lizard – gbpilgrim

October 4, 2025

The comeback kings and queens

A coastal view of cliffs and wildflowers

There is jeopardy in revisiting a place of joyous memory. Risk in the raised expectations that many of the same ingredients will result in the same, delectable cake. But a second time around some ingredients are missing and some have additives and there is the chance they won’t combine in quite the same way. Not to mention the unpredictable variable of temperature. Why does it always come back to cake?

Sausage rolls are more the thing in St. Agnes, a stop off point on the migration to The Lizard. Sixteen humans, four cars and a dog, all bound for a holiday park mere miles from the southernmost point of the British mainland. But first, a brief foray on the north coast, for dramatic lines and vibrant hues and curious children. Minecraft takes on a whole old meaning.

We are decamped and scattered across fibro structures near Mullion. On site there is the usual mediocre pub food, a playground festering with past scrapes and tears and an outdoor pool that only seems to open between the hours of 12:87 and 3.574 on the first Tuesday after a blood moon. The staff are largely from the disgruntled set of Camborne Comp, moonlighting between here and Aldi and a quick vape after bingo.

This is all to be expected, all priced in, and I cannot fault our bungalow nor the location nor the amusement arcade with its strangely captivating spell of coins and tokens teetering on a precipice. Armed with buckets of bronze several people drift from one machine to another possessed. Convinced it is just a matter of one more tuppenny bit to score that Tweety Pie Tazo.

Being Britain I have no doubt some people will spend their entire holiday in this square mile. To me a shame, but whatever floats your boat. But there are real boats afloat just down the road. And sandy beaches and rugged cliffs and flowery lanes and pastel villages and scones and tea and beautiful birdsong and fluttery butterflies and ice cream.

Two identical cups of coffee from different years

And even good coffee. Coverack a case study in discovering whether things will be just as satisfying the second time around. It feels harsh to relegate Coverack to grey morning filler but I think the benign nothingness of the conditions make the place feel even more appealing. Cottage For Sale signs even more alluring.

Things were busier at Roskilly’s, where this time around on top of savoury lunch I made sure to take in the staple produce of ice cream. I made sure Avery made sure of this as well by ordering one of those ludicrous sundaes that comes in a ridiculous glass and is peppered with delicious garnish.

Now, I’ll sound like a right jerk here but I have to say Cornish ice cream has underwhelmed a bit ever since I became addicted to Gelato Messina. Which is a shame when you consider the natural, rain-soaked bounty of this westernmost county. It’s the Jersey cows that make all the difference, rain-soaked or not.

Rain soaking was proving pleasingly elusive as parts of Britain crept towards something like their twentieth alleged ‘heatwave’ of the summer. And the wall-to-wall sunshine was blazing just overhead… the layer of low cloud obstinately stuck to the granite mounds and precipices of The Lizard. A situation ripe for conjuring up that legendary Cornish mizzle.

Looking through a rusted ring at a misty harbour

At first the conditions were an acceptable background to evoke scenes that a used car salesman would describe as atmospheric. The historic quay wedged into Mullion Cove eerily calm, the flat silvery seas vanishing into an unknown horizon. Film noir moods satisfying for as long as it takes to get to the underwhelming chocolate factory up the road.

It’ll burn off soon, is the oft-thought line which is looking increasingly ludicrous, especially back up on the wild heights of the holiday park over lunch. But there are some scouts out and about on the WhatsApp family chat and there is a picture with blue sky on it. We pile on down to Poldhu, where the sun is tantalising just offshore. An hour later, I’m in shorts eating another so-so ice cream and some people are up to their neck in ocean.

A sandy bay and blue water, with lots of white cow parsley on the cliffs

Despite a very slow start, the sun lingers long into the midsummer sky. There is time for a rest and an infuriating wait for dinner, somewhere, anywhere, that will still serve you anything, please. The sun is well and truly up in Mexico by time a burrito bowl lands in front of me. In Cornwall it is now sinking faster than a taco and cold cerveza. Indigestion is just around the corner, as is the boomingly popular Kynance Cove.

