We resumed our walking on a unwisely-chosen day as the mist was down and we could barely see the beaches at the bottom of our cliffs. In some ways this was an advantage for we started in the middle of Newquay, eventually finding the end of the footbridge we had visited on our previous outing. It was hidden away in an anonymous and dull housing estate on the edge of Pentire where parking was positively discouraged.

Newquay is not famous for its architectural splendours. Sadly, many of its buildings are dull, cheap, functional, or have been rendered inelegant by the demands of business. Around its historic core, the town has sprawled with guest houses and businesses essaying a hard-to-believe jollity climbing over each other to attract customers.

The town was a late C19 speculative construct. A slump in usage of the rail line from Par for goods and a switch to passengers, helped the town to develop a tourism industry. Silvanus Trevail then worked out plans for a model resort – plans which were never fulfilled – and business took off. How unlike Portreath which also had a railway of sorts but was not connected to the main line and therefore never made the jump to a railway-borne tourist.

Trevail was responsible for the three great hotels which are the landmarks of the Newquay skyline and which would never be allowed today: indeed, in 1933 the CPRE apparently argued for their demolition. They could have put their efforts into spreading the indiscriminant sprawl of the town with its muddled and often low quality architecture.

The decline of the ‘English seaside holiday’ from the end of the 1960s could have been the final straw for Newquay’s 100 year-old tourism industry but the surfing industry has given it a new lease of life. Sadly, this has not brought high quality. In some ways, the result is a reminder of how ineffective our post-War planning laws really are: unable to prevent low quality sprawl and the voracious appetites of red-blooded commercialism.

Walking through a town like Newquay was never going to be our ideal for a coast path but we were pleasantly surprised at some stretches. The route attempts to follow the coast through the town following a litany of famous beach names: Fistral, Tolcarne, Lusty Glaze and Porth.

In some parts one would not actually know you were in a town at all thanks to the golf course which kept buildings well back from the cliff edge or because the path was below the cliff edge itself. The cliffs and beaches themselves were indeed spectacular, as far as we could see them.

It was very early in the season but fun and games were clearly starting: coasteering, surfing and setting up for a beach festival of some sort. Whoops of glee came through the mist from the participants.

We were pleased to greet the huer’s hut but were unable to take advantage of its telescope which promised a 10x magnification of the view – of the mist.

These thoughts occupied us as we tramped past restaurants offering Indian, Portuguese, Greek, Turkish and Australian fare. It is 90 minutes of the coast path that have to be endured. Signage through the town was very patchy with stickers on posts being almost the best on offer.

It was a relief to reach the open spaces beyond Porth and Trevelgue Head, noting its mighty Iron Age fort in passing, where the town ends abruptly and the great expanse of Watergate Bay (allegedly thanks to the mist) stretches out northwards.

A long classic cliff-top stretch follows with the geology gradually changing to a shale or slate.

Passing Watergate Bay hotel we noted the new development of modern chalets crouched into a narrow valley. At least this architect had been prepared to think through the landscaping and materials, covering the roofs in grass. Serried ranks perhaps but preferable to anything we had seen so far.

The arrival of Griffin Head gave us some satisfaction and we explored the remains of the ramparts of a small Iron Age fort which was not on the same scale as that at Porth.

Mawgan Porth appeared through the mist, its mighty beach empty of water at low tide and we returned to our waiting car.

8.5 miles in about three hours of walking left us wanting more but next time we will do it in bright sunshine.

Visits to St Mawgan and St Columb churches completed our day out.

You have to love sand for this stretch of the cliff path; and it helps if you do not expect attractive architecture.

Leaving Perranporth is the best way of visiting as you do not have to look at the surfer-dude and concrete block ‘architecture’ for too long. Several of the towns on this north coast seem to have a generous layer of sand throughout their streets which helps to remind one what they are really here for.

Passing some early-season surf lifesavers practising in the surf and many dogs being walked, we found the path rose up onto the top of the dunes. It was not for long, however, as it soon dropped down onto the beach of Perran or Penhale beach sands and we had a straight walk on the firm sand. This is a lovely stretch provided you can find firm sand to make the going easier.

Being down on the beach, one does not realise how large the dunes are behind the cliffs: about a mile inland of rough grass and sand. It was on this beach that St Piran surfed in on his millstone, climbed the cliffs and established his oratory and chapel. We were too focused on the walk to take a detour and left that visit for another time.

Approaching Ligger Point there were signs warning us of a military danger area. A decayed camp appeared on the cliff top, cheek-by-jowl with some lovely ‘smuggler’ caves in Hoblyn’s Cove. A mysterious bunkhouse, said to be part of GCHQ, was accompanied by an almost artistic aerial on Penhale Point.

