The South Cornwall Coast Path - Memories of Bygone Times

With an unforeseen week’s lay off from work, I decided to take a chance and spend a few days down in southeast Cornwall walking the South Cornwall Coastal Pathway, something I’d always wanted to do. Cornwall has over 350 miles of coastline to choose from so I decided that I would concentrate on the area that I knew best – the stretch from Mevagissey to Looe which just happens to take in some of my most favourite places on the planet.

I knew this would take me two full days plus a few extra hours on day three for although the distance "as the crow flies" is only 15 miles, by the time you’ve navigated around various headlands, bays and estuaries, the total comes out at approximately 23 miles and I certainly didn’t want to rush any aspect of the hike, particularly the exploration of some of these lovely towns and villages

From west to east, my ports of call would be Mevagissey, Pentewan, Charlestown, Polkerris, Polruan, Fowey, Polperro, Talland Bay and finally Looe. It’s November and of course, by it’s very nature, the coastal path is quite exposed so, rather than brave the elements in a tent as all hikers ought to, I pre-booked B & B in Charlestown for the first night and Polperro for the second, ensuring some creature comforts should the weather take a turn for the worse.

As it happens I was very fortunate; although not exactly tropical, the weather remained dry for the three days with some sunshine which at times allowed wonderful light to fall onto the ashen, cold waters of the Atlantic which were to be my constant companion throughout.

The views during the walk were superb; the sea itself was relatively calm for all three days but the wind blew steadily. Particularly pleasing was the sight of small fishing craft scurrying back to port with their catch and the experience of seeing several square-rigger sail ships undergoing refits at Charlestown. Then of course, there was the wildlife; the ubiquitous screeching seagulls, cormorants expertly fishing from the rocks way below, the occasional squirrel scuttling away with another nut for his winter larder, rabbits, a badger, a grass snake who surely would also soon be bedding down for the winter, insects galore and of course, the wild flowers, still blooming in the mild maritime climate. Oh to be at one with nature

Quick Tips:

OK - I wasn’t exactly trekking single-handedly across the Gobi desert but nevertheless, some planning was necessary. I wanted to spend a reasonable amount of time in each port-of-call so that had to be factored into the equation. Obviously, some places en route were "old friends" like Mevagissey and Polperro whereas others had been visited before but this was either a long time ago or had only been a flying visit.

Basic essentials are:
1. Stout but comfortable, waterproof and well worn-in walking boots. It’s no good finding out that the "new" boots that you’ve just bought are rubbing your heels and ankles raw after half a mile.
2. A lightweight and rollup-able waterproof coat, ideally one with a breathable lining.
3. Loosely fitting jeans or trousers – don’t set off with your tightest drain-pipes on, NOT good for walking in.
4. Several layers of clothing that can be easily removed or put back on according to the weather conditions. I usually wear a loose fitting sweater with a t-shirt beneath it, then the lightweight jacket on top.
5. The relevant Ordnance Survey Explorer sheet, in this case sheets 105 and 107
6. A lightweight backpack with a waist strap to stop the "slap" as you stride along.
7. Binoculars and camera plus any pocket wildlife books that will fit in the pack without weighing you down.
8. A mobile phone if you have one – slip off the pathway anywhere here and it’s likely that you won’t be found for hours. The most reliable service provider in Cornwall is Orange which has good all over coverage. Other networks tend to have large "black spots" where coverage is non-existent.
9. Take plenty to drink between stages, I favour iced water which I freeze the night before and then let it gradually defrost in my pack.

Do some decent research before setting off, for example, I knew that Charlestown played host to square rigger sail ships but had no idea prior to departure that it also boasted a great little heritage museum which I otherwise may have missed out on. Remember also that in the UK in November, you have barely eight hours of daylight so plan your walk accordingly as the coast pathways have no lighting.

Best Way To Get Around:

With a walking trip, the major getting around is obviously done during the hike itself. I started in Mevagissey to the southwest of St Austell which I reached by local bus from the latter. I got to St Austell by train from Chippenham, this ride taking around four hours due to several stops en route. The walk itself took me two and a half days ending up in Looe from where I took the scenic branch line train to Liskeard where it meets up with the main line to Chippenham, the closest station to me at home.

For anyone considering this walk (or any part of the South Cornwall Coastal path) from a base "up country", you’ll need, if driving, to take the M5 to Exeter, then the A30 to the new junction west of Bodmin where you then switch to the A391 which drops down into St Austell via Bugle and Stenalees. When at the junction with the A390, bear right and follow for 3 miles to the left turning onto the B3273 to Mevagissey.

