this little world - Chapter 26

The mist rolling in from the sea

In the morning amongst the sea mist Clovelly recovered some of its charm. I sat for a short while at the top of the village and sang. It seemed the right kind of thing to be doing at seven thirty on a Tuesday morning.

I had set myself a heavy day of walking. I wanted to get to Bude by evening. I did not mind the long walk as I was looking forward to striding along the cliff top paths with their impressive views over to Lundy. However, as I finally got clear of Clovelly, the sea mist embraced me like a jealous lover, begrudging me any beauty that was not its own. I found myself on a long walk that took me through a cloud.

All along this section of the Bristol Channel I had been surprised at the trees. Mile after mile of the coast had been covered with woods, filled with ferns and snaggling roots. As I walked on through the mists towards Gallantry Bower trunks loomed out of the cloud and I heard a woodpecker hammering away in the distance. These were the last woods I would see on this coast. After turning at Hartland Point the cliff tops became too exposed, too battered by the ocean for trees to flourish.

I climbed strenuously up and down on this cliff top section of walking. My boots slipped on the slick surfaces of the slate scree and my feet sent stones rattling down over the cliff side. I was aware of the fact that I was pushing myself to walk faster despite the fact that I really could not see. The cliff’s edge was very close to my right boot.

I knew I was near now to Hartland Point, I passed through the car park marked on the map and was sure I was still on the right path. It had been quiet all morning, quieter than I had expected. I nearly jumped off the cliff at the first blast of the fog horn. In the deep mist I walked to within a few feet of the lighthouse. The vertical cliff of the Point was directly in front of me.

The weather got better as the morning wore on and near the cliffs above Hartland Quay the mist cleared just enough to give me a view over the flattened plates of rocks below. After the fire red stone of the North Devon coast these layered sheets were a sombre grey. I was struck by how the sheets of rock had been twisted and tucked like layer after layer of forged iron.

It was an up and down kind of afternoon. The path bucked and dipped like a rumour-ridden market and I found my legs becoming tired from too much volatility. It was getting warmer but the mist and moisture persisted so that the sweat inside my rain coat was becoming as much of a problem as the rain. My glasses took every chance to steam up. I crossed into Cornwall without even noticing a sign. I had to rub away with a cleaning cloth to bring Bude into view. I sweated and peered myopically through the fug.

By now I had acquired a number of interesting extra skills. The ability to walk in the shade, the ability to guess the time and to guess accurately the number of miles I had covered since lunch. I had also acquired the ability to feel each separate piece of pain generated by the one billion nerve endings in my feet. Perhaps the most baroque skill that I had acquired was an encyclopaedic knowledge of operation of all manner of English domestic plumbing. I had become a bathroom spotter. After a day of sweat I could not wait to get to grips with the water.

Being hopelessly short sighted I found that the best way to deal with any new shower/bath situation was to study the bathroom with my glasses on (a literal dry run) and then to rely on my memory to get me through a wash. From two months of wandering into strange bathrooms I had literally memorised the layout of dozens of them. I had become a guru of gleaming chrome and could have easily have applied for a job as a correspondent with ‘What Shower?’ magazine.

Fortunately, since then, this information has slipped my memory. However recently while having a particularly fine day dream involving me taking a shower. I was somewhat irritated to note that my reverie was marred by its ridiculous detail of the plumbing; detail which came complete with the name of the shower’s manufacturer and the precise way with which one would operate the knobs on the wall to get a decent No.7 (mildly hot) shower. I am thinking of suing the bathroom industry for emotional damage.

In Bude, however, my shower savvy let me down. I had gone through my standard pre-flight checks before entering the shower and had reminded myself as to where my towel was in the bathroom. But after cleaning off the day’s sweat I became confused. Whose bathroom was I standing in?

Turning swiftly right instead of left as I came out of the cubicle, I walked into the wall. In the best traditions of slapstick I then stumbled backwards clutching my forehead. I knocked my glasses from their safe perch. There was then an ominous crunch when I trod on the left lens lying on the floor. For the next couple of days the mist became permanent as I looked at the coast through an old pair of glasses.

In my diary I recorded the next day as the day of flies. Flies. Every time I tried to settle anywhere they were there, biting me. Every view was short lived because of the itching attentions of small feet. Flies. Nature’s way of telling me to get on with it!

