Fowey to Charlestown 22nd September 2022

Yesterday was a caravan moving day. Inevitably, as we move further along the coast, there comes a point where travelling time by car (or other transport) becomes excessive and we need to relocate. Generally this happens just once for each expedition.

Rame Head was great for the eastern half of the present expedition, but relocation west of St Austell not only solves the ‘commuting’ problem, but also gives us a day to rest and explore the wider area. With Betty’s calves feeling a bit tender the day-before-yesterday, the timing couldn’t be better.

Further, whilst exploring The Lost Gardens of Heligan I had a worrying ‘episode’ of feeling light-headed. I decided to call at the local A&E department, but thought better of it once I got there. The place was rammed with casualties and sick people. As I reluctantly queued to be assessed I saw a poster requesting prospective patients ring 111 first. That was all the excuse I needed. Chatting to the nice nurse at the other end of the line convinced me that I was over-reacting to my issue and Betty drove her poor little soldier back to the caravan for a good night’s sleep. Anyone who thinks the current NHS and hospital issues are nothing should just stick their head into A&E. The answer is plain to see.

So, feeling rested and reassured, today Betty and I decide to park at the Readymoney Car Park at Fowey. We could have returned to Polruan and taken the ferry across to Fowey, but where is the sense in that? Hopping over yet another South West peninsula river-mouth saves us both time and money, although I confess I do like a short boat ride.

“Ready Money Cove – an excellent location for a family with small children.”

We don’t spend too much ready money parking for the day and it is only a short march down to Readymoney Cove Beach, which sits directly opposite Polruan Castle. Doubtless you are intrigued as to the origins of its name. Apparently it is derived from the old Cornish word ‘redeman’ which meaning ‘shallow ford’ or ‘stepping stones’ and has nothing to do with smuggling. Both Daphne de Maurie and Dawn French were once residents here, but the most striking thing about it is the quiet ambiance. A perfect place to bring small children to play on the sand for the day.

Not having brought my bucket and spade with me, I decide not to regress to my childhood days spent on the beach at Robin-Hoods Bay and join Betty making the steep ascent to St Catherine’s Castle.

“Fowey Harbour – Fowey to the left and Polruan to the right – from St Catherine’s Castle.”

The view from St Catherine’s Castle up the River Fowey is at first sight rather odd. How is it that a relatively insignificant valley contains such a wide river. Under normal circumstances, a river that big would have a wide, flat, floodplain, perhaps stretching a mile or more in either direction. That’s what an excess of moving water does as it cuts down and sideways through the landscape. Instead it looks more like one of the small flooded tributary valleys that branch-off from large dammed-up reservoirs – like Ladybower in Derbyshire, or Bewl Water in Kent.

The explanation is as simple as it is for the two reservoirs named above. The River Fowey – like the mouth of the Dart, the Tamar and many other South West Peninsula rivers, has in-fact been dammed-up by the rising waters of the English Channel (and the world in general). It is a ria, or drowned, coastline with ‘un-naturally’ deep and wide river channels. It gives us some idea of what might happen some-time in the future as the current rise in sea-level progresses. Rivers like my local Cuckmere and Ouse in East Sussex could potentially have salt-water (or at least brackish) spreading out permanently into their adjacent flood plains, with towns like Lewes engulfed by it. Eventually London could go the same way.

From where we stand, the Fowey is all clanking rigging from yachts safely moored in its sheltered waters, which are sufficiently deep to allow the passage of coasters similar to the one we saw yesterday from Polruan. My biggest surprise a few years ago, was to see a large ocean-cruiser moored in the middle of the Dart estuary at Dartmouth – also a ria, or drowned river valley.

St Catherines’s Castle is a natural place to build a fortification – like its twin sister across the water at Polruan. As far back as The Iron Age, forts were built here. Since then this has been the site of fortifications during the Tudor period, the Crimean War and most recently the Second World War.