At around 9:30pm it is relatively serene. Well of course there’s someone waving some ropes and smoking pot in a tribute to the sun gods, but there’s still enough room for everyone to space out on rocky outcrops. With a quiet car park and cast in lingering light, it is phenomenally beautiful to experience, even if the sun sinks beyond the land.

Fast forward twelve hours to a stunning mizzle-free Thursday in early July and the fluoro-vested National Trust parking assistants are out in full force. Roger, head to Annabelle in a north-north westerly bearing and turn 270 degrees to line up next to the brambles with a clearance of 425 millimetres to starboard sir. Are you a member? Jolly good.

To be fair, if there is a need for National Trust parking attendants (I suspect the job is actually advertised as ‘Access & Experience Facilitator’) it is here. You can only imagine the carnage and open warfare in their absence. Like the emmets of local infamy, a procession of all sorts march downward from their cars, laden with striped bags, snorkels, blankets and buckets and spades. It is one endless conga line of flip flops, but the epic landscape consumes them fairly well. The tide is – thank the moon gods – out.

What follows is a wonderful couple of hours delving into sandy inlets and timidly inching feet into fresh waters while many others frolic unencumbered in the deep sea. For relaxation there is a trip to the café and a laze on a raised ribbon of sand. But relaxation can only be fleeting, niggled away by the inevitable turning of the tide.

You start to notice the changes slowly – a submerged rock here, disappearing seaweed there – but all the while you are wondering when it is best to leave. Once that small pool starts to link up again with the ocean, ankle deep. Others linger and incredulously a line of tourist ants continue to rock hop down to the shrinking bay. Destined to become as congested as the Northern Line at eight in the morning.

You may well think Insta-friendly Caribbean waters and Marbella vibes are as good as it gets but, for me, peak Lizard satisfaction was a more understated affair. It was a simple walk down a lane to Housel Bay in late afternoon sun. A Cornish summer’s day in which life was burgeoning and bountiful, much of it packed into the high hedgerows leading down to a placid, inviting sea. Timeless – and like the time before – producing a longing to linger longer. To happily comeback again.

More cliffs and water and a dragonfly on the hedges

Balloons rising over a lake with a row boat gliding across the water

April 21, 2025

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Surprise!

Whether it’s an epic global adventure or – more likely – random meanderings close to home, travel is an integral and frequently joyous feature of many of our lives. But we travel not only in relation to our immediate geography, we travel too in our mind and soul. We travel on that most mystifying and blessed journey that is life. And, like the laboured 09:00 from London Paddington, my life journey has called in – notably delayed – at a rather significant station.

Which is all to say I got married. So let’s call this station Bath rather than Bristol Parkway, for there is elegance and grace and it is a far nicer place to be. Plus I’m hopeful there will be more stops along the journey, all the way to my final Penzance (and then perhaps onto that renowned land of the undead, the Scilly Isles).

One of the lovely things about this Bath station is the convergence of fellow travellers from journeys past. Reunion and reacquaintance with others a cut above those relationships you form with strangers on the same carriage on the same train at the same time on the Northern Line from Finchley Central every weekday morning.

And so from this metaphorical Bath to a literal Canberra. It’s a fair leap, one almost mirrored in real life by Dad who arrived with time spare to stalk butterflies and ice cream parlours in between a wedding. We picked a good time of year for it, when Canberra’s skies are filled with decorations natural and man made, and the weather is plenty warm enough for hokey pokey.

I particularly enjoyed a walk with Dad to Square Rock immediately after the wedding fever had died down. Not only was it one of those rare spots he had never been to, it was also nourishing to cleanse myself of run sheets and entrance music files and stickers on glasses and lines in Mandarin and fingers crossed about the weather and forgotten bouquets and the pile of photos to sort out.