Should you wish to do the walk the other way around, take the M5 to Exeter as before, then pick up the A38 to Plymouth, cross the Tamar Bridge into Saltash, follow the A38 to it’s junction with the A374 at Trerulefoot, follow this for one mile then turn right onto the A387 which will take you into Looe before the road eventually terminates in Polperro.

Long term car parking is available at either end although of course, you’ll need to make your way back to wherever you started from to collect the car. The coast path is unsuitable for cycling due to it’s steep inclines, lack of safety barriers and it’s tendency to become a mud bath after the merest drop of rain. The pathway is well signposted throughout it’s length which makes taking a wrong turn virtually impossible – if you can still see the sea, then you’re going in the right direction.

I arrive in Mevagissey on the bus from St Austell to begin the first leg of my walk. I won’t as such dwell on the sea views or the time taken to complete each leg of the walk for they are all essentially similar, especially under grey November skies. Instead, I will describe the various ports-of-call in an attempt to highlight the varying facets of these beautiful and historic old fishing villages.

Some might argue that along with Polperro and Cadgwith, Mevagissey could be the prettiest fishing village in Cornwall and who could blame them? It’s still a thriving little port with it’s resident retinue of small fishing boats that are still somehow forging a living although Brussels dictates that much of what they catch has to be thrown back in, dead or alive.

Rows of brightly-coloured cottages cling to the hillside that overlooks the village, white, pink and yellow, all immaculately maintained with well- manicured gardens where space permits. Similarly-coloured craft bob on the gentle swell in the shelter of the harbour, waiting for their skippers to pilot them off for their next job. Like Polperro, it was the humble pilchard that made Mevagissey wealthy in days gone by

In the early 1800’s, it’s pilchard fleet numbered some 60 boats and when a large shoal was spotted by the "huer", they would all put out to sea regardless of the weather, all to return a couple of hours later with bulging nets. The pilchards were the staple diet of the villagers, the fish oil was used for their lamps and any rotten fish were used as fertiliser in their vegetable plots. What wasn’t used locally would be cured and packed in wooden barrels to be shipped to the continent where the pilchard was in great demand under it’s somewhat more refined pseudonym of the sardine.

At it’s peak, the Mevagissey boats were landing 15,000 tonnes of fish per year with the side-line industries of curing, packing, net making and boat-building and repairing ensuring full employment for all the local populace. At it’s peak in the 1860’s, the village succeeded in obtaining an Act of Parliament which allowed it to enlarge the harbour so as to cater for the exceptional tonnages that were being landed.

The legacy of the pilchard lives on even though the fish itself is regarded as a "poor man’s meal" here in the UK these days. All the shops and restaurants along the harbour were once net-lofts, packing sheds and boat repair workshops, most of which retain much of the original architecture and interior fittings. The pilchard fleet is no more; many of the boats were broken up or simply left to rot, some were converted to pleasure craft and some were sold off. A few remain, these days one-man affairs that if they’re lucky, will catch enough scallops, crabs or fish to make an uncertain living.

The village boasts a fine heritage museum to the end of the east quay which depicts life and times in the village over the centuries. Along the west quay is the fine old aquarium built inside the old lifeboat station with the slipway still in evidence to the seaward side. The little, crooked side streets are full of quaint pubs, tea shops, restaurants and gift stores that demand to be explored. Mevagissey must have more pasty shops per capita than anywhere else in the Duchy – there must be at least 6 or 7 and it’s a job to walk past any of them without falling into their tractor beams, such are the wonderful aromas wafting from within.

Of course, it’s November and all the day trippers have gone home, some might say "hooray" for the village now reverts to what it does best, that is to be a charming, uncrowded, friendly little place that I could never tire of visiting.

Just a couple of miles north along the coastal path from Mevagissey lies the tiny hamlet of Pentewan (PEN-CHEW-AN). The path way drops me down into the village from the lofty, green headland that separates it from Mevagissey. At first glance, one could be forgiven for thinking that this is a ghost village. The Post Office closed a couple of years ago, there’s a single pub, the excellent Ship Inn, one tiny shop that’s about as big as the average domestic kitchen, and a few car parking spaces, none of which are occupied today.