I find the Crimean War impact a little odd, since my assumption has always been that this was a battle fought over 2,000 miles away. However, there was also fighting in the Baltic Sea, so perhaps there were fears of it spilling-over into the North Sea and Atlantic theatres?

As we walk in the bright sunshine, the sea is like a millpond – surely the best of conditions for a walk along the Cornish coast. Ploughing through the flat blue mirror, a small boat appears from the mouth of the Fowey heading south west. It is the ferry taking tourists from Fowey to visit the charming coastal village of Mevagissey, not far from where our recently moved caravan is now located. I had considered us making the return trip from Mevagissey to Fowey yesterday, as part of our rest day. However, timings were against us and the trip was scrapped in favour of the alure of The Lost Gardens of Heligan (and the rather less alluring Truro A&E later in the day!)

“The Channel is a millpond disturbed only by the Fowey to Mevagissey ferry heading south west into St Austel Bay.”

From our vantage we are able to follow the ferry as it passes Gribbin Head and sets off across St Austell Bay. But those places are in the future for us. Here and now we enjoy the fine, if sometimes rather sweaty, weather as we climb further sets of steps and down into the inevitable valleys that have been thrown across our path.

Gribbin Head is actually only an hours walk away, but the vastness of sky, water and cliffs give the impression that we may be days getting there.

“Gribbin Head, topped by the barber’s shop pole of Gribbin Tower remind us of the progress yet to be made.”

At Polridmouth we encounter a quiet sandy bay with just a smattering of visitors. A mile of walking down and then back-up steep cliffs, doubtless puts-off faint-hearted visitors from coming here from the two car parks nearby. They are missing a gem, but I’m sure the owners of the only house in the bay don’t mind one bit. They are looking quiet relaxed sitting out on their extensive lawns with glasses of Pimms in the late morning sun. Some American walkers pass us and we exchange greetings. Four ladies in their 40s, they probably heard of the challenge and beauty of the South West Coast Path and decided to have a ‘girls’ hiking holiday, using bed and breakfast for overnight stops.

Polridmouth is at the outfall of a small stream which cascades down a steep, narrow valley to the sea. Its flat-bottom suggests that it too might have been a drowned valley when the sea-level was perhaps a few metres higher. Sedimentation would have filled-in the valley over time. Now it is home to a couple of mill-ponds, long since becoming part of the ornamental landscaping of Menabilly mansion on top of the hill. This was once owned by Daphne du Maurier and provided the inspiration for her novel Rebecca and the house Manderley.

“Polridmouth and the mill-pond belonging to Menabilly – the inspiration for Maderley in the novel Rebecca, by Daphne du Maurier.”

It is a good, steep 75 metre climb from Polridmouth to Gribbin Tower which was built in 1832 as a day-mart to guide sailors to Fowey. William Rashleigh of Menabilly was pleased to have the 84 foot tower visible from his grounds, providing a popular ‘folly’ for visitors to walk.

Gribbin Head was also the location for beacons that were lit at the coming of the Spanish Armada in 1588 and potentially during the Napoleonic Wars in the late 18^th Century. More recently the farmland around Gribbin was used for some of the scenes for The Birds, where Alfred Hitcock had flocks of birds attack terrified humans. I don’t tell Betty about this, considering her fear of feathered friends – she wouldn’t sleep for a week I’m sure. As we leave, I can’t help looking over my shoulder just in case – fact can often be more bizarre than fiction.

“The newer part of Polruan sits atop its hill, reminding us of our progress to-date.”

“Gribbin Tower – atop Gribbin Head – a hot, sweaty climb to yet more magnificent Cornish vistas.”

It is getting close to lunch-time, but we decide to stretch our appetites for a further hour and try to make it to Polkerris where we are hopeful of finding a cafe.

Beyond Gribbin Head, the coast turns northward for a few miles, following the curve of St Austell Bay. A few botanical finds here are worthy of comment.

