick of an ocean-breeze in our hair. In fact our progress is are so tortoise-like that we don’t stop for lunch until 4pm, and by then the old mill-house pub in Zennor is closed. We gobble chocolate bars and move on, aware that we’re only half-way to our B&B in Pendeen.

But we need not worry. These midsummer English evenings linger on until after 10pm and the more the sun wanes the more paradoxically balmy becomes the lemony light that settles over the coast. By the time we reach Pendeen watch lighthouse, on a promontory often assailed by gales, patches of pink and purple have spread out across the sky. All is peaceful here tonight but the swirling whirlpools, and jagged shores in this area have been responsible for many wrecks, including the tragic loss of the St Ives lifeboat and 8 crew, while on a rescue mission, in 1939.

In fact, poignant stories abound on this historic coast. None more so than that of the disintegration of the mining industry, which was once the mainstay of the local economy. Mining had been at the heart of the Cornish identity since it began here in the fifteenth century, with the white cross on a Cornish flag even said to represent the glimmer of a tin lode against the surrounding black rock. Later, substantial quantities of copper were also found here and by the nineteenth century as many as 300 tin and copper mines were operating in the region.

But the boom years did not last, partly because of the discovery of tin deposits in Australia and South America, and by the end of the nineteenth century, a third of all mining families had packed their bags to find work on the other side of the world.

As we leave Pendeen for Sennen Cove, on the second morning, we find remnants of this once-powerful industry everywhere. Some, like the broken-down Levant mine, which closed in 1919 after an accident which killed 31 men, serve as monuments to its great dangers. Others sit like ancient Roman ruins overlooking the sea, with tall chimneys tottering skyward like isolated columns and brick ventilation-shafts posted on cliff-tops like watchtowers. Far from despoiling the landscape, the industrial remains add considerable esonance to it.

The cliffs on this part of the coastal path are lumpy and formidable and the coves far below so secluded that it is easy to imagine the smugglers, for which Cornwall is famous, coming and going undetected, stashing their booty in secret hollows.

Approaching Cape Cornwall, we come across the slogan “ENGLISH OUT” daubed on an old mine wall and are reminded that the people of this area have long been fiercely protective of it,. At times, the nationalist thrust in Cornwall has been as strong as that in Wales and Scotland. It is understandable that locals should see themselves as independent. Geographically, this region is as remote from the corridors of power in Westminster as anywhere in England.

We end our second day’s walk with a bracing swim - the water may look like it belongs in the Greek islands but it certainly doesn’t feel like it does - on the wide sweep of Whitesand beach, beneath Sennen Cove.

Our next day, from Sennen to Mousehole is our longest, at around 22 kilometres, and features so many remarkable sights that it is again slow-going. The garish development at Land’s End, England’s most westerly point, is, however, not one of them. But once we are past it, we look back over a churning sea toward gnarled cliffs and a number of idiosyncratically-shaped rocks with curious names like “Dr Syntax’s Head” and “Kettle’s Bottom”.

A little further on we turn the corner onto Cornwall’s south-facing coast and immense granite bluffs begin to loom up from the sea. Big boulders perch on their edges, naturally stacked in an almost pagan way and the lined slate cliffs are so characterful that we often pause to stare at them. Then, as a reminder of Cornwall’s long history, we find a little Norman church just off the pathway at St.Levan.

Not so ancient, though you wouldn’t know it, is the Minack Theatre, near the village of Porthcurno, a little further on. Built dramatically right on the cliffs in the 1930s, this Roman-style open-air theatre was the inspiration of local woman Rowena Cade and each summer stages a season of plays which benefit from the unforgetable backdrop.

Unfortunately, we must forge on, following the path along this more luxuriant, sheltered coast, through ferns and sweet-smelling woods. We continue on past the tiny harbour at wild Lamorna Cove and arrive at tumbledown Mousehole, our final night’s stop, at around 8.30pm. Mousehole (pronounced “Mowzel”) was described by the poet Dylan Thomas as “the loveliest village in England” and from our short stroll around its narrow streets and tiers of stone cottages which ascend from the granite harbour, we cannot disagree with his verdict.

Tomorrow we have just a few short kilometres left to amble into Penzance. But this evening I am in search of one essential element of a trip to Cornwall that I have so far been denied: an authentic, piping-hot pasty. Almost the moment I emerge from the harbourside bakery, though, my ears are assailed by a cacophony of squawks and shrieks, and I look across to see three pairs of beady-black eyes zeroing in on my dinner.

“Please do not feed the seagulls” pleads the harbour-authority sign upon which the vultures are disdainfully perched, “they are becoming a nuisance”. This time I am taking no chances. I clutch the pasty close to my chest and run as fast as my tired legs will carry me, back to my hotel.