Portwrinkle to Looe 6th September 2022
For today’s section of the coast path we start the day at Looe, where we park the car with the intention of catching the bus to Portwrinkle. The plan, using the very handy Cornwall Bus Service App (Go Cornwall), is to catch the 09:30am bus to Widegates. From here the app claims there is a connecting service which passes-through Portwrinkle. However, there is nothing at the bus stop to confirm this, noi bus appears and drivers of other buses that pull-up either don’t have a clue, or are in too much of a hurry to help us. To compound matters my phone is not getting a signal.
Eventually we discover that there is another bus at 10am, which goes past Hessenford, where we can connect to Portwrinkle. This actually works out quite well, since Betty is hopping from foot to foot and obviously needs to go for a pee. On her return, she has a cup of coffee in each hand. This is a nice surprise, although I may well have to find some bushes at Hessenford.
After a round-the-houses tour of Looe we arrive at Hessenford, Copley Arms. The driver indicates where we should catch the next bus, which is just around the corner. As suspected, the coffee is taking effect, so I dodge into someone’s garden.
The bus arrives and then whisks us all the way to Donkey Lane, where the nice driver drops us off. This is the steep, narrow lane we walked-up yesterday. We are just about to start walking down when we spot a car coming up the hill. It is just as well we wait, since by the time it reaches us there is no way it could have passed without incident. Further, the driver is looking a bit flustered by the steepness of the hill. Patches of wet mud don’t help him, as his wheels spin and his revs increase to an ear-splitting scream. With the smell of burning rubber in the air, he just makes it and has a look on his face somewhere inside a Venn diagram of emotions, where the circles of fear, anger and relief overlap.
His wife doesn’t look too happy either. She is probably saying to him “The sign said Not Suitable for Motor Vehicles!”
Confident that no other motoring moron is likely to try such a climb for the next 12 months, we make our way safely down to where a coast path finger-post indicates we should turn-off and we stride out westward. After about half a mile it becomes evident that the weather forecast was correct, as a large lump of fuzzy, grey stuff swallows-up the horizon about 2 miles out to sea. Further, it is headed in our direction.
We decide it would be wise to prepare for the worst. Alas I have forgotten my over-trousers. Quick as a flash, Betty gallantly offers me hers.
“I’ll be ok. My leggings are made of quick-drying material.” She proclaims.
However, she is significantly smaller around the waist than I. As I am tugging the over-trousers up past my thighs the expected downpour strikes us with the force of a tornado. Great big blobs of water, mixed with hail. Quite a painful experience. Within 10 seconds my supposedly waterproof cagool is shipping water, whilst the tight fitting over-trousers make me walk like a penguin.
Water cascades down the steep path we are climbing, as though we are in the middle of an Indian monsoon. I rip my rucksack off and pull out the poncho I should have donned 5 minutes earlier. It does the trick, but by now I’m soaking anyway. Betty, for reasons of her own, decides against wearing hers, confident that her current ensemble will do the trick. Alas, her quick-drying leggings are only effective once the rain ceases. It doesn’t and most of the water ends-up cascading down her legs and into her hiking boots. As she squelches her way up the path some 85 metres above sea level, with not a tree in sight to give us cover, three elderly ladies, sensibly dressed in well-fitting waterproofs, pass us from the opposite direction.
“Nice-out!” I call cheerily, as you do to fellow victims of bad weather. Well it at least gets a laugh.
Of course they are probably laughing at the man with the tight-fitting over-trousers and the lady with the squelchy boots. They only have a mile to go before being able to sit and have coffee in Portwrinkle, whilst we have a further ten of cliff-top exposure ahead of us (and no, I’m not talking about my ill-fitting over-trousers!).
Not only does the rain refuse to abate, but neither does the wind. As it whips off the sea like a Michael Fish hurricane, my poncho starts flapping madly, snagging on an adjacent piece of barbed wire fence. Hopefully the day will come when this stuff is only found in archaeological digs.
“Barbed wire! Fantastic – doubtless indicating that this must once have been an Early Anthropocene pastoral landscape.”
The rip in my nice new poncho is far from fantastic and I turn to warn Betty to avoid getting hers snagged also. It is a waste of exhaled carbon dioxide, as the wind carries my words inland, in the direction of St German’s.
“Billy regrets forgetting his over-trousers, whilst Betty’s aren’t quite ‘man-enough’ for the task!”
The next two miles are a blur of wind, rain and soggy sheep, who glare balefully at us when we approach. Most bolt-off into the bracken, but a few just hold us with a hard stare, chewing belligerently – like a recalcitrant youth hanging-out in a children’s playground. Even these eventually turn-tail at the approach of the two humans, surrounded by wildly flapping bits of shredded plastic.
Betty has had enough of her ‘water-boots’ and decides to empty a litre-or-two of rainwater from them, before continuing on her squelchy way. The rain stops and we are able to stuff what is left of the ponchos back into rucksack pockets. The dry wind does its washing-day trick as our sodden clothing quickly dries. Alas Betty’s water-filled boots and socks do not get the same treatment. Nonetheless, she slops-along relentlessly at least enjoying the respite afforded the upper nine-tenths of her body.
The downward path to the aptly named Downderry and even a hint of sunshine, revive our spirits, although the narrow coast road here brings us into alarming proximity with passing cars. Thankfully we find a footpath down to the beach where we can consume our packed-lunches and Betty can wring-out her socks.