Every year I am astonished by how many flying insects are reliant upon ivy and its flowers. The air is redolent with the slightly sickly-sweet perfume of ivy flowers. As I pass a bank of this vital feeding station I am astonished by how many honey bees, not to mention other insects, are busy collecting nectar and pollen from the flowers – to see them through the winter months ahead. On a hot September afternoon I could spend an inordinate amount of time listening, smelling and observing all the comings and goings on an ivy clump.

“Ivy is alive with wasps, bees, hover-flies and butterflies at this time of year.”

The second botanical distraction is Sea buckthorn, a shrub which is particularly resistant to salt spray, hence its frequency in sand-dune and other coastal habitats. The spiny branches offer good protection for nesting birds, whilst the bright orange fruits provide for their dietary needs.

“Sea Buckthorn is a typical plant of coastal areas, being resistant to salt spray”

The third is a tree and a disease – the Ash tree and Ash-dieback (caused by a fungus – Hymenoscyphus fraxineus – formerly Chalara fraxinea). This disease has been spreading for many years across Europe and is now in the process of decimating our own Ash tree population. Infected Ash can be identified from the dead black leaves, hanging from some or all of the trees branches. An excellent map, showing the spread of the disease can be found at: https://cdn.forestresearch.gov.uk/2022/02/ashdieback_uk_outbreak_map4_10_Web_Version_Accessible_021122.pdf. What the eventual fate iwill be of this once common British tree is uncertain, but like Dutch Elm Disease in the 1960s and 70s, it is biological marker of our time.

The walk to Polkerris offers excellent views of Bodmin Moor to the north of St Austell and the strange white landscape created by the extraction of china clay (kaolin) from its weathered granite. Cornwall has the largest supplies in the world, although production has fallen considerably since the early 1900s. The white spoil heaps and glistening blue lagoons created from its extraction have given rise to the term “The Cornish Alps.”

Finally we make Polkerris by way of a steep winding track which takes us down through woodland to the tiny village, its pleasant harbour and sandy beach.

Polkerris harbour is little more than a protective wall between the beach and the open sea, with most boats being small leisure craft. The village used to have a busy pilchard fishery, but serious storms of the early 19^th Century destroyed much of the sea wall and village. Today there are only 15 cottages in the village, but it does have a few souvenir shops and a cafe. We are well pleased with the latter and decide to grace it with our custom. Eating a packed-lunch on cafe premises does throw up difficult questions. Are we allowed to eat our own sandwiches, especially since we are buying a hot drink from them? To ask if we may, potentially throws up the possibility of being refused. Should this happen then how do we go about having a hot drink with our lunch? In the end we just sit at their picnic tables and sneak the odd sandwich when we think no-one is looking!

“Polkerris harbour and its beach. The seaweed strewn strand-line promises interesting pickings.”

Now we are at liberty to cast our eyes over the beach and indulge in our favourite past-time – people-watching. Very soon the world of humans starts to revolve around us as we watch the various groups interacting.

*****

First-off we notice three young lads beaching their sailing dinghy. The eldest must be about 15 or 16 years old, the youngest perhaps 12. Outdoor pursuits are great for bringing out the best in young people. They quickly learn a skill, but more importantly how to interact with the rest of their team, responsibly and safely. No amount of computer games will ever develop that. There is no health and safety required when fighting aliens with a keyboard or some other controller. There is real danger in taking a boat out to sea – even on a sunny day.

Working together, our three intrepid sailors smoothly skim over the shallowing water until it comes to a halt when the bow cuts into the sand. Whereupon, the two youngest leap overboard and drag the boat a short distance, leaving the eldest to manage the tiller. All done with practiced ease. Marvellous!

Safely ashore they revert back to being teenagers – play-fighting and indulging in a game of tag.

A minute later their adult instructor appears, manning the rescue boat, which he too beaches. Immediately our three teenagers rush to drag his RIB up the beach, before returning back to tag.

