Plymouth to Rame Head – Sunday 4th September 2022
We rise at first light, eat a hearty breakfast and prepare for the day’s walking. Unusually, we intend to abandon the car overnight and collect it tomorrow afternoon, after 2 full days of walking.
The drive to St Germans takes us about 30 minutes, where we park the car in a small residential side-street and hope that the locals don’t mind. The train to Plymouth is due at 9.51am and we have perhaps 20 minutes to spare waiting on the platform. St German’s is a tiny settlement, yet it is endowed with a mainline station. Back in the age of steam I guess every village on the line had its station. Most of these disappeared in the 1960s, along with lesser used lines. However, St Germans was (and still is) on the mainline from Penzance to London, being the focal point for locals from miles around – as well as the multitudes of holiday-makers to the area. So despite its size Beeching evidently spared it.
A dozen or more people are on the platform to catch the train into Plymouth and we get into conversation with a couple in their late 40s. We don’t have tickets and can see nowhere to purchase one.
“Where do you get tickets from.” I ask
“We always buy ours on-line.” He responds
“Tech savvy! Whatever happened to cash?” I joke.
“Never use it,” he responds straight-faced, “just carry my phone.”
It’s a whole new world and dinosaurs like me are being left-behind in the wake of progress. I used to be pretty tech-savvy myself, having worked for IBM and a few other IT companies, but the pace of change in everyday living is hard to keep-up with – especially if you have stepped-off the carousel of the modern world. I wonder whatever happened to using sea shells, or bartering a pig for a year’s supply of apples? Still, I can see carrying a pig to buy a train ticket could be pretty inconvenient. Further, what do you do if the fare to Plymouth for two adults only comes to half a pig? Could be a pretty messy business!
The train arrives spot on time and we board, as usual during these Covid times, avoiding the main compartment and preferring to stand in the ‘entrance hall’ protected by surgical masks. I feel like Dr Kildare in mufti.
The guard takes our quaintly old-fashioned, contactless card payment and we spend the next 15 minutes moving from side to side of the rear section of the carriage, admiring the Cornish countryside as valleys, salt-water creeks, hills, hedges and fields whisk by. After pausing briefly at Saltash, the train then crosses over Brunel’s 1859 masterpiece – the Royal Albert Bridge across the River Tamar and into Devon.
The relationship between Devon and Cornwall is a spiky one I believe. A friend of mine’s mother was born in Cornwall and whenever he went on holiday with her as a child, she refused to step out of the car in Devon. Perhaps a gang of Devon horse-rustlers popped over the border when she was a small girl and made-off with her Shetland pony?
We finally alight at Plymouth Station, where Mr Google’s maps are employed to get us through the streets towards the jetty at Admiral’s Hard. The technology may be very clever, but on reaching a rail or underground station, I am never quite able to work-out exactly what direction to go-in before my walking commences. It’s the absence of the ‘little blue arrow’ you see. Invariably, I have a guess and walk in totally the wrong direction, before my little blue friend eventually comes to life. Only then do I become aware of the correct route – which is rarely the direction I have elected to travel in! I’m sure it won’t be long before users are presented with a ‘Street-view’ picture to follow, rather than a map. Perhaps they will have one of those annoying animated paper-clips or other cartoon character, beckoning the user to follow, as it sets-off along the street like a white rabbit, maybe pointing-out interesting places as you go. In fact, I suspect that function is already available, but is not compatible with my Jurassic brain!
What little we do see of Plymouth looks like many other cities in the UK, being a mix of modern commercial properties and older residential abodes of varying quality. It’s a concrete jungle, not least when negotiating the busy roads, so we are glad to find a route which takes us through an area of parkland and playing fields, where scores of 6 to 10-year-olds are involved in a rugby coaching session.
Had we come here at low tide 50 years ago, they would all have been rolling around in the mud of Stonehouse Creek, which was filled-in, in 1972. Apparently this was once a dangerous place to walk without sword or pistol in-hand, so I keep a firm grip on my pen-knife. I certainly wouldn’t walk it after dark today.