A view over mountains and forest from a rocky outcrop

Space, clear air, nature and snacks on rocks. Though, with a ring on my finger, wedding memories were never far away. I was thinking the rocky outcrop would make a good spot for a proposal, champagne corks shooting into the yonder. But once is enough, thank you very much.

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From a romantic spot with Dad to a “honeymoon” with Dad. I use the quotation marks (and can mime the associated comical gesture should you wish) deliberately. For if I was to pick a honeymoon venue it would probably not be the Gold Coast. And yes it’s unlikely I’d take my Dad. Coincidence just did its whole chance occurrence of simultaneous events thing where cheap flights booked long ago met a weekend after a wedding.

view of a beach and blue green sea, with some artful cock and balls etched into the sand

There were many positives about the Gold Coast, enough to balance out the humid showers and traffic lights and bogan tendencies to etch cocks and balls in the sand. We had a super view from our apartment, only dwarfed into insignificance once atop Q1 for a buffet breakfast. Within a thong’s throw of the beach, the water was lovely to wade through, and residual sand could be washed off in our pool just across the road.

From the balcony, night markets were spotted and explored, a trail of stalls selling healing crystals or imploring you to hold a lizard for twenty bucks or to commission a really bad caricature for more. And food options lay out in excess, from Japanese to Thai to McDonalds and Messina. Gelato fans, new and old, converge.

The sprawl of the Gold Coast can make it seem hard to escape. And, like casinos in Vegas, that may well be the intention. Burleigh Heads National Park offers mini respite, in that at least it is not another high rise or souvenir shop. But this isthmus of bushland is, on a Sunday morning, undeniably popular with people in tight pants exercising, people who you suspect might use the words “media-based wellness inspirator” when asked what they do for a living.

A lizard sitting on a rock in the forest

Still, away from the curated coast path there are some pretty butterflies if you look close enough. Like everyone, enjoying relief in a lofty opening up out of the humid jungle. But also, like everyone, seemingly desperate to keep on the move.

I find the real gold of the Gold Coast is actually inland an hour, significantly less gold, more green and certainly not coast. You can still espy the sea and the skyscrapers from the Springbrook plateau, but in between lays verdant, dramatic, primeval rainforest.

Today, it’s significantly cooler and punctuated by cotton wool pockets of vapour drifting above the trees. Water is a major aspect of life up here, including a recent Cyclone Alfred inspired 1146mm in 7 days. It’s surprising the roads are – with a little repair ongoing – still open. And not at all surprising that the waterfalls are full crescendo. An idyllic honeymoon spot. An adventure invigorating. A location not immune to influencers but with enough space and spectacle to spare. A few miles and a million years from the Gold Coast.

Not an influencer taking a rest in the rainforest

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From a land of water to a land of water, unfortunately timed for the final weekend of Dad’s visit and our disjointed sort-of-honeymoon. We were heading to Tathra on the far south coast of New South Wales. Compared to the Gold Coast it’s like going from The Prodigy at a rave to Enya in a spa. I would use more contemporary pop culture references but I’m getting old. Besides, Tathra has a mid nineties vibe, a time when presidents played jazz and unhinged dictatorish ones were being prophesised in The Simpsons.

Despite portents of doom, the weather wasn’t exactly terrible when we arrived. Sure, take a raincoat to walk to the pub but do so with hood down. Then up. Then down again. And, as the last remnants of daylight savings endure, sit outside but make sure you are close enough to the walls to be under the veranda, just in case.

The next morning started with promise too, in that I don’t think it was raining much. But arrangements to meet down on the wharf were changed in the space of thirty seconds. Let’s try coffee inside and see if things pick up. Then let’s have some lunch and see if things pick up. How about after afternoon tea… maybe things will pick up then? But you surely know the rain has set in when the monopoly board is unleashed and you take comfort in a jam and cream lamington.