An ‘old salt’ shambles down the beach and engages in conversation with the teenagers. Is he sharing some pearl of wisdom? Do they even know him? I suspect he might be a bit ‘ninepence-in-the-shilling’, but the youngsters humour him – if perhaps looking a bit embarrassed by his over-attentiveness.

Two small children are playing together, examining the seaweed in the strand line, delighting in the ebb and flow of the waves at low water, chasing each other through the sandy shallows and punctuating the September air with periodic screams.

We switch to a couple in their 30s, walking down the beach with two children, perhaps 4 or 5 years of age. The children climb into one of the canoes which are on the beach waiting to be hired. Their parents have no such interest and tell the children to get out of the canoes. They are obviously embarrassed and look around in case the proprietor should show up. However, the children have no intention of doing as they are told. The stand-off quickly degrades into a kicking-screaming session from the youngest, who has to be dragged away bodily by an angry parent. Who would be a father sentenced to a week’s holiday with a child from hell? I suspect the problem is of their own making, with too much reliance on pleading and not enough imposition of boundaries.

Out in St Austell Bay a pod of paddle-boarders demonstrate the nearest one is likely to get to walking on water. Perhaps this was the very trick employed two thousand years ago on the Sea of Galilee? On hot summer days like this, when the sea is a millpond, it must be incredibly tranquil to scull slowly over the water looking down at the fish below.

*****

But it is now 1pm and we have to stir ourselves out of our holiday ‘gongoozling’ and get back to the serious business of walking the coast path. From where we are sitting we can pick-out our destination across the bay, which appears to be many miles distant. It always amazes me how a good walking pace eats up the miles though.

So our cups returned to the cafe, we set off across the beach and climb some steep steps winding up the cliffs on the far side of the sand. Here we meet another couple who are busy doing the reverse trip – from Charleston to Fowey – and we compare notes.

Forty-five minutes later, to the sound of incessantly yapping dogs on the beach, we descend to a line of low dunes at the top of Par Beach, cut at their eastern end by a small reed-lined stream. The water shows virtually no movement and looks brackish, but is crammed-full of quite sizeable fish. I wonder if they are sea fish trapped by the falling tide or a freshwater species that does not mind feeding in the slightly saline waters between the tides. The inter-tidal zone can be a treacherous place with its fluctuating salinity. Most species are either freshwater or seawater specialists, with only a relatively small number capable of adjusting to the waters of streams and rivers subject to variations induced by changing tide levels.

The yapping of dogs sets me thinking about beach politics and its polar opposite beach etiquette. I don’t understand people who appear to actively encourage their dogs to bark on beaches where the vast majority of the public have come for a relaxing sun-bathe. For our part we have the perfect antidote and use our legs to distance ourselves from them as quickly as possible.

Following the strand line, I spend the next 20 minutes searching for anything of interest and am rewarded with the shelly remains of a sea potato (a heart-shaped sea-urchin). You never know what you might turn-up here. Dead eels, laminar holdfasts (seaweed roots) and the ubiquitous bladder wracks abound. All the while the beach twinkles from the myriad of mica crystals washed out of the granite-derived sand.

“A sea potato – a kind of sea urchin – a good strand line find since the shells are very delicate.”

Further up the beach is the softer, drier sand above high water mark. Here you will find the wallowing sunbathers soaking up the sun on their lilos or blankets, except where the pointed leaves of marram grass poke through. Marram grows up through the wind blown sand above the strand line. Its roots and stems anchor the shifting grains and induce the development of embryonic sand dunes such as these.

“St Austel Bay, Par Sands and the China Clay facility at Par Harbour.”

“The low dunes of Par Sands covered in marram grass”

“The marram grass roots and shoots stabilise otherwise highly mobile wind-blown sand”

At the western side of Par Beach another watercourse prevents further progress. Beyond this are the “China Clay Dries” and harbour. The harbour was developed in the 19^th Century to take copper and other minerals away. Today copper is not an important mineral in Cornwall, but the harbour is still used for moving china clay, which is largely piped as a slurry from the china clay workings inland. The slurry usually has to be dried before loading onto ships, although one dock has the ability to load slurry directly onto boats. The old dries are still present at the side of the docks but have been replaced by bigger tanks.