We eventually arrive at Stonehouse Bridge, which now forms the embankment created to keep the sea from entering Stonehouse Creek. Apparently Harry Houdini jumped off the bridge in 1909 to perform one of his many escapology stunts (or maybe he was as keen to get away from Plymouth and swim to the Cornish side of the River Tamar as my friend’s mother?). https://www.plymouth.ac.uk/courses/undergraduate/ba-history-2-2/stonehouse-creek-gone-but-certainly-not-forgotten
“Rugby coaching at Stonehouse Creek – since its conversion into playing fields”
From here it is just a short walk down Durnford Street as far as the Stonehouse Barracks, home of the Royal Marines. The buildings in this area of town are largely of Georgian or Victorian origins, many of which are being converted into upmarket residential accommodation.
I check the timetable for the Cremyll Ferry and realise that we have perhaps 2 minutes to trot down Admirals Hard before it leaves. I’m quite pleased that I can still ‘run-for-the-bus’ at 68, without getting too puffed-out. The crewman standing at the gangway looks a little surprised by my haste, probably because the ferry never runs on-time. Sure enough, a minute later Betty arrives and we stand twiddling out thumbs for a further 5 minutes before he gets the signal to cast-off. Evidently life is lived in the slow-lane in the west country.
The ferry is bigger than most we have encountered along the South-west coast, which as often as not are managed by a crew of one, with space for just a dozen passengers. The Edgcumbe Belle which ferries us to Mount Edgecumbe Country Park on the Cornish side of the Tamar, looks like it could carry up to 100 passengers. The web site indicates that the ferry is dog friendly, even-so I am amazed how many of its passengers have taken this to heart. There must be 20 or more dogs on-board, a significant number of which have a cursory sniff at my trousers before seeking out more interesting doggy smells.
“Edgcumbe Belle – the ferry, not the red-head! (note the jacket – it’s the last you’ll see of it).”
As it pulls out into The Hamoaze (the stretch of the River Tamar adjacent to Devonport Dockyard), the ferry gives us excellent views of the vast number of moored yachts which occupy the waterfront here. This is obviously a magnet for the sailing fraternity. To our left is the Royal William Yard, Europe’s largest collection of Grade 1 military buildings. Today it is a major tourist attraction, largely for its bistros, dining and shopping facilities.
Crossing the Tamar to Cremyll on the Cornish side, exposes us briefly to the swell coming up the English Channel, giving us a taste of the importance of Plymouth as a safe anchorage throughout history.
Looking back from the Cremyll side I am immediately struck by how problematic rising sea-levels might prove to be for Plymouth over the coming 100 years. The city has such an extensive waterfront that you wonder how they might consider addressing this problem – perhaps a metre increase by 2100. Possibly they will emulate Cardiff and build a barrage across Plymouth Sound, with some sort of lock arrangement to allow ships in and out. Failing this, Plymouth might become the new Venice, as water is pushed up the narrowing English Channel by storm surges, or whatever else might result from changes to our climate.
“Royal William Yard – now home to bistros, bars and shopping“
“Cremyll slipway with Edgcumbe Park beyond”
Soon we are all tumbling off the Edgcumbe Belle and into the neighbouring Mount Edgcumbe Country Park, where it seems most of the dog-owners are headed for a ‘paws in the park’ event. Not being doggy folk, we turn left and pass through some pleasant gardens with a cafe before making our way along the substantial stone sea wall overlooking the Tamar.
“Plymouth and the Tamar waterfront from Edgcumbe Country Park”
An information board explains that James Cook sailed from Edgecumbe in 1788 at the start of his circumnavigation of the globe and discovery of Australia and New Zealand. I wonder what he would have made of present-day Plymouth and Plymouth Sound. The latter has probably changed little, but the former would be unrecognisable.
