I had the crazy idea to backpack along the Cornwall coast just as rainy season began — and an even crazier idea to stick stubbornly to the plan.
What possessed me? Partly guilt, partly competition with myself. I was excited by the prospect of losing weight on a long hiking journey, as well as the challenge of pushing myself physically. I reached my limit, pushed farther, then pushed even farther until I almost collapsed. I was carrying a moderately heavy backpack, about 10-15 pounds, plus food and loads of water.
By the end of it all, I had hiked more than 22 miles, up and down hills, with all the weight. Quite proud of that.
Cliffs, beaches, tin mines and more
On the first day of hiking, I got up early and walked under the morning sun from Penzance, a town of pirate pubs, old sailor culture and a medieval church on the hill. I walked up and down small fishing villages on the shoreline such as Newlyn, the source of much of Cornwall’s fresh fish, and Mousehole, where colored lights were strung up on poles along the road leading into town. I passed many stone buildings with white window trims until I rounded the edge of a grassy and rocky knoll and headed down into Lamorna Cove. I stopped for carrot cake and espresso.
When I left, the drizzle turned into a downpour, and right when I reached a most miserable path I stepped into a giant muddy puddle. My shoes were submerged in brown gunk, and I had to brush my feet against long grasses to wipe it off. This was, by far, the most grueling stretch of my trip. By the time I reached the village of Treen in the rain, my feet felt like loads of bricks. My Airbnb host, a charming old man, was so impressed that I had come from Penzance. “Wow, you’ve come a long way!” he said. I ate a filling dinner of a creamy fish pie with cheese baked on top at The Logan Rock Inn, soaked my muscles in a steamy shower, dried myself off and passed out on the bed.
On the second day, I took greater liberties to enjoy viewpoints. The sun was bright but the trails were slick and muddy. I went by Pednvounder Beach, a calm, crescent-shaped and sandy beach at the bottom of some cliffs next to calm waters, and climbed up to the open-air Minack Theatre. It’s probably the most stunning amphitheater to hear Shakespeare. Green terraces and gardens ringed the tops of tiers.
When I reached Gwennap Head, a wide, mostly flat and grassy bump – like a forehead – on the cliffs I was pretty exhausted. This section was particularly gorgeous, with gentler slopes than the first day and surprisingly beautiful views of rocky coves when you wound aorund cliffsides. I was wiped out by the time I wound around a hill and came up to Land’s End – the most southwestern tip of England. Completely exhausted, I almost couldn’t move my legs any more. So I did what any sensible person would have done. I called for help and got a ride from a friend’s stepdad.
On the last day, I felt such great fatigue I almost didn’t get out of bed. Every part of me was screaming to go back to sleep. But I willed myself to get up and see the abandoned tin mines on the Cornish coast. I wasn’t disappointed. It looked like a post-apocalyptic scene of a lonely world devoid of inhabitants and signs of life, except for the carpets of grass and weeds that grew on old structures and near the open holes of mine shafts. Botallack and Geevor mines are two of the well-known ones. I spent a lot of time climbing into the ruins of stone buildings and wandering around the mines. It felt, quite literally, that I had reached the end of the world.
I noticed the sky changing, from white and hazy to dark gray and moving billows of clouds. By the afternoon, rain was dumping on me again, and I had to forfeit my plans at Pendeen Lighthouse to go any farther to Zennor and onward to St. Ives.
A note on British humor
One thing I can’t get enough of is the hilarity of classic British understatement and cheeky dry humor. One time, I was at the neighborhood pub Star Inn in St. Just to watch the weekly open mic night. I spied a group of adults on a bench against the wall, scribbling away on sketch pads. I turned to a nice older woman next to me and said, “That’s cool, I wish I could see what they’re drawing.” “Well,” she said with a smile, “I don’t think you’d recognize it.” As in, it’s probably so horrible it looks like shit. I was dying inside.
Another instance, while I was bent against the wind plodding along on a dirt trail, an old couple with their dog walked by, the man hobbling on his cane. When a gust blew me sideways to a 90-degree angle, the old lady turned to me and said in a perfectly normal voice, “It’s a bit windy isn’t it?” I laughed to myself on and off for hours afterward, thinking of the irony.