“Little-used mineral line, used for transporting china clay to Par Harbour”

With our progress blocked we are forced to walk inland through a wooded area behind the sand dunes, where the South West Coast Path has to follow most unattractive and busy A roads for half a mile. Everything appears close to dereliction and decay, with the old railway lines overgrown with weeds. Our route takes us behind the harbour, which we never get to see – a pity really – and then through derelict land back to the coast at Spit Point. The footpath through the derelict land is not the sort of place you would want to be walking after dark, but it is currently a popular route for local children and their parents attending a birthday party on the beach here.

Spit Point beach must be a great place for the locals to have to themselves, since access to it involves the far from attractive route we have just taken. Few tourists would consider, or even be aware of, this secret cove.

Beyond Spit Point we enter the world of the serious golfer. I don’t mean they are necessarily good at it, but they are all very serious. The world of golf is so endowed with rules and etiquette and no referee on hand to police them (except of course for professional tournaments), that all sorts of arguments must occur between those involved in playing against each other and even with other groups of golfers with whom they might get involved in border skirmishes. Throw in a public footpath and a car park at the western end of the course and full scale war is liable to break out.

Most people walking their dogs along a coastal footpath are probably blissfully unaware of the etiquette surrounding a golfers balls. The dogs certainly don’t. As we head west along the coast path a family with a dog (off its lead) comes from the opposite direction. An elderly gentleman and his wife have just played their tee shot and he is doubtless well-pleased with it. From his vantage on the tee he sees the dog run over to his ball and pick it up.

He can’t believe what he is seeing and jumps into his electric golf buggy, along with his wife, and they burn rubber down the fairway towards the dog and the blissfully unaware owners.

“Stop, stop, stop.” He angrily shouts.

Eventually the couple hear him and turn to see why a motorised miniature Trumpian figure is bearing-down upon them demanding they stop.

“Your dog has stolen my ball,” the golfer shouts, “give it back!”

From where we are standing, perhaps 50 yards away, I can see the dog-owner-lady flinching under the onslaught from the fat red-faced little old chap with the funny green flat cap on his head. A few yards behind him,the golfer’s tiny wife is equally hot under her collar as she brandishes her putter.

We decide not to stand and spectate, although as we are going I get the impression that the dog-owner-man has decided that he is not taking any more shit from his diminuitive assailant and is about to ‘sort him out’.

Yes golf is a funny old game and is to me “a good walk spoiled”. A phrase attributed to a number of sources, but for now I’ll claim it as my own. In my case it is probably sour grapes since I’ve only played the game 3 times, all on rather posh courses when my employer IBM was picking up the tab. I was rubbish at it and lost so many balls of my own that I freely admit that I’ve developed an opinion on the matter based solely upon my own incompetence as a golfer.

“The stand-off at the 9^th green is about to unfold. The electric golf buggy trundles down the fairway, the ball to the left of the green and the couple with their dog approach from the Coast path.”

“Local kids’ beach party at Spit Point. St Austell Bay and Gribbin Head beyond.”

As we walk along the coast path, we count down the tees and fairways back to the club-house at Carlyon Bay. Betty is in need of spending a penny and we find ourselves walking through a wooded thickett – the perfect location. I am dispatched to watch for anyone who might interlope. This strategy has worked well in the past, but this might be because never before have I actually encountered anyone about to turn the corner and witness the penny spending.

Quick as a flash I adopt a mock authoritarian manner towards the two middle-aged ladies about to bare witness to the partially bare suspect.

“I’m sorry. I have to ask you to wait for a minute ladies as my good lady wife is just around the corner and is somewhat indisposed.”