Before setting-off again, I wander the beach to inspect the shoreline for anything of botanical interest. A specimen of scurvy grass catches my eye, somehow managing to hold-onto a lump of eroded concrete that has fallen off the sea wall.
The sand and shingle of the beach moves with every tide, offering scant permanence for anything to hold onto. However, a well-defined strand-line provides some interest, with several species of brown algae (seaweed) and a variety of bivalve shells dredged-up from the shallow water by churning waves. I am surprised to discover a dead gannet amongst the usual bladder wrack and thong-weed and I wonder as to how it comes to be here. You don’t see too many of these large graceful birds near the beach. Mostly they fish further out, diving from a great height into shoals of fish and nesting on offshore islands. Its undamaged body shows no signs of predator attack and I wonder what might have killed it.
“A specimen of scurvy grass clings to lumps of concrete on Downderry Beach.”
“The soft low cliffs at Downderry are protected by concrete, much of which is no match for the power of the sea.”
“The strand-line always provides something of interest for the beachcomber.”
“Thong-weed and bladder wrack ripped from the shallows.”
“A dead gannet is not something I have ever come across on a strand-line before.”
The height of the rising tide forces us off the beach, by way of some steep steps. Back onto the coast road, Downderry seamlessly passes into Seaton, with the official coast path requiring us to dodge still more cars. The coast road now retraces the route taken a few hours earlier when we journeyed by bus from Hessenford. Not for us though, as we gratefully take a minor road and then footpath back to the cliff-tops. In fact these interludes of coast road are no great imposition and they do mean we are able to use public transport at the start and finish of our day’s walking.
Seaton
It a pleasant and thankfully dry walk along the cliffs towards Looe, with views over Looe Island rewarding us for the effort of climbing the 105 metres up from Seaton. The unstable cliffs between Seaton and Looe force the coast path inland here. A quick check of the OS map suggests that a public right of way did exist, but much of it is now on the beach or out at sea. Arguably the right of way does still exist, but it is a right that few walkers would choose to exercise.
Eventually our path takes us back to our previous road up from Seaton, which is thankfully quiet. The high banks and grass growing in the centre of the tarmac are typical of such narrow roads in Cornwall. These are not roads that a sensible motorist would choose to take whilst on holiday. Meeting an oncoming tractor guarantees a lengthy reverse, before a suitable passing point can be found. We have the good fortune to meet no cars at all until we arrive at The Monkey Sanctuary.
Not wishing to be acquainted with our distance cousins, we continue along the cliff-top road, which eventually terminates at a caravan site. From here-on the path follows an ancient trackway that only a quad-bike might traverse. It is one of the many hollow-ways that Devon and Cornwall footpaths often follow. These ancient foot-ways are the result of countless centuries of wear by foot and horse-bourne traveller. Being lower than the adjacent fields, they also act as drainage routes during periods of wet weather, eroding them still further.
Our passage down to Millendreath Beach is steep, with Bodigga Cliffs off to our left threateningly dropping almost 100 metres to the sea below. It won’t be that many years before this ancient trackway is reclaimed by the churning waters below, with the cliffs in a constant state of landslip.
At Millendreath Beach we find ourselves passing through a holiday village, many of whose chalets sit clinging to the low cliffs beyond. This beach resort was built in the 1950s and until recently it became a little dilapidated. It is currently undergoing restoration work, ready for reopening with a different name. 1950S memorabilia is enjoying a renaissance at present, so I can imagine the resort proving popular. Perhaps they’ll add a few classic touring caravans and a sprinkling of Morris Minor 1000 cars around the site.
From this brief sea-level interruption we climb up between houses at Plaidy, forming the well-heeled outskirts of Looe. A lot of the properties have quite expensive cars parked outside, whilst an estate agents window in Looe will advise you that would-be-buyers can expect little change from a million pounds.
A minor road then delivers us down to the beach at East Looe which appears to be popular with the tourists. The beach is separated from the Looe River by Banjo Pier. This was designed by Joseph Thomas in the late 19th Century and takes the shape of a banjo. Others around the world have copied it, but this remains the first and most famous.
Across the other side of the Looe River is Hannafore, where we will begin our journey tomorrow. Looking back to where we have just descended is Mount Ararat. It might be steep-sided, but you are unlikely to come across any arks up there, even if global warming does lead to a significant rise in sea-level.
As we enter East Looe, my joke about arks starts to have new meaning, as the rain starts to pelt-down and hundreds of holiday-makers dash for the cover of shops, ourselves included. Betty had been interested in looking around the fascinating mix of shops here, but you can only have so much of rain before you’ve had quite enough. So, with water in our boots and unspent money jingling in our pockets, we opt to take the short walk back to the car park in Looe – but not before disbursing ourselves of a few quid on a seaside ice-cream.
“The menacing mass of Rame Head lurks in the distance at all times.”
“The sun comes out giving clear views over Looe Island for the rest of the day.”
“A Cornish hollow-way – an ancient routeway but no place for motor transport.”
“The holiday park at Millendreath Beach clings to the cliff-side, but offers spectacular sea views”
“Banjo Pier, Hannafore, the mouth of the Looe River and Looe Island.”