Two people taking photos of large waves at sea

Wispy wave action from a long exposure iPhone shot of the ocean

Thankfully these are good indoor Sundays, when hearty food and drink is matched by cheery company and chat. When cats retreat to bedrooms and paper planes rain down from the indoor skies. A time and place where it only costs $400 to buy land on Sydney Harbour and then, almost inevitably, end up in jail. Hoping to break free as the wind and the rain lashes at forty five degrees.

It was almost dusk when things did marginally pick up. And me, my Dad and my wife managed that kind of walk which was invigorating and refreshing and all the more enjoyable because of the wildness of the weather. Sure, let’s hope none of those branches sway any further than a few metres, and watch out for the newly formed rivulet trails. But check out those waves and those sounds and the clouds blowing through to dump more rain on the hills.

This weather all sounds very British. Which, by good narrative fortune and by way of Bermagui and Batemans Bay takes us back to that figurative Bath. Most of the passengers who came together are now on their way, the final one set for the 1540 to London. Balloons have deflated and cards are packed away. On the platform, two solo travellers have united, ready to embark on the next leg as one. Stand clear of the closing doors. Bristol Parkway, and far better places, await.

Australia Driving Green Bogey Photography

August 21, 2022August 25, 2022

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Lizard bites (second helping)

What do you do when you visit an epicentre of ice cream? Um, order a massive burger cooked in a wood-fired oven which – circa 2012 – is topped with pulled pork? We were sat at Roskilly’s farm shop on the eastern side of The Lizard. Purveyors of decent ice cream across Cornwall. But, for once, I wasn’t in the mood for that. And there would be plenty of other times.

It may have been that creamy coffee in the morning that satisfied my dairy quota. Sips of goodness in Coverack, overlooking one of those archetypal harbours bedecked with jaunty fishing boats tipping slightly askew on low tide mud. A stone’s throw across from the dream home cottage that had just been sold.

I began to have fantasies of a life here, doing a spot of work in that cottage before popping across the road for a mid-morning drink. Perhaps then a bit more work, a nap and, at day’s end, a trip to a beach. In this utopia, I’d likely head to the wonderful beaches on the western side of The Lizard. But there would be plenty of other options of things to do, places to see, things to eat, closer to home.

One of them would be around Kennack Sands, over which our temporary home for a week was perched. This was far from a dream Coverack cottage, just two six-berth caravans that were a squeeze for ten. But like all good caravans, every little nook was optimised, every fold-up bed assembly a triumph of geometry, every passing of one another in the kitchen an elegant pirouette.

Down the hill, Kennack Sands themselves were less golden than elsewhere but still fine and generous and largely remaining at the mercy of nature. This meant the occasional jellyfish sighting among clear, sometimes warm waters, as well as frequent dog walkers at the start and end of each day. Among the more memorable human sightings was a mass gathering of booty shaking one day and an irksome guitar dude with a three song repertoire on another.

Needless to say, escape via the coast path was always on hand. One afternoon found me on a solo walk up and down towards – but not all the way to – Coverack. After days of family time, the peace was eerie and it felt a lonesome endeavour along a hardy, unkempt landscape. Fellow walkers were few and far between and I found myself yearning for times of mass booty shaking and beach boules.

Companionship was aplenty in the other direction, five of us walking along the coast path from our caravan park to the small village of Cadgwith. Along the way some diverting remnants of serpentine mining at Poltesco – a rare rock type that is abundant on The Lizard. More abundance flowed alongside generous meadows and stony bays kissed by a sparkling sea.

Cadgwith itself makes Coverack seem a metropolis, the village focused around a small shingle inlet on which sit a cluster of working boats. At one point there is that distinctive odour of salt and seaweed and fish guts, pungent and evocative at the same time. Fortunately it is fleeting and doesn’t dissuade ice cream refreshment. I was aghast to find out that my niece, Joy, wasn’t a massive ice cream fan and opted for a fishing net instead. But the rest of us made up for it, multiple times.

Give a girl an ice cream and she may eat for a day, but give her a fishing net and she can eat for a lifetime. Maybe. Probably easier to head to Lizard village though and pick up fish and chips. Tender, juicy cod, crisp golden batter and amazing chips made from Cornish new potatoes, soaking up lashings of malt vinegar.