It had started out a fine morning. David, who I had been staying with overnight, was an experienced walker and I had spent a leisurely breakfast with him telling me of his plans to visit Antarctica. After talking about glaciers and walking in snow storms, trotting through Cornwall seemed quite harmless by comparison.

At lunch time the mist came back again. I had been sitting in a pub at Crackington Haven with my back to the sea and when I turned around the beach had gone. The smothering pillow of the mist dampened down outside sounds. I walked that afternoon with the sound of my own breathing. It rasped in my ears like I was wearing a gas mask.

The cliffs that marked the approach to Boscastle Harbour were the most sombre on this coast. The sea mist and high rocks combined to intimidate me. Everyone else fool enough to walk these paths had grouped themselves together, plodding on in single file like llamas crossing the Andes. I joined the back of a group working its way around a cove. The sea seemed too close as it slopped against the rocks. The mist cleared just for an instant to reveal a huge sea cave and gulls silently wheeling below.

The path took me on one last twist over a cliff and there was Boscastle Harbour lying in front of me, a huge fracture in the rock like a Norwegian fjord.

Pauline had arranged for me to stay on a farm just outside the village of Boscastle. I had become experienced during the walk with the sorts of things that can go wrong when you arrange to meet a stranger in a town. I rang the farmer’s wife for any hints as to how I could recognise her husband.

"It’s all right" she said laughing. "just look out for Paul Mc Cartney!" As I waited in the mist I sang ‘Mull of Kintyre’.

Next morning back at Boscastle I wondered as I stood at the harbour-side whether the ancient Cornish language had had twenty different words for mist. A variety of language would have livened up my description of this part of Cornwall. I walked cautiously back to the cliffs thinking about buying a thesaurus and headed down the coast towards Tintagel.

Tintagel. Even now I touch its name with respect. The swirling sea mist a perfect metaphor for the clouds of romance that surround the scant physical remains of the site. Like Glastonbury, Tintagel is embued with romance.The court of King Mark, friend of King Arthur. Its name is associated with the lovers Iseult and Tristan. There is little to tell us about its historic past. It’s a perfect place to step off into fantasy. Looking through the mist I caught sight of a myth.

I approached the promontory along the winding cliff top path and as I came level with the block of the Hotel above I could see why this corner of Cornwall has ignited such interest. The high cliffs of this island made a natural castle.

As I stood waiting to buy a ticket for the ruins I was impressed at the number of languages being spoken in the queue. I knew the legends of King Arthur had been told all over Europe but I was surprised when a Japanese couple came and stood behind me. I asked them what brought them to Tintagel. They smiled politely and said, the Knights of the Round Table. The twilight Age of Arthur appeals across the world. The good people who lived near this promontory know the effect of this glamour. The village behind the promontory-island used to be called Trevena but changed its name to Tintagel to increase its tourist appeal.

From Tintagel going south-west I found the clifftops littered with the remains of mining activity. I walked on past headlands and bays that had been broken and quarried for slate which was then taken away by ship to make roofing slates for houses.

The industrialisation of this coastline is no new thing though. Archaeological excavations at Tintagel for instance have turned up pottery from the 4th century AD. Pottery that was known to have been made in North Africa, Turkey and Greece. The international importance of Tintagel was obviously as great then.

Perhaps Arthur never ruled at Tintagel but I get the impression that some local strong man did. A man who looked out from the high walls of Tintagel down through the mist watching the merchant ships riding at anchor in the bay. This man traded with the world. His power base and trading wealth rested on the mining of tin. He needed his strength to keep control of such a lucrative business.

Tin has shaped the history of Cornwall. The Romans certainly knew that Cornwall was rich in the metal and came here in search of material wealth. Mining has gone on for over two thousand years. The story has been the same right down to this century. Later on in the walk when I reached the far west of Cornwall the landscape was dominated by the remains of derelict wheelhouses. It’s only in the twentieth century that the mines have played out.

I left the sea at Port Isaac heading south to Pauline’s cousin’s house at Chapel Amble. The sun came out as I left the coast behind me. It struck me, not for the first time that my walk was a thin corridor of experience. By only using my feet for transport I had confined what I saw to a turn of my head. A different route through the country would have given me a totally different impression of Cornwall. Here I found Summer, cows chewing the cud. I listened to blackbirds bustling in the hedgerows. The mist and the cliff tops seemed as remote as the Dark Ages.

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