They both burst out laughing, immediately grasping the nub of the matter. We engage in a short discussion as we await matters to come to fruition. It seems they are out walking along the coast path whilst their husbands indulge in a round of golf. I suspect there are many thousands of wives in the same boat, but very few husbands reversing their roles.

It is just as well that we are finding plenty to entertain us from humans, because the scenery along this stretch of the South West Coast Path can’t hold a candle to the rest of it. The quality of scenery continues to regress as we pass Carlyon Bay beach. Ironically some of the most secluded beaches in Cornwall are hidden from view at the base of the 40 metre high vertical cliffs. However, Carlyon Bay beach today is devoted to loud music, alcohol and hordes of young people.

Carlyon Bay didn’t have a beach of any size until 170 years ago, when china clay waste was allowed to spill into the sea here by way of an adit in the cliff side. For about 100 years the gravely waste accumulated, being worked by the sea into the current beach. The waste ceased to be deposited about 70 years ago. Since that time Carlyon Bay and the Colloseum Club built on it, has become something of a concert venue. Big names like The Trogs, Paul McCartney and Jimmy Page have performed there. Today only temporary structures are put in place for beach activities.

For the last 30 years or more various attempts have been made to develop housing and leisure facilities on the beach, but it is a saga that continues to drag on. I am surprised that the county council gave permission for such a develpment, considering the slow erosion of the beach by the sea – now that no further waste material is being added. Further, faulting of the Devonian slates and siltstones here has led to cliff falls in the past. Throw in sea level rising and any new development might be short-lived in nature!

Interesting as the site is, it is not our scene I’m afraid, so we just keep moving.

Shortly the dull greensward of the golf course gives way to the equally dull greensward of an alternative mown public vista. As dull and lacking in variety as astroturf. Give me biodiversity any day. This expanse of green forms a continuous 50 metre strip between the cliffs and a very expensive housing estate beyond – Carlyon Bay. I’m tempted to think that it has been left undeveloped so that people can enjoy the open space provided, but I suspect it has more to do with economics. What wealthy person in their right mind would contemplate investing a million quid in a home that will as likely as not be claimed by the sea before the end of the century? Eventually the housing estate gives way to an area of green fields before we descend to our destination – Charlestown.

The transition from wealthy suburbia to the historic harbour at Charlestown is remarkable. Likewise the contrast between Par’s working harbour and dusty dockside industries and those at Charlestown with its quaint old waterfront.

We don’t linger long at Charlestown, being more interested in making our rendezvous with the bus back to Fowey. It is not yet 5pm, but the day-time tourists have already departed, leaving the coast clear for the evening revellers trickling down to the pubs and bars in anticipation of finding a suitable watering hole to drink at.

The bus drops us off at Fowey and we decide to spend a while investiogating this strategically important small coastal town. Despite the rise of the town as a tourist destination, it is still an important port, especially for loading china clay onto coasters such as the one observed from Polruan two days earlier.

As we descend the steep roads of Fowey, down to the waterfront, the town becomes increasingly crowded by revellers enjoying the early evening sunshine. The focus appears to be Market Street and Town Quay, which is packed with pubs and restaurants. The most stiking thing to me is how little of the waterfront is accessible on foot. The steep-sided valley abruptly disappears below sea level with virtually no promenade. Over the centuries houses have filled the waterfront, with most movements along it probably done by boat. The houses close to the water now run the risk of periodic flooding when tides exceed 15 feet. This issue is not going to go away over the coming century and residents will have to address is sooner rather than later.

As we make our way along The Esplanade towards Readymoney Cove we reflect on the nature of this quaint coastal town. It is evidently a bustling community and a draw for tourists, especially those interested in an active night-life and daytime shopping attractions. For those of a less urban persuasion, I would recommend one of the smaller settlements along the coast, especially if you are a walker. What I do like about the town is that it is not just a tourist mecca, but is also a real town offering jobs associated with the local mining and marine industries.