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.