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