The peacefulness that rules here today belies the fervour that the village once enjoyed in more prosperous times, a hundred years ago and more, when it was the principal Cornish exit port for the china clay (kaolin) that is extracted all around the St Austell area. Indeed, a railway line once ran from St Austell along the valley to the village that carried thousands of tones of clay for onward shipping to countries across the globe. But "what happened to it?" you might reasonably enquire.

The answer is two-fold; firstly, the tidal currents offshore here meant that it was a full-time job preventing the little harbour from silting up. The narrow channel that ran from the harbour to the sea suffered continuously from this and it was often the case that incoming ships would have to wait for hours or even days whilst the channel was re-dredged to allow access for them. Add to this that the deep water anchorages at Fowey were becoming more favourable as ship sizes grew, plus Fowey too was at the end of a branch line from St Austell for easy bulk railway transportation of the clay.

Only one could retain its position and unfortunately, it was to be Fowey. The little harbour at Pentewan was left to the elements and sea currents and within a couple of years, the silting became irreversible, the harbour gates rotted away and the wharf and sheds fell into dereliction. The harbour now stands as a reminder of when china clay made the entire county wealthy, but as with anything, it was always going to be survival of the fittest and unfortunately for Pentewan, it had a terminal illness all thanks to Mother Nature from which it never recovered.

The village does however still have a jewel in its crown, namely it’s magnificent beach, half a mile of clean, yellow sand that now is home to a large caravan and mobile home park that has bought the rights to the beach. Non-residents can use the facilities here for a daily payment and it still must be up there as one of the best and certainly cleanest beaches in the Duchy.

Not much else to say about Pentewan – there’s the old school house that at various times has been a restaurant of just about every ethnicity you could name, but which today more resembles a smart private dwelling. There used to be a pottery workshop just across the incredibly narrow little road bridge that brings vehicles into the main square but this closed years ago. I recall as child on holiday watching the sublime skill of the local potter here and being spellbound at the way his fingers transformed this great lump of shapeless clay into a beautiful vase or jug.

No good daydreaming of times past, but there are just so many wonderful childhood memories of this little place for me– it’s time to forge on to my next stop at Charlestown so I put the pack over my shoulders and start to climb the amazingly steep hill that exits the village, rather thankful that I’ve got my four-wheel-drive walking boots on…..

Four miles on from Pentewan sees me arrive in what much surely be a time warp? Picture this – a tiny, narrow harbour, containing no less than three square-rigger sailing ships of various sizes, all seemingly undergoing repairs, maintenance and re-rigging, with fearless artisans shimmying up the ropes just as their forefathers might have done in earnest to "set the sails" a couple of hundred years ago. What a wondrous sight but I’m just a little disappointed that none of them seem to be flying the Jolly Roger!

A little background: Charlestown, like Pentewan was also an exit port for china clay and, also like Pentewan, fell foul of the vast increase of trade at Fowey where boats of several tens of thousands of tonnes could easily navigate up the Fowey River to the deep-water anchorages where bulk handling machinery was installed that could load a boat within a couple of days.

Charlestown’s harbour is long and narrow, hence boats had to queue to enter, plus the harbour entrance was so restricted that only craft of up to a couple of thousand tonnes could get in, mere minnows in this day and age. It couldn’t compete with Fowey and the cost of its upkeep outweighed its usefulness, considering the limited sized ships that it could accommodate.

The village owes its name to Charles Rashleigh, a member of the exceptionally wealthy Cornish family who made their fortunes in tin and copper mining in the 18th century. Charles was also a great philanthropist and assisted many of the local people to better their lives, pumped money into the village and generally put the place on the map. The villagers were duly grateful and as such, the village became Charles’ Town in the mid 1800’s as a "thank you" to the man who had aided and assisted them so much.

One could be forgiven for thinking that with the demise of the clay-ships, Charlestown might have sunk into oblivion but that wasn’t to be the case. After its closure as a commercial port in the early eighties, it did lay dormant for a few years until film producers saw it’s potential. They essentially had a harbour that was unchanged since the 17th century, which still retained many of the old warehouses and buildings, as well as its massive granite quaysides. New life was breathed into the village when the first production was partially filmed there around 15 years ago, an adaptation of Daphne du Maurier’s ( who at one time lived very close to Charlestown) "Frenchman’s Creek". The quaysides were mocked up as an 18th century harbour complete with alehouses, warehouses, whorehouses, sheds, barrels, crates and all manner of goods. It was a success for the producers because they weren’t hindering ongoing work as they would have done anywhere else. Charlestown was the perfect setting.