Other than a fish and chip shop I didn’t get a chance to explore Lizard further. My impression was of a place where you could source ample food along with a fair share of useless tat. And be in a situation where you can march off in any direction and discover wonder.

A little south of the village, Lizard Point itself represents the most southerly position on mainland UK. There exists an appropriate edge of world vibe – beaming white lighthouse, cottages hunkered into rocks, rampant rabbits upon tightly shorn grass and a couple of businesses proclaiming themselves as the most southerly spot you can get a cup of tea. As the land plunges into sea and the sun sinks west, spectacle.

We were blessed to witness a couple of sundowns around Lizard Point. A time when the warmth of the day started to fade, and the summer grasses began to breathe. I remember distinctly here for the first time an Australian odour, an almost impossible to describe earthy freshness that comes after a hard day baking under the sun. As if the land is singing in relief.

The very last sunset accompanied our final night. A night to try and use up all those naughty food bits we had accumulated in the week, including two tubs of ice cream from the local farm shop. A night to not be lactose intolerant. A night to count blessings. A night to lament the prospect of leaving tomorrow. And, like the sun coming up again in the morning, to contemplate doing it all over again.

Food & Drink Great Britain Green Bogey Photography Walking

August 12, 2022August 18, 2022

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Lizard bites

The it’s too hot brigade have been out in force lately. The worrying thing is they are probably right. More worryingly, I have caught myself occasionally joining them. This, along with an increasing tolerance of British coffee and quietly muttered acceptance of noisy people in the quiet carriage, suggests I am getting more comfortable on these shores. Apart from when it is too hot of course.

The heat would be more agreeable if Britain boasted fine sandy bays and crystal clear coves, a setting for languid summer holidays and Mediterranean vibes. Perhaps with some tapas, gelato and meze thrown in. Let me introduce you, then, to The Lizard.

Down in far west Cornwall, The Lizard is an area where the southernmost chunk of mainland Britain tapers into the ocean. With water on both sides there is a veritable array of beaches and bays, harbours and headlands to choose from. And it is on its western shore, facing the Atlantic as it feeds into Mounts Bay, where some of the finest sights and sands can be found.

The very first morning of a week-long family holiday provides some pinch yourself moments at Poldhu Cove. I must confess, like so many other annoying tourists, it was Instagram that thrust Poldhu into my consciousness. What entranced me were the golden sands, blue waters and white swirls of cream decorated with all sorts of gooeyness atop a hot chocolate. The excellent Poldhu Beach Café has a slight Aussie vibe perched upon the sand, delivering decent coffee, brownies and down to earth chit-chat. It felt very much peak dream home.

Either side of the cove the outlook becomes even more idyllic as the transparency of the water shines, magnifying the outline of rocky reefs and diffusing the shadows of colourful paddle boards upon the seabed. On shore, the cliffs rise, coated in a swathe of still-green grass and wildflowers flourishing under the sun. The coastline tracks toward the horizon on either side, encasing a welcoming expanse of Cornish perfection. It felt very much peak dream home.

Beyond the northern headland to Poldhu, the next bay along – Church Cove – has a more old school air. Grittier sands, seaweed, emboldened National Trust parking attendants. The presence of the old church wedged between rock and sea oozes tradition and heritage. Lichen-infused gravestones suggest at whole generations of fisherfolk and farmers of centuries past, whose ancestors probably still plough their fields and rent their shepherd’s huts today. The surrounding greens of Mullion Golf Club nestle perfectly, as if they have sat in this landscape forever.

Also fitting in, The National Trust run a small kiosk at Church Cove. Naturally. A pleasant enough mini-menu of Bakewell slices, cheese and onion crisps and ham salad sandwiches. But when you know what is just around the next corner, a short up and down across coast path heaven, then why linger. Especially when you have a partner in crime.

