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.
Did I ever imagine back in 1996 that I would be gazing out to the Pacific hoping to sight a whale? Meandering downhill alongside gardens strewn with exotic plants and colourful birds? Wandering past parks dotted with electric barbecues and sinks for dealing with the entrails of fish? Who would have thought I would have previously parred the treacherous Bogey Hole of that golf course wedged between the town and the plunging cliffs of the coastline? Certainly not me, or anyone else, 
Spurred on by earlier whale sightings I ended the day back up near Narooma, taking a scenic coastal drive alongside Dalmeny and Kianga which boasts several panoramic viewing platforms along the way. The platforms are sited in between yet more pristine bays that you can have all to yourself. It was at the last of these points that I glanced a surfing dolphin, followed by a few more and a few more still. Passing below, there must have been around twenty dolphins, tracking north on a feeding mission. A whole two football teams.
No doubt many of the loftier residents of Salcombe were in jovial mood; not only from their elevated perch surveying the ambling peasants seeking a cheap pasty, but with the news of a royal baby to join the ranks. Does it have a name yet? I can’t even remember. Have the Daily Mail criticised the parents yet? Oh probably.
And so, the unexpected and unplanned once again yields some of the most memorable moments. Waiting in a small layby among the gorgeous fields of Devon in the warming sunshine could be worse. Being patched up and guided to Totnes for repairs by endearing locals eager to provide a helping hand (and earn some pennies) proved heart-warming. Spending a few hours in Totnes, charmed and enlightened by good coffee, markets overflowing with abundance and leafy riverside walks. And the satisfaction of rediscovering batter bits with malt vinegar (good work Mum!)
Such are the ample proportions of the landscape here that the coast path between Strete and Blackpool Sands struggles to keep to the coast. The barriers are too immense, and the trail cuts inland as it dips down towards the bay. But this too is something of a blessing, for not only do you make it without falling to an inevitable death into the sea, but you become once again immersed into a countryside apparently so utopian. Farming must still be productive here, despite the temptation to become a campsite or a tearoom or a paddock for some pampered hobby horses.
gbpilgrim 