It was around this time that the Royal Navy also saw the potential at Charlestown – many of its new ratings train on square rigger ships but facilities for them at large ports such as Portsmouth and Devonport were sadly lacking. Here was a perfectly good little harbour, with a massive gate that could be shut at high tide to retain a depth of 15 feet of water in the basin.

What else does Charlestown offer? Well, there are three pubs, a small store, and a couple of galleries. But I’ve saved the best till last – namely the Shipwreck & Heritage Centre which sits to the left of the harbour and should be marked as a "must-see" for any visitor. It is built into part of the old china clay drying sheds and is an Aladdin’s cave of maritime memorabilia, charts, maps, models, reconstructed scenes from 17th and 18th century life, audio/visual displays and much, much more. It is possible to drop down into the tunnel that once led from the main drying shed to the quayside where the narrow gauge wagons would tip their contents into wooden chutes which funnelled the clay down into the ships’ holds, a laborious process by any standards.

The old rails still exist in the low-r

Ah, more childhood memories! I walk the path from Charlestown as it skirts St Austell Bay, past the broad expanse of Spit Beach where my dad, brother and I fished for prawns in the huge low-tide rock pools on long-ago family holidays. The rock pools are still here of course but the prawns have long-since departed. The building of a huge, ugly china clay processing works between the road and the beach saw the once-clean water turn a milky white which, whilst not dangerous in any way, provided the darting crustaceans with a perfect excuse to leave forever to seek out somewhat cleaner waters. There was a pull-in from the road where we used to park; from here we walked beneath the railway lines via a very low roofed tunnel that was obviously very well frequented by the local dog population. I snigger to myself as I recall the name my brother and I gave to it, hoping beyond hope of course that my dad hadn’t heard us – "dog-shit alley", and I laugh out aloud.

I continue past Spit Beach to the next expanse of sand at Par Beach, a massive yellow crescent that at low tide extends for several hundred yards to the water’s edge. The coast path meanders above the beach and once again, my head is filled with childhood memories, of camping on the beach to be awoken at 7am the next morning by the clanking of wagons on the milk train that ran along the branch line from St Austell to Fowey.

Polkerris is situated partway down the small peninsula known as Gribbin Head. It’s a steady walk and within 30 minutes or so I drop down from the pathway into this tiniest of places that boast a pub, a tea room and a small, deserted harbour, save for a few marooned boats awaiting the return of the tide. Charles Rashleigh’s philanthropy extended to Polkerris as well as to the eponymous harbour from where I’ve just walked – the local pub here is The Rashleigh Inn and sits very close to the high tide mark, a bit too high for my liking should a winter squall blow up from the southwest.

The tide is way out so I wander down onto the exposed beach. I’m the only person here and I like it that way. Cornwall is as beautiful in winter as it is in summer but for very different reasons: the tranquility, the agreeable loneliness, the chance to see these places as they once were and the opportunity to be at one with nature. I like my own company as long as I have my trusty pal Nikon with me, I can cope with anything really and am glad if somewhat selfish to think that I don’t have to share this with anyone else today.

Polkerris, like so many little villages on the south coast of Cornwall, relied upon the pilchards for its raison d’etre; the beach still has the remains of the old smoke house where the fish were cured prior to packing. Rather strangely, on top of the smokehouse is an inverted cannon barrel, half buried in the turf and now showing the effects of many years exposure to the elements. Quite how it came to be there I don’t know…

The beach is so soft here and as I wander down to the completely exposed harbour wall, I turn to see deep footprints in the sand that in a couple of hours will be erased forever. The tide rises by around 20 feet here as can be seen from the water marks on the harbour wall. There is a collection of a few small boats here but not a soul in sight so I wander up to them and contemplate how long they have provided a person or even an entire family with a meagre income.