The gardens and sea wall eventually give way to a hedge and acres of mown grass monoculture – the defacto vegetation for any public open space. How dull is that? Come on Edgcumbe Park, let’s see a bit of wildflower meadow. It’ll save you a fortune in mowing!
Eventually we pass through an area of woodland before finding ourselves on further acres of cropped green. A gentleman of similar age to ourselves asks me if I would take a picture of him with the Tamar in the background.
I seem to attract such people, having received a similar request from an elderly couple in the Lake District earlier in the year. They wanted to send the photo to their grandson to prove they still had the energy to get out into the countryside.
I take the gentleman’s photo and return his camera/mobile phone.
“You need to be careful. I could have run-off with your phone you know.” I banter.
He just gives me a sort-of grim smile, which suggests he might be a retired Royal Marine, well capable of getting hold of me and despatching me with his bare hands – had I dared to. Either that, or taking Betty as a hostage. I wonder if he is visiting old haunts, perhaps where he and his ex- or late wife spent many a happy hour on holiday. He certainly cuts a sad, solitary figure and he’s not the first we have come across on our coastal journeys.
Looking ahead of us, it appears there is no way through the trees, so we elect to turn right, up the path and past a duck pond. But this doesn’t feel right either, so I check the map. No, it seems we do have to head into the trees, beyond a mock Greek temple known as Milton’s Temple. Looking a bit shame-faced we return to the path and our solitary ex-Royal Marine.
“Wrong way.” I blather, slightly embarrassed.
He just nods, with that same grim smile. So we settle for a cheery wave and find our way past the Greek temple and disappear into the woods beyond.
“Misty air rolls across Plymouth Sound from the Devon side.”
“Milton’s Temple – the Greek Temple marking the edge of the lifeless Edgcumbe Estate lawns and the biodiversity of the woodland beyond.”
At last the coast path has returned us to the natural environment that we crave. Obviously the South West Coast Path (SWCP) has to pass through towns and cities, but they have never been my natural habitat.
20 minutes later an elevated viewing platform appears on top of an impressive stone ‘bus-shelter’. Well it looks like a bus shelter. The viewing platform however, looks more recent and of course I can’t resist climbing it to drink in the view across Plymouth Sound.
A further 10 minutes of pleasant woodland walking brings us to what I assume to be a 19th Century Folly. Two niches on the front of the building would most likely have had classical Greek statues placed within them. Since the creation of SWCP these have either been put into a museum, or have been ‘knocked-off’ by passers-by, glad of a souvenir for their garden. A third niche catches my eye. On closer inspection it looks like someone has drawn a perched swallow using charcoal. Or is it just a smear? You decide (see photo).
A metalled trackway keeps to a pretty steady elevation, as it leads us south towards Picklecombe Point and Fort Picklecombe. I suspect it was built as a military road, giving excellent views across the approaches to Plymouth Sound and ensuring that troops and ordnance could be moved easily from fort to fort, should Plymouth be under threat.
10 minutes further walking brings us to Fort Picklecombe, which elusively hides amongst the trees, protected from prying eyes by a large fence. The fort was built as a ‘Palmerston Fort’ to protect Devonport naval base from the French. On the opposite side of Plymouth Sound is Fort Bovisand, designed to do the same job. Today Fort Picklecombe has been converted to apartments, some of which you are able to book through Airbnb. Apparently for £936 you can book a 4-bedroom apartment in November for 5 nights. Not bad if you get four couples to shell-out £235 each.
Soon we get our first glimpse of Cawsand, where we intend to have our packed lunch. Cawsand and its neighbour Kingsand present a tantalising prospect – all misty soft-focus as the village tumbles down the cliff side to the sea. It’s as though we have spotted a secret place in an exotic landscape.
Descending the SWCP to sea level, we intercept the tarmacked road to Fort Picklecombe and follow it briefly in the direction of Cawsand before turning-off right along a cinder track, pausing briefly to dig-out waterproofs as a flurry of rain descends.