I found myself eating alone overlooking Praa Sands but still wasn’t complaining. While some rosy-hued patrons were already on the booze Magaloof style, I contented myself with coffee and a rocky road. Not Poldhu quality but you could have anything here on a day like today and still feel you had won the lottery. Eat in the view, drink up the ambience.

Praa Sands is a long golden bay, increasingly marvellous as the tide rolls out. Forget the Med, think Australia. Near the car parks, caravan parks, shops and cafes it could be a bit of a Bondi on Boxing Day. But the farther you move away, the closer you come to a NSW south coast style stretch of empty beach.

It’s quite a trek from west to east, but with sand between toes and tepid clear waters lapping at them, the footsteps pass with ease. Eventually Praa Sands can go no further, coming against Rinsey Head, over which the South West Coast Path once more meanders. The scenery becomes a more classic Cornwall, capped off by the archetypal abandoned tin mine. Wheal Prosper. We certainly will.

And confirming that, despite best efforts, this is not really the Med or Australia, how about a pasty back on the beach? Proving this is 100% pure Kernow.

Like pasties, I doubt you would find a bag of pork scratchings on a tapas menu, salty fatty fodder to accompany a pint of St. Austell Tribute. Still, I can easily envisage pints and pork products down on the Costa del Sol. Gammons eating bacon with tea and Estrella.

We were snacking in a pub garden in Mullion, a prelude to ending the day down in Mullion Cove. The small cobbled harbour here almost seems an impossibility. Wedged into the towering coastline, it feels like a tiny fissure in an almighty, unyielding wall. Sanctuary from violent winter storms might only be cursory, sparing. Yet here the harbour still stands, and to stand here is to feel on the very precipice.

Somehow there is a way up from the nook of the harbour, via another goat track section of the coast path. It’s open country, ideal for rabbits and birds of prey eating rabbits and walkers just casually wandering and falling down an unseen ravine. Compared to those fine sandy beaches elsewhere the ocean in front is a less inviting prospect, though arguably more beguiling. A swirling canvas captivating and luring smugglers and pirates and hardy fisherman’s friends of yesteryear.

Illuminating it all, the reddening sun drifts towards a watery horizon, setting closer to ten o’clock in this incredible summer. Glazing the sea and the land and the sky. And kissing our faces a shade of gammon.

And so, the final Lizard bite (part I) culminates in the perfect encapsulation of everything that has gone before: Kynance Cove, with bonus half a pasty.

In recent years, Kynance has become prey to a combination of Poldark Disease and Instagramitis, developing mythical, bucket-list status. All too frequently I am presented with short video clips set to jaunty music showing half-naked people frolicking in crystal waters, often with the caption “CAN YOU BELIEVE THIS IS ENGLAND!!!!!!”. As tedious as these become after constant repetition, they have a point. Kynance is an undoubted jewel in a very lavish crown.

The good news is that despite a warm sunny day in July propelling many vehicles to the National Trust car park, the scale of Kynance Cove is sufficient to maintain a sense of space and serenity. This is especially the case with the tide on its way out, revealing wider stretches of sand, secret nooks and unexpected crannies. In spite of everything anyone can find their own little wonderful spot of paradise.

Still, the kids built a fortress of sandcastles on the beach to keep wandering Scousers at bay, encircling our clan from marauding invaders and video influencers. Not that I sat within it for long spells, keen to just potter up and down and in and out and via the NT café for a mediocre coffee and slice of carrot cake.

Views from up high once again highlight the drama and spectacle of nature, as huge lumps of rock appear as they have been thrown haphazardly into translucent waters and edged with golden sand. The people who once seemed many and varied at sea level morph into colourful speckles, dots on a more expansive landscape. But, with a bit of zoom, that family fortress is still visible.

As I descended to sea level to join them, still a bit peckish, I was delighted to find I had been gifted half a pasty. Originating from the locally ubiquitous Ann’s Pasties, it must have been a product of Kynance proportions for there remained a substantial lunch in front of me. Gorgeous, and at least it wasn’t too hot.