Behind the pub are a few granite cottages that stretch away up the incline that I need to take for the next leg of my hike as I head for the southern point of Gribbin Head where I will then head north to the bustling port of Fowey. This is the first time I’ve returned to Polkerris in probably forty years and from my child hood memories it doesn’t appear to have changed in that time, mainly because there’s nothing to change. I won’t be here in another forty years time so I hope to see Polkerris at least once more before then.<￿

Ah Fowey – having braved a considerable south- westerly as I rounded Gribbin Head, it was a pleasant relief to find relative shelter in this busy little port town. This was another place that my parents loved and like so many places in Cornwall, holds wonderful memories for me as well. Apart from the wonderful seascapes, the only object worthy of mention prior to entering Fowey is the Waymark Tower on Gribbin Head. This again was the "gift" of Charles Rashleigh; sailors looking for safe passage into Carrick Roads at the entrance to Falmouth harbour often mistook Gribbin Head for the former, so in 1832 Rashleigh provided the funding and commissioned the construction of the red- and white-striped tower which, contrary to popular belief, is not a lighthouse, but merely a beacon to distinguish between the two headlands.

Fowey as ever is bustling today; the town has a proud maritime tradition, not all of it necessarily on the side of law and order. In the days of the Crusades it was, with Barnstaple, Dartmouth, and Exeter, one of the most important ports south of Bristol. In 1346, it was said to have mustered 47 ships and 770 men for Edward III’s blockade of Calais. Today, it remains a thriving port albeit for different reasons.

During the 14th and 15th centuries, few towns on the northern French coast were spared constant raids by the "Fowey Gallants," the "rich, proud, and mischievous men" who were part traders, part privateers, and part pirates. Edward IV agreed with the French to stop this constant harrying, but the Gallants decided this was not in their best interests and continued the raids with a new-found vigour. The result of this was that Edward joined forces with the Dartmouth men and mounted a daring plan to steal the Fowey men’s ships, which effectively put an immediate halt to their piratical deeds.
Relics of these swashbuckling days are to be found all around the area. The river mouth had a chain draped across it between two "blockhouses" to slice the masts from any unwelcome visitors’ ships and St Catherine’s Castle. On the headland is a relic from the time of Henry VIII, when it was originally a lighthouse before becoming a fort to defend the river mouth.

Today, Fowey is an exit port for China Clay (kaolin) that is mined around the St Austell area, and it is quite a sight to see a 10,000-tonne ship being shepherded up the river by the pilot vessel to the deep-water jetties farther upstream, where it will be loaded.

Finally, Fowey has facilities for small craft, and in the summer particularly, you will see many yachts and pleasure boats at anchor as their owners enjoy a beer and a meal in the town.

Fowey is quintessentially Cornish, with that heady mix of narrow streets, history, ancient buildings, and seafaring legends, none more dastardly than those of the Fowey Gallants.

Polruan and Fowey are to all intents and purposes twin towns, albeit on opposite sides of the Fowey River. It is here that I have had to divert a little from the coastal pathway for to follow it faithfully would mean trekking all up the length of the Fowey River as far as Lostwithiel, cross the river and then follow all the way back to Polruan, a distance of some 16 miles. Instead I take the passenger ferry which zips across the river in two minutes to deposit me on the old coal quay in Polruan.

Although I lived within 8 miles of the town for many years, I had never ventured forth to explore it so it is as such, the only place on my trek that I am seeing for the first time today. It does indeed resemble many other quintessential Cornish fishing villages; a small harbour backed by steep cliffs containing concentric bands of white-washed cottages clinging on for dear life and seemingly defying gravity. I walk up from the ferry to a cacophony of noise from the small boat yard where a rather forlorn-looking craft is undergoing some pretty radical repairs to her keel. I continue walking to the north along the harbour and am somewhat amused to find a small dry dock containing at least a dozen yachts, all laid up for winter and seemingly parked by the local female yacht driver, such is the way they are crammed in together.

There’s not much to see past here so I execute a u-turn and start to climb the steep and narrow streets up into the heart of the village but not before I stop to admire one of the Duchy’s most revered pubs, The Lugger Inn. It’s sat here, on the quay for longer than anyone can recall although it’s plain to see that the building’s origins were certainly fishing-based with the tell-tale steps up to the front door, leaving the ground floor as a store for nets, floats, lobster pots and all-weather clothing. I’d dearly love to stop for a pint or two but time precludes this course of action which is a great shame as the pub proudly displays its "Cask Marque" accreditation on the outside wall, a guarantee of first-class real ales.

Up the winding alleys I head, past rows of tiny cottages, the old reading room, another pleasant-looking pub, a few old lock-up sheds and some exotic flowers and plants decorating the bijou front gardens here. I turn into Battery Hill, so called after the gun positions that once sat here during the reign of Henry VIII to protect the entrance to the harbour. Like Fowey, Polruan also has its block-house, the ultimate deterrent to unwelcome French and Spanish ships.