“Elevated viewing platform on the South West Coast Path – Edgecumbe Estate” and “A glimpse of Cawsand through the trees is remarkably inviting in its mystery.”
Cawsand its Residents and its Architecture
As we near Cawsand a couple come running towards us. She moves with athletic grace, whilst he lumbers along more like a prop forward. I suspect they met at the local rugby club one evening when they had both had a few too many to drink.
I imagine she invited him for a jog along the coast and wanting to make a good impression, he eagerly agreed. Now he looks like he is regretting his earlier enthusiasm, as he tries hard to keep up with his running partner. As they pass she turns to offer encouragement and may already be thinking that this was not the person she hooked-up with the other evening.
We enter Cawsand, passing through a wooden kissing gate, whereupon another athletic female runner appears and shoots-off down the track in pursuit of the other two. This is all getting a little too energetic for a 68 year-old. I feel good and ready for a break from exercise and since we have found a few wooden benches outside the Rising Sun, we decide that it is probably lunch-time.
This is an excellent spot, despite the bench being a bit rain spattered and we sit down to see what is in our sandwich boxes. In the meantime, Betty has discovered that she no-longer has her black jacket.
“It must have fallen-off my bag when we put our waterproofs on.” She laments, but accepts it is too far to go back hunting for it. Betty’s lost items of clothing are a regular issue on our walks. We have walked miles to retrieve hats and gloves in the past, with some limited success, but I think a whole coat is a new departure. I’m sure she’ll turn-up at a police station one day and report to the sergeant on duty “I’ve lost my husband.”
Investigating Cawsand/Kingsand via the Internet reveals that they were once pretty much Siamese twins, conjoined across the Devon and Cornwall border. In the 19th Century they were reunited, with the boundary moving to more or less its present position on the Tamar.
Our lunch finished we pack our rucksacks ready for the section of our walk to Rame. The weather is holding and it looks set fair for the remainder of the day. The prop forward returns from his run, alone. I suspect he’s given up chasing the ladies (metaphorically and literally). Perhaps once the second girl had caught them, he decided that three was a crowd. He’s obviously not in their league, certainly when it comes to fitness. Now he’s alone, he makes no pretence of athleticism, strolling forlornly down the hill.
Much to my surprise the lone chap who asked us to take his photo at Mount Edgecumb Country Park, also appears. It is turning into a parade of previously encountered characters and I wonder how long before a boat-load of dogs will appear from off the Edgecumb Belle. He doesn’t notice us, or at least feigns not to, and disappears down the hill into the village. With that flurry of excitement over we decide to wander into Cawsand ourselves and see what it has to offer.
Opposite the Rising Sun is a terrace of houses, which give the impression that the two biggest ones were built first, the upper being cream coloured and the lower being half beige and half cream. Further examination reveals that an infill property was then built, sandwiched between them. I suspect it occupies a former dividing passageway. At little more than a bed’s-length in width, it must be one of the narrowest houses in the country. It shows the slightly bazaar and opportunistic building attitudes of the past, which modern planning laws would not permit. It’s all very charming.
Even odder, the lower of the two large houses has since been divided in two. The change in masonry paintwork indicates the dividing point, with the divide between the beige and the cream paint running vertically, but split by the first and second floor windows and the well proportioned ground-floor doorway (refer to the photo). This doorway is divided in two, with a separate door for each of the new properties. A young lady is moving baggage from the hallway of the left hand (beige) property.
“Which house has the first floor room and which has the second floor room?” I ask, indicating with my finger the two rooms in question.
“I’ll have to ask my boyfriend – the owner.” She replies before disappearing into the house.
I overhear the two of them chatting – something along the lines of “there’s a chap outside asking questions about your house – can you talk to him?”
The young man emerges and I feel a little embarrassed – perhaps I should have run-off down the road, a bit like we did as kids – when a friend might have dared me to press a house’s doorbell and then run away. But I’m a little old for playing ‘Knockdown Ginger’ (or Nickana Night as it was known in Cornwall) and see it out.
