Despite the recent price increases Train fares are still one of the cheapest and most reliable way to travel and I always attempt to end or start at a station. Thankfully the line from Truro to Plymouth is dotted with many stations, of which one of the prettiest is Lostwithiel, the former capital or Cornwall.
The town was once one of the busiest ports in England and still maintains much of the medieval buildings that supported the Tin trade. Seated beneath Restormel Castle and surrounded by woodland, I had seen the trails leading from the station down the valley and longed to find where they led. With the recent frosty weather there really is no better photo opportunity than a frost covered riverbank with a mist gently rising with the sun.
Plans made and lunch packed I left the house shortly before eight to catch the 8:21 Penzance-London Paddington train. Alas I now live about four miles from Truro so I had to drive to the sation. There is a bus that comes near the house but that was not going to arrive until after the train left and I feared missing the melting frost. On the way my appetite was wetted by a snow like covering of frost upon all available surfaces.
Unexpectedly the train was packed, filled with pantomime goers headed for Plymouth, but even with only two carriages I still found a double seat to myself and a perfect view of the wonderful winter scenery. As the sun rose slowly over the bleached green hills, it cycled through purple, red and amber hews. Starting out an enormous ellipse just above Truro it shrank and squared as it climbed slowly weakening behind the clouded sky.
Lostwithiel is just three stops up the line, the other two being the potential end points of my journey: St Austell and Par. These are towns with mining and China Clay heritage close together and all places that I hardly knew but hoped to get a different and better view of today. From the train today as it slowed over the viaduct on arrival in St. Austell the town looked different under a cleansing frost and a multi hewed sunrise. The view made me eager for the final stop and my chance for those frosty morning photos.
The train line enters from the South coming in along the Fowey river valley, with the town on the left and the river snaking its way along the right. The limit of my navigation on these walks tends to be to make sure the water is consistent on one side. Today I was keeping the water on my left, so I had to head to the far bank, across the Lostwithiel Bridge (one of the oldest in Cornwall) to the main town. For the first time on these travels I have no map of the area and I did consider popping into one of the shops to pick one up.
Deciding against expenditure I followed the slow flowing river
South along the river banks evidently popular with dog walkers at this time of the morning. The view was just breath taking; the white tinged banks of the river followed its meandering path towards the sea and rising sun. Along with the cold the sight distracted me from the path I had planned on following I wondered blissfully on toward the ‘V’ of the valley and a dead end.From the town there extends a park, bisected by a single track road, ending in a nature reserve with a path along the rivers windy edge.
Populated by swans, ducks and the occasional dog walker the tranquillity of the reserve captivated me. That was until the path ran out and I came to the muddy end! Even with the frost making what would I imagine normally be spongy ground relatively solid I was not going to risk the short trip across the mud to the far bank.
Instead I headed back to the park, considering the train track that had been beside the reserve and continued where I could not. There was, I knew, a path that followed the river and that train track down to Fowey and the sea. There was a fork in the road under the rails and taking it I found the sign I had missed pointing the way. While only losing me a half an hour and giving a little extra wear to my shoes, it did give me a great idea for a new programme for the mobile phone. The Ordinance Survey have all their maps on the internet and I had used them to plan the journey. On the ‘phone I had tried to call them up again but the interface and scaling to fit the screen made then useless; instead I have now written a new programme.
There can be no complaints for the detour however, as the path I now followed took me much higher over the river valley. The land still, silent and pristine as before but now more like my recent journeys on the Helford and Carrick roads with stocked fields interspersed by deciduous woodland. The path wound around the edge of the valley, undulating gently as it came over tributaries into the Milltown woods.
The woods themselves, allowed me the option of a steep incline deeper into the woods but I continued by the water and the train tracks. Unfortunately after a mile or so the woods ended with a barb wire fenced field making me take to the hills anyway. A climb significantly greater than I would prefer at that time of day I was glad to reach a seat at the top with a view across to a churchyard on the river banks. As my height increased so did the temperature and I found myself sweating as I descended to join the Saints Way.
The Saints Way took me through the little village of Golant where I met a welcome sign with the legend: Fowey 3 Miles. As I passed out, contouring the wooded banks of the Fowey, shouts and bugle calls came from the other bank. I strained through the now strong sun but couldn’t see anyone making the noise, the only other souls I could make out were some silent fishers at the valley base and soon the path took me away from the possibility of finding out; descending into another tributary before rising away on another hill. From there the Saints Way took the roads to Fowey but as I descended into the town’s periphery they became unexpectedly busy.
Fowey was upon me, a place I used to visit occasionally in my old job of fixing cash registers. I fell in love with the town, appearing on first blush compact but instead become a sprawling collection of houses clinging onto a steep headland at the mouth of the river. Much like Looe and Mevagisy the historic nature of the town means that car travel is tricky at best. Along a main street barely able to take a horse and cart but lined with huge town houses many of which are now guest houses or hotels. The incline of the hill gives a staged effect where everyone gets a view of the sea or river.
Far too expensive for my tastes I continued through heading to the costal path, which crosses into the town from the East bank via the ferry. Before taking on the ever increasing breeze from the sea I took lunch in a little park overlooking the beach. Appearing like a castle I could imagine a sunny day in summer surveying the seas, today however a slightly hurried lunch watching some canoeists beaten back down the river by the incoming tide.
After lunch I continued on, climbing again through woodland along the Saints way as it loops around back to Padstow. Halfway up the hill the coastal path leaves the Saints to their churches in favour of the sea and in a few hundred yards St. Catherine’s Point with its small castle atop. Today some children were enjoying the fort so I thought better of a stop and instead moved on around the headland.