The climb ends up on the green by the coast-guard station and it's here that the remains of St Saviour’s Chapel sits, braving the elements. The chapel dates from the 8th century but all that now remains is a solitary flint and granite wall although it’s easy to make out where some of the old walls once sat from the markings on the grassy ground.

There are a couple of cafes here, a few local shops selling gifts and souvenirs but I doubt that they are doing much of a trade today as I seem to be the only visitor. The pathway winds and turns around the houses until I see the "coast path" sign which will lead me to probably the longest single leg of my hike, on the cliff tops above Lantic and Lantivet bays, through Lansallos towards Polperro, my favourite place on the planet.

The walk to Polperro is quite strenuous; the wind has picked up and I have no respite from it along the cliff tops here. The path dips then rises again and it’s plain to see from the mud that it has rained considerably in the last couple of days. To my right, some 200 feet below is the sea, cold, grey and unforgiving, to my left are gorse covered hillsides, their yellow flowers standing out brilliantly in the occasional ray of sunshine that manages to penetrate the mass of scudding cumulus that tracks me eastwards. A slight rustle in the dead, crispy brown leaves attracts my attention and there by my foot is a grass snake, obviously non-too pleased to be still awake in such inclement weather when a narrow and cosy burrow would be far more preferable. Oh, to go to sleep in late autumn and wake up in spring, these hibernating creatures have got the equation so right…

I press on, fearful that a drenching might be on the cards but it passes and again, the sea temporarily glistens with the occasional shaft of light, a proverbial spotlight from the heavens. I am nearing Polperro as the pathway starts to meander and descend towards Chapel Steps where I am rewarded with a panoramic view of the harbour and the Warren, the cottage-lined winding pathway that takes the coast path east from the village and will be my route in a couple of hours time.

I have written much of Polperro; both my children were born here during my 8-year stay in the village so it will always summon a special feeling for me. How beautiful can one place be? God put in a few hours overtime when he made this place for sure…

I end up down on the fish quay, just outside the Blue Peter Inn where I will definitely retire for a pint so I climb the uneven granite steps and in I go. "Hello Graham, ‘ow you doin’ my ‘andsome?" asks one of the locals and I instantly feel at home, even after all these years of being away from the place. I take my beer and sink into one of the comfy seats in the bay window overlooking the harbour. How can a pub be so welcoming, so friendly, so relaxing, so warm? I sup the ale and tell Steve the landlord that I will be back down possibly in a few weeks time with any luck.

The village; streets so narrow that cars are banned unless you reside in the place, even then it’s a tight squeeze with white-rendered walls bearing testament to this with red, blue and green abrasions from cars whose drivers thought they knew better and could actually manage to wiggle their way through. A higgledy-piggledy huddle of cottages all finished with what I always called "Polperro ripple", a stucco-type outer covering that renders them impervious to the assaults from rain, wind and salt air. Space was always at a premium here so many old places are three or even four floors high but as narrow as a canal-side house in Amsterdam.

The harbour; built to accommodate twin industries of pilchard fishing and smuggling, both now reputedly in decline. At one time, this would have been a hive of activity to rival Mevagissey; scores of boats awaiting the "huer’s" cry upon seeing the oily patches on the water that signified a large shoal of fish offshore. The old net loft still remains on the western side of the harbour, overlooked by the formidable Peak Rock that has guided the boats home since ever they were first used for fishing here.

I now stroll towards Roman Bridge to find the somewhat eccentric House on Props, a restaurant that is literally supported over the river by several stout wooden beams. I turn up the Warren and walk for 200 yards to find the Polperro Heritage museum, featuring displays from times gone by that depict the harsh and unyielding life that the fishermen of 200 years ago endured in their efforts to catch the pilchards that Polperro grew famous for.

Back down the Warren now to one of the oddest shops in the village, namely "Joan the Wads." The exterior of the shop is festooned with wooden col

I take the steep coastal pathway up the Warren which follows the cliffs that will lead me to my penultimate port-of-call, Talland Bay. Talland has a special place in my heart too for both my daughters were christened in the tiny church of St Tallan, one of Polperro’s two parish churches. It’s about 75 minutes walk from Polperro along what at times can be a very muddy and slippery pathway for many of the locals use it for walking their dogs or simply for an invigorating stroll.