“Sorry to trouble you,” I mumble, “I was just wondering how they divided the rooms-up when the house was split down the middle.”
“No trouble,” he reassures the nosey old git peering into his bedroom windows, “we own the first floor and they own the second floor.”
“Thank you so much.” I say effusively and quickly scuttle down the street, leaving him wondering what that strange old bloke was up to.
“The Rising Sun overlooks The Green at Cawsand.”
“What must be one of the thinnest houses in the UK, on The Green, Cawsand”
“A house divided against itself cannot stand. – Abraham Lincoln”
Investigating the Delights of Kingsand-Cawsand
Throughout my investigations, Betty has wisely decided to abandon me, strolling down into the town in preference to being embarrassed by her nosey husband. I catch her at the bottom of the hill checking her phone for fan-mail (but more likely her sisters). We stand at the junction of Little Lane and The Green and it is evident that no cars come this way. There is barely enough width for a horse to pass through.
Round the next bend we come out on The Cleave, otherwise I suspect called the ‘Prom’ outside of Cornwall. It is a charming vista and probably my stand-out view for the holiday. To the east is the sea – more accurately Plymouth Sound and the local section of it – Cawsand Bay. Despite being a relatively sheltered location, the wind is blowing hard. Waves lash the rocks and the summer’s bunting looks on its last legs, flapping wildly above The Cleave.
To our left the various cafes, pubs and tourist retail outlets are not looking particularly well patronised, their outdoor tables and chairs redundant. In Olive’s Tapas and Bar a familiar figure sits hunched over a cup of coffee – it is the mystery man from Mount Edgcumbe. Perhaps he is watching us?
Despite the sea spray lashing our faces and salting our mouths, we are drawn along the road as far as we are able. The road narrows to a path lined by houses to the left that have taken the precaution of fitting flood defences to their ground-floor entries. At high tide the waves must lash up here. Fortunately, the sea is not too lively and the tide is out, so we wander the rocky shore at the northern end and gaze across to Fort Bovisand on the Devon side of Plymouth Sound.
Returning to The Cleave we head north along Market Street and Garret Street where we find a shop that sells takeaway coffee in paper cups. Just what we need now that we have been standing around in a brisk sea breeze. The warm liquid has the desired effect and we depart Cawsand and cross into its neighbour Kingsand. From here we get a clear view across Plymouth Sound, where we can see a Brittany Ferries ship cruising into Plymouth.
A kind of bus-shelter stands at the top of the beach. This has been put in place for the benefit of passengers awaiting the ferry that runs between Plymouth and Cawsand throughout the summer season.
“The bottom of ‘The Green’ narrows to little more than a Betty’s-width”
“The Cleave in its out-of-season plumage.”
“Cawsand Beach and The Cleave from the south.”
“A Britanny Ferries ship enters Plymouth Sound, passing various Royal Navy vessels.”
“The ‘bus-shelter’ at the top of Cawsand beach where passengers awaiting the ferry to Plymouth can shelter.”
At the edge of the village, cars are parked at the end of a track, which disappears into dense woodland, tumbling down the steep cliffs to the sea below. A waiting mother paces up and down, to be met by a couple of children carrying bedding and pillows. As we walk further along the coast path, still more children appear in the company of young adults wearing blue logoed polo shirts. It looks like they’ve been having a sleepover somewhere.
Marching along we pass an elderly couple hiking from the other direction and exchange greetings. Five minutes later Betty discovers that she has lost a further garment (at this rate she’ll be down to her bra and pants by the time we get to Rame Head!). The missing item is her favourite hand knitted bonnet. She’s lost this several times over the last 10 years, but we have always managed to retrieve it. Concerned by its loss, we are retracing our steps when the elderly couple reappear, walking back towards us. The lady smiles, whilst brandishing a dark brown knitted hat.