Food & Drink Great Britain Green Bogey Photography

October 19, 2017October 19, 2017

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The Cornish episode

With access to a car and decent spells of time on my side, the last few years have opened my eyes to parts of Cornwall previously unseen. Or if not unseen, unsighted since I had browner hair, smoother skin, missing teeth, and a squeakier voice. This newfound exploration has frequently left me in admiration, appreciation and exhaustion; admiration over the alternating drama and tranquillity of wild coasts, placid coves, windswept moor and pastoral nooks; appreciation for my roots and the luck of being born and able to revisit this part of the world [1]; and exhaustion from the forty-five degree climbs up the coast path or from eating too many scones back down by the sea.

For a few weeks this year I had opportunity to enter the Duchy again and – if truth be told – I was struggling a little for new ideas and places to discover. Not that repeat visits are a bad thing; such as the practically annual drive to Boscastle and Tintagel on the far north coast. And while there are some cherished familiarities (say, Granny Wobbly’s Fudge Crumble), just a little more digging can lead to dramatic vistas around Pentargon Falls or across to the island from the exposed positioning of St. Materiana’s Church.

Other repeat visits transpire from convenience and come with pastry-coated benefits that are worth duplicating. Like the relatively short drive from Plymouth to Looe, through the most contented countryside and down towards the south coast. I don’t usually linger around Looe, but it’s a good base for refreshment and with the right light, tidal state and the discovery of a peaceful corner you can value its merits.

Even closer to home – so much so that just over the hill you will see council blocks, cranes and incinerators – Whitsand Bay is starkly, surprisingly rugged. The eroded, sea-shattered lump of Rame Head is something you’d expect to encounter further west. Bracken and gorse-clad cliffs are punctuated in clusters by cheap fibro shacks with pretty gardens clinging on for dear life. And the waves roll in to the shore in a long translucent line stretching all the way back towards Looe. It is a go-to place for that essential endeavour of ‘blowing away the cobwebs,’ an endeavour far safer in England than Australia.

But what of new discoveries? Surely the web of country lanes and undulations of the coast mean there is so much more around the next corner? Well, technically Trevone Bay near Padstow isn’t new. But I last came here in October and today it was a startlingly sunny and warm day on the August bank holiday weekend. A different place indeed, and one in which I was not so keen to linger.

Once again, I turn to the South West Coast Path for solace; a relatively easy walk northwards towards the headland at Stepper Point, taking in some archetypal Cornish scenery with only a smattering of rambling sightseers passing me by. There are rocky coves, clear seas, sandy inlets and windswept green fields to enjoy. A highlight is the chimney stack formation at Gunver Head, resembling an ancient tin mine frozen in time, weathered and beaten by the cruelty of the Atlantic. Climbing up and up and up over this rocky, eroded headland, surely a grumpy and grizzled Luke Skywalker is hiding out here somewhere?

The miniscule Butterhole Beach offers azure waters lapping at fine golden sand; tempting to visit but near impossible unless equipped with ropes, ladders and a death wish. Instead, you hope for a sign so that you can, er, cover up some of the letters and take a hilarious selfie before heading down to the Camel Estuary. Here the waters and sand are far more accessible, but not too accessible as to be jam packed. Padstein is still a little way away and, with the tide out, there is plenty of room to relax and eat a homemade roll assembled from BBQ leftovers.

This is another one of those if only it was like this all of the time moments. They don’t last but they stick in the memory. Sometimes it’s a fleeting moment…the sun in your face, sweat on your brow, the sound of gulls and waves and even distant shrieks of joyous infants. Occasionally it’s a series of moments stitched together over the course of a day. Often the final Cornwall day.