Once again, the sea is to my right and I see a couple of fishing boats approaching the entrance to Polperro harbour. Myriad gulls are wheeling around the sterns of the craft in a frenzy as the fishermen will have already started to gut the catch en-route home. The guts are chucked over the side where they are gratefully and greedily devoured by the scavengers.

I walk on, amazed that in three days, I haven’t managed a soaking much to my relief although it has certainly threatened at times. A fellow walker approaches from the other direction and we pause to chat for a minute; he is from London and has never been to Polperro. I tell him what a treat he is in for and impart some local knowledge so that he knows where to get a cheap B & B for the night, as well as a decent beer and some good food.

I march on and soon, Talland Bay comes into sight. It isn’t that much larger than Polkerris but is a straggly village that sits to the top on either side of the beach here. More memories – in the summer we used to have a few drinks in Polperro then drive down the lanes to Talland to set up a barbecue on the shingly beach. After eating we would, somewhat foolishly upon reflection, take a dip in the crystal-clear waters which was a surefire way to sober up.

I follow the lane into the village because I haven’t revisited the church since my younger daughter was christened here in 1983. The church of St Tallan is large for such a small village and is of a curious design. It dates to Saxon times with a bell tower somewhat removed from the main body of the church and is joined to the latter via a small portico. St Tallan was one of the many holy saints that landed in Cornwall in the 8th and 9th centuries where they taught Christianity and founded many of the churches.

That’s it for Talland – no shops, no school, no post office, no pub – for any of these you’ll need to head either way to Polperro or Looe. Even the little car park on the beach is fenced off today with the accompanying ice cream stall looking somewhat the worse for wear.

I leave Talland on the last leg of my hike – the 4 miles to West Looe and journey’s end.

I march on, knowing that in a couple of hours, my trip will be over. I have mixed sentiments really; my feet are a little weary and my shoulders ache a bit from the rucksack. It’s a bit cold too on this last leg but I don’t want to rush and undo the relaxation and well-being that I’ve felt for nearly three days. Then, as I always do, I look on the bright side; I’ve visited some of my favourite places, met some old friends, had the sea and clouds as companions for the entire time, bumped into some unexpected wildlife, and found some "soul food" by seeing my childrens’ place of birth, where they were christened, and where they played as youngsters. I then drop back a further generation and recall the places I’ve seen that meant so much to me as a child, wonderful memories that can never be erased.
Looe is ahead so onwards I go and before long, I round the headland past St George’s Island and see the familiar sight of the Banjo Pier beneath me. Journey’s end!


Looe is one of the busiest resorts in Cornwall. The town undergoes a metamorphosis in April from being a sleepy, fishing town to that of a full blooded resort replete with a plethora of bars, restaurants, amusement arcades, boat trips, cafes, ice cream parlours, and gift shops. Whilst not to everyone’s taste, in my opinion to visit the town after the influx of visitors is to see it at its best, particularly on a cool November afternoon.

The town is split into two with the 7-arched medieval river bridge providing the link between the two halves. East Looe is the brasher, noisier side and is a maze of tiny streets and alleys where many of the best restaurants are to be found. The East side also boasts the superb beach is which, at low tide, stretches away for 200 yards or more to the surf line and forms a lovely golden crescent which is meticulously cleaned every day by the local council.

West Looe is somewhat more peaceful, with just a handful of pubs and restaurants, a few back streets that wind their way up the backdrop of steep hills, and a totally different feel from her rowdy sister across the river. Follow the road out to Hannafore where you are treated to the sight of Looe Island, sitting a mile or so offshore and now home to a nature reserve.

One definite highlight that many visitors choose to enjoy is the scenic train ride from Looe station to Liskeard, a ride of only 6-7 miles but reputedly one of the most beautiful anywhere in the UK as the line follows the river up through the wooded valley of the Looe River.

Fishing has always played a vital role in the town’s economy and today, it has the second busiest wholesale fish market in Cornwall behind Newlyn. The town’s fleet of trawlers still bring in many species such as sole, mackeral, turbot, monkfish, cod and haddock as well as shellfish such as prawns, crabs and lobsters, many of which will wind up on the menus of the local restaurants that evening.

Well, that’s it, I’ve so enjoyed my hike but from now on, the train will take the strain. I wander along the main street towards the Globe pub where I’ll just about have time for a quick one before the train leaves for Liskeard where I’ll connect with the main line back to Chippenham. Bye bye Cornwall, I've had a lovely time but then, I always do.....