Holywell Bay continued the sandy theme. It is more compact than Perranporth but a lovely sandy bay with some very dull modern holiday homes in the village. One day there will be a (Cornish) law that such buildings cannot be left in concrete grey but must be white or some other traditional colour. Dull architecture is all very well but why compound the problem by getting the colour wrong?

This is the point at which one really, really has to love sand for the climb out of Holywell Bay was worthy of an Arabian dune. Eventually, we reached firmer footing on the open cliff top where the thrift was flowering in profusion with a small scabious-like blue flower we could not immediately identify (later suggestion: sea squill or scilla verna).

These accompanied us all the way to Crantock Beach where the path once more crossed some grassy dunes and the way was decided by luck more than signage.

Emerging on the banks of the Gannel, it was clear that we were approaching civilisation for the opposite – Pentire – bank was filled with smart houses whose estates tumbled down the steep cliff. Different solutions were adopted by the owners: meandering paths through vegetation, smart lined lawns to rigid modernity. We pondered on how often they carried food to the ‘sitting areas’ at the bottom of the hill, only to find that they had forgotten the salt, or wanted another drink.

Our path, devoid of modern buildings, led us through a whole field of cowslips where we lunched.

It was a short walk to Penpol creek and a low-tide crossing place . As the tide was out we were able to cross some strangely fluid sand and then cross and re-cross the small footbridge which is under water at high tide. We thus demonstrated that we had reached Newquay which will be a later starting point.

Honour satisfied, we returned to our car, ticking off another 9 miles of the Coast Path (over 10 miles on our gps). On the way home, we stopped off at Crantock and Cubert churches.

Memorial seat for Winston Graham, author of Poldark

The best architecture in Perranporth was these elegant waymarkers

A foreign invader on St Piran’s sands

Art form or listening post?

Holywell Bay

Sea squill (scilla verna)?

We were sure that we had walked this stretch of the coast path before but could not quite remember doing it together. So we set out on a day which was meant to be dry but turned out to be wet mist: what is known in Cornwall as claggy.

Leaving Porthleven, it was good to see the Institute at low tide and without the storm surf that appears to engulf it in a good blow. Less good was the large encampment on the fields leading down to the cliff path: a festival had been happening the night before and there was a large tented village. Occasional grunts could be heard emerging from under the canvas.

Mind you, the residents of Porthleven had obviously been enjoying a festival of their own for this lady was lying on the slipway. We have known Porthleven for years, from back when most of the buildings around the harbour were derelict. Now they are all in thriving use, crowned by the appearance of a Rick Stein cafe. The town is definitely on an up.

Just out of town, we passed a cross to all those sailors who had been lost on this coast (see earlier posting about Loe Bar). It was apparently not until 1808 that drowned sailors were guaranteed a burial in consecrated ground. It would be good to think that this was for political correctness – to ensure that Catholics, Muslims or heathens did not find themselves lying in good Protestant ground – but knowing those times, it would probably have been more about who paid the cost of the funeral.

The going was easy and we enjoyed the thrift and other plants which were in flower in profusion. There is no need to go to a wood to see a good display of bluebells for the cliff was covered in them.

The cliffs here are steep but crumbling. Managed retreat seems to be the order of the day. The beaches below were covered in a multiplicity of differently coloured stone: greenstone, granite and even some unidentified white stone.

One wonderful feature is known as the Camel or Bishop. Somehow, we preferred to update it to the meerkat, its paws tucked firmly to its chest, on the look out for any passing ship in peril.

Approaching Trewavas Head, we delighted in the engines houses which rival the Crowns at Botallack for their precarious position on the cliff edge. Signs warned us that choughs were nesting here. It is good to know that they are no longer confined to an unspecified, and deeply secret, place on the Lizard, but are spreading to other parts of the Cornish coast. The black birds that we saw were, of course, simply black birds: not a red beak or foot to be seen.

Moving on, after a little snack, we arrived at the familiar sight of Rinsey. This is surely the craziest siting of a house on this coast. Perhaps they thought that if they built any further back from the edge then someone would build in front of them and steal their view. On the other hand, we speculated, with caves below and in a mining area, perhaps the house has an elevator or staircase straight into the cave below to make smuggling easier. The plot for a re-working of ‘The House of Adventure’ started to develop in our minds …

We reached Praa – not one of Cornwall’s greatest architectural gems – with ease. We had walked a mere 6 miles in two hours and the weather was beginning to close in. We stopped off at Germoe, Breage and Sithney churches on the way home.