If my words cannot convince you of the sheer beauty, the pockets of joy, the drama and blessedness in which Cornwall radiates, then it is probably a fictional romp about smugglers and miners and war and steamy liaisons brought lavishly to TV. I cannot confess to watching much of the most recent dramatisation of Poldark but I am well aware of its presence. Sometimes, on a Sunday night in Canberra I have glanced up from stirring a stew to see some bloke with a fancy hat all brooding and serious on Holywell Bay. Or a corseted wench galloping along some cliffs near St Agnes. It evokes memory and a little longing, but I’ll leave the serious fandom stuff to Mum.

With Mum joining me for Poldark Day, my last Cornwall day, it was less about Poldark and more about the canvas – a new canvas – in which such contrived intrigue is set. Not that you would think that at Charlestown, in which tall sail ships peacefully wallow and the clutter of woven baskets and bags of fake grain adorn the quay. It turned out that they were filming here the very next day and the waterside itself was out of bounds. Still, turn one eighty degrees and from the fictional eighteenth century you find what seems something like twenty first century Australia. A rather hip, outdoorsy-focused cafe bar, offering a moderate flat white with the air of prawns and Prosecco on the agenda. Not exactly what I was expecting.

Moving westward and traversing the outskirts of Truro, the Poldark express moved on to The Lizard. Now this was an area that had been on the agenda for some time, but I had never quite made it. Today, sheltered from a blustery nor’wester, it proved the perfect spot for sightseeing, lunching, rambling and a final Cornish ice cream.

First stop, Gunwalloe Church Cove, where I applaud the National Trust for offering hourly parking rates instead of the usual all day scam. An hour was sufficient for an amble and lunch on the sandy bay, relatively sparse now that mid-September was upon us. What a difference a few weeks makes.

Rising up from the beach the links of Mullion Golf Club made me want to grab a club and get swinging again; though some of those holes look like a long slog upwards, and there are other hills to climb. Like in Mullion Cove itself, down from a parking area to the harbour and thus back up again. If there is a piece of flat land in Cornwall I would love to see it. Perhaps at nearby RNAS Culdrose, from where a helicopter did continuous laps of The Lizard all day. They no doubt classified this as ‘training manoeuvres’ but I’m convinced they were out for a sightseeing jolly.

There was not very much at all at Mullion Cove which is why it was so charming. A few boats, a few cottages, a few lobster pots spilling down onto the cobbled wharf. A smattering of the curious sitting in the sun or watching the waves crash into the cliffs. This is where you could stay a week and get through a good few books without being disappointed that you had ventured no further. We moved on.

More popular, and having risen in stocks dramatically in the last couple of years, is Kynance Cove. To the extent that at 3:30pm in the middle of the week in September the National Trust would like you to pay a bar of gold bullion and hand over your firstborn to park. I blame Poldark, stupid knob end. Of course, being locals (okay, sort of), we’re not having any of that, and parked a little way back along the cliff line at a place only the locals (okay, those who look at the satellite view of Google maps) know. Ha, eat your hat Poldark.

You know what though, this was a better way to approach it, with views across the bay to England’s most southerly point, and a sense of anticipation at what might be over the brow of that hill. And there it was, a clump of weather-beaten rocks, encircled by golden sand becoming exposed as the tide drifted out. Despite the costs, it was a popular spot with many stopping in the cafe for an ice cream or cream tea and venturing onto the grassy banks or exploring the nooks and crannies being revealed. Meanwhile, a helicopter whirred overhead, again and again and again and again…

It cannot be denied that Kynance Cove is a spectacular sight, an encapsulation of the Cornish coast that makes you feel lucky to exist. But for some reason I felt all the hype was a little overblown, probably because much of the rest of the county does exactly the same. So whether it’s old or new, revisited or discovered, there is admiration, appreciation and exhaustion in every footstep, every mile, every brooding stare ocean bound. An adoration and attachment that means to Cornwall I will always, like that chopper, inevitably return.

[1] Okay, technically I was born across the river in Devon but this appreciation stretches across both borders

Great Britain Green Bogey Photography Walking

gbpilgrim

Wanderings in the world. Meanderings from the mind.

Tag: lizard

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