A mile or so further on the path comes to a strange little cove with a house and lake sitting behind concrete buffers. The lake was still partially iced over from the extended cold snap but still managed flowed to a sandy beach. I crossed over that little stream via blocks dropped in the water’s path to return to the fields and ascension toward a red and white tower that dominates the South coast.
For as long as I can remember whenever looking East up the coast from beaches on the Roseland I would always see this tower. It was always a mystery as to what purpose this oversized barber’s pole could perform.
The Beacon on Gribin Head is utterly incongruous to the surrounding landscape, alone on the headland it stands square and striped. From a distance it had appeared curved, but close in it is more like the monuments on Carn Brea and for Hardy in Dorset. At the top a small ring of battlements presumably would have housed the flame while down the shaft small windows give it the appearance of a lighthouse which, of course, it was.
From the head the path continues onward towards Par turning back towards St Austell. The coastline is similar to the Roseland and North Lizard, with moderately large cliffs and sandy beaches. Despite the wind that was now emphasising the cold air the sea tossed but did not produce the rolling waves of the North. This stretch, in contrast to my morning of solitude, was evidently a popular choice for people looking to take advantage of the sun. However for some reason they seemed all to be going in the opposite direction to me.
At Polkerris the path again descends through woodland, although in a rather round-about way, snaking down a very steep incline. At the top of the first turn someone had attached a rope, I thought about giving it a try, saw the consequences of falling and being some considerable distance from assistance, so decided to only jump a little. Fun, but bad for the arms and potentially the rest of me, so onward and downward to the charming little cove of Polkerris.
One thing about these journeys is that I tend to find places I would like to revisit. Here again is a classic Cornish harbour with a breakwater shielding the semicircular beach from the worst of the weather. Steep cliffs gave it a secluded feel helped by the harbour wall, a pub right on the shore and clean open facilities mean it is definitely one on the list of beaches to visit at some point. It is like Mullion without the smell of fish!
Alas those steep cliffs inevitably required a climb, but it was one of the last of the day and, I must say, while feeling the distance a bit the sun slowly sinking and the blue green of the waters was spurring me on. Gone was the feeling that Par should be my destination, I was back onto St. Austell and nothing was to stop me. I checked Google Maps on the phone and planned a route, either from Charleston or Duporth depending on how I was feeling at the time.
Par itself is a strange place, on one side there is a long sandy beach, exposed today to the wind but clearly in summer a safe place to enjoy the afternoon warmth. On the other there is the docks with the China Clay storehouses, pumping out what I hoped was steam and looking extremely industrial. Just behind the beach are holiday homes, who have a view of the sand dune protecting them from the worst of the weather but also one of Cornwall’s few industrial complexes.
The dune was welcome to me as well as those holidaying in the British summer, meaning firm footing across the path to that industrial complex. There began the so called: ‘Clay Trail’ which was signposted as a tour of Cornish Clay heritage. What it turned out to be was a brief footpath into the centre of Par followed by a chain link fenced walk along the edge of the crumbling docks. That is perhaps a little harsh, it was certainly interesting to see the pools and stores all linked by miles of steel pipe work. What would have been nice was some signage to give meaning to what was being shown, I assume the mostly empty tanks were to allow the clay to settle for recovery but that is only a guess.
Past the pools the path continued to the sea again. By this point the sun really was beginning to fall giving way to more of the illuminations of the morning, as stratified cloud was painted by the fading rays. Despite the aging day I found myself hemmed in against the sea by golfers taking on the golf club that occupies the cliff tops from the docks to the Carlyon Bay Hotel. Dodging a couple of errant strokes I continued on considering that perhaps my confidence in my legs had been misplaced and Par should have been my destination instead. The Golf course continues right the way to Carlyon bay and the new developments although the golfers did not. Evidently the rapidly diminishing light and increasing wind were a becoming too much, their presence was not missed as in their stead came an army of dog walkers.
At Carlyon bay a new development has been in process of construction for so many years that it is becoming difficult to remember the days of the Cornwall Coliseum. Still largely standing although sans roof, it does look a fine spot to live, watching over the crashing waves of the bay. I last saw the beach about four years ago when I took a random trip on a bus and it has changed little since then, although some construction had begun back in land behind the golf course and railway line.
My last stretch of the coastal path took me over the cliffs before the great road of hotels starting or ending with the Carlyon Bay itself. On the cliff side as a surprise comes the coastal watch station, watching over the water users. As the road turns back inland the path curves away and falls down into Charlestown, another of Cornwall’s historic harbours.
As I came into the village I was witness to some excitement as an older gentleman reversed into a large blue pickup. There was much revving of the engine followed by the passenger, with many an angry word, attempting to swap places and presumably flee the scene. Fortunately someone had entered the pub from which they soon returned with the owner. Being the other side of the water my view was pure, all but the loudest of actions was lost to me, however; so I left them for the final hill taking me to St Austell and my destination.
St Austell is one of those towns that do not want to end, sliding out to encompass the surrounding villages. So I was able to climb on up past the old town houses of Charlestown to the new developments of the Foundry past Penrice school and back into the random mismatch of housing that lines the road to the centre of town without feeling any discontinuity. What I did feel was the mile and a half, much more than any of the previous twenty!
Eventually, but well before the next train I arrived at the newly modernised Train Station. Complete with a heated waiting area offering food and drink at what I am sure would be reasonable prices. Another leg completed in my tour and one almost completely new to me. The highlight must have been the wonderful frost of the early morning, despite losing my way!