“You’ll be looking for this I suspect.”
Betty is beside herself with joy. “Thank you, how kind, thank you.”
So it is with raised spirits that we carry on towards Rame, only to have them dampened, when the track abruptly comes to a halt at a set of high gates belonging to Pier Cellars (HMS Raleigh training establishment), bearing a brace of threatening signs. I’m a bit flumoxed. There is no indication as to where we can go, just the usual ‘fist-shaking’ signs you commonly see whilst on a walk in the countryside.
“The offending MOD sign and gates of Pier Cellars – HMS Raleigh.”
“Danger Out of Bounds” and “MOD (N) Keep Out Trespassers will be Prosecuted.”
Time for a short rant I think.
It seems the MOD, like so many other landowner are keen to make it clear that the public are not welcome. It is a cheap and equally rude alternative to posting a squaddie at the gate, who shouts those same words at you, as you are walking along on a public right of way with no intention whatsoever of entering their land.
Firstly, why use words on signs aimed at the public that you would never use in person? Rude is rude, whether written or spoken. Secondly, why not just put a sign up politely indicating the correct route to take. 99% of those reading the sign have no interest in “trespassing”, whilst the other 1% don’t care what the sign says.
The MOD work on behalf of the general public and should set the standard of good manners for others to emulate. Likewise the wealthy landowner, who is projecting himself as a class above the rest of us. Such cheap and lazy behaviour is a poor example to set and has no place next to a public right of way.
Rant over.
My cage severely rattled, we skirt the MOD enclosure and follow the only alternative path available. As we climb up through the woods I can see groups of children inside the fence carrying bed-linen and pillows. I hope the MOD is doing a better job of developing the characters of their young charges than their signs do.
Eventually our path links with Earls Drive, which seems to be an important trackway running parallel to the coast around here. Further research reveals that Earls Drive takes its name from The Earls of Mount Edgcumbe who owned all the land from Cremyll to Rame and created the drive so that they could take a spin around the estate whenever it suited them.
Earls Drive provides us with very easy walking and after a short while the woods open out to give us excellent views across Plymouth Sound and south across the English Channel. A family group appear to be having a history and geography lesson from their father, who is pointing out the Eddystone Lighthouse about 20kms south of here. Peering through the haze we can just make it out, along with the stump of an earlier incarnation.
“Eddystone Lighthouse and stump of its predecessor 20km offshore.” and “Penlee Point and the entrance to Plymouth Sound from Rame Head.”
Forty minutes later we arrive at Rame Head, only a mile from our caravan. We have made good time, so indulge in the descent and then the short climb to St Michael’s Chapel at its southern tip. This chapel has existed here since the 14th Century, on the site of an Iron Age hill-fort. Various church ministers and others have occupied the site, mostly to aid in the defence of Plymouth. Watchmen warned of the arrival of the Spanish Armada and were actively looking out for French warships in the Napoleonic Wars. During World War One an anti-submarine gun was placed here and then in World War Two a concrete gun emplacement was located here. Chapel and concrete gun fortifications sit in strange juxtaposition to each other (a few months later we are watching the film Elizabeth, staring Cate Blanchett and low-and-behold there is a brief scene set on Rame Head, with St Michael’s Chapel, where they are lighting the beacon to warn of the approaching Armada. I feel we were part of history!).
“St Michael’s Chapel and the WWII concrete gun emplacement sit in strange juxtaposition on Rame Head”
Although it is now a sunny day, the wind batters us on this exposed promontory and we retreat inland a few hundred metres. I rescue a pink jumper left inside the chapel and as a token offering to St Betty – the patron saint of lost clothing (that’s patently a nugget of misinformation!) – I tie it around a bench nearer the car park, just in case another Betty-like lady should be wanting it.
Then we take a short walk around Rame Head as far as Polhawn Fort, from where it is just a short climb up to Rame and the sanctuary of our caravan.
“Polhawn Fort, now converted into a hotel/private functions establishment.”