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.

The continuation of the bright weather tempted us out again to link up our recent walk to Gunwalloe to one we had done earlier from the Lizard. The sun was shining brightly and the light wind came at us across the land from the east.

This was a really lovely walk along some pretty remote stretches of coast where we saw few people. The going was easy: fresh bouncy turf with heathland on our landward side. The sea was calm and as clear and blue as one could wish.

The first delight was Kynance Cove: little more than a narrow spit of sandy beach linking a large rock to the mainland. Balanced precariously at the bottom of the cliff is a small and popular cafe. It is hardly surprising that the cove is so popular when it can look as beautiful as it did for us. 

We could not dally to enjoy the sight and headed onward across the cliff and down a steep drop to Soap cove. This is a long narrow inlet where the tide was turning over in a desultory fashion and we could easily imagine a small boat running contraband ashore. Or had we been watching too much Poldark again?

Climbing up the other side deserved a reward and we sat down, to admire the stunning view, wondering why we should bother to carry on. But we did.

Predannack airfield was to our right and we found ourselves sharing the peace and solitude with a helicopter which was doing circuits and bumps over the airfield, or possibly keeping a watchful eye over us should we be contemplating some illicit activities.

In the distance loomed a distinctly un-Cornish sight. We are more accustomed to cows, barns and the occasional farm. The vegetation, accustomed to the prevailing salt-laden winds, could raise itself only a few feet above the land. Windyridge Farm, perched just back from the cliff seemed aptly-named.

Rounding Predannack Head, we came upon Mullion island which provides some slight protection to the little harbour. This led to a discussion as to when a rock becomes an island. If it involves the ability to live on it then Mullion island certainly qualifies although it would be a brave soul who chose to do so.

The going, by now, had the air of a National Trust-cared for estate with stepping stones and helpful advice on signs. We were clearly approaching civilisation again.

The drop down into the cove was steep but the charm of the cove is considerable and we sat eating our lunch, admiring the recent repair of the harbour wall, watching visitors walking to the end, looking over and re-tracing their steps. It would be good to say that the building work being done to the cottages was as historically acceptable. Sadly, we felt that they might be being altered to the detriment of the natural charm of the little cove. It remains to be seen.

The climb out of Mullion cove was steep and took us up to a large white building which, inevitably, was a hotel: the Mullion Cove hotel. Large blocks such as this were built all along the coast in the days before planning conditions which would not allow them today.

This was a tough part of the walk, involving several descents – which are the easy part – and then steep ups. The first one was the descent below the ‘large white’ Polurrian hotel, down a set of steps which became spine-shuddering as much as anything because of the large drop entailed with each one. We walked them in the opposite direction later in the day and quietly cursed their creator who clearly had longer legs than us.

Throughout the walk we had been enjoying the wonderful flowers which were shining with all their might. The thrift was in luxuriant flower, creating great carpets of bouncy vegetation which invited relaxation.

As we approached the top of Angrouse hill, we could see a large monument on its crest. This was Poldhu where Marconi carried out his famous experiments which culminated in the message to America and then to the South Atlantic. A humble field alongside the path was where the aerial had been erected. I looked at the mobile phone in my pocket which seemed a far cry from those early days, just over 100 years ago, when he achieved so much pioneering work from this remote Cornish cliff.

In front of us was another large white building, presumably once a hotel but now converted into a care home: another home for old people to look at an empty sea in an inaccessible place.

Crossing Poldhu cove was easier on the legs and we soon found ourselves looking down on our destination: the much photographed little church of Gunwalloe which we had visited a few weeks before. Touching the church closed the loop and meant that we could claim to have completed the Lizard to Porthleven stretch. It deserved an ice cream before we set out to find our car.

We had walked  over 8 miles in a just under 4 hours.

The problem was that we could remember leaving Portreath on foot, but could not remember arriving at Hell’s Mouth up behind Godrevy point. There was no alternative, and on a sunny but windy day we set off from Portreath again to see if it jogged any memories.

The climb out of Portreath was steep but, once up on the top, the going was wide open and flat. This was an area under agriculture right up to the edge of the cliff: easy going.

Fairly soon we came to the horse which we first identified as looking more like a cat. This is just one of the many collapsed pieces of cliff on this section: great chunks of green appear to have been broken off by a giant. More likely, they have been undermined by the great storm seas of winter.

A couple of nasty downies and uppies tested our muscles and endurance but if a Jack Russell and Labrador could do it then so could we.

We missed Crane castle – finding cliff castles is not easy when the gorse is thick – and marched on across Reskajeage downs which were fairly featureless, the views east and west making up for the dullness of the cliff top vegetation. The path was flat and dry, and easy to follow with no surprises.

Just as we were getting into our stride, we found ourselves at the Hell’s Mouth car park where our car was waiting for us. On the way, we had found where we originally turned off on a circular walk through Tehidy Woods. Importantly, however, we could now say that we had covered the stretch from St Agnes to Godrevy without any sense of cheating.

There is no better time to be on this stretch of the Coast Path than on a bright sunny day. The walking is easy and the proximity to the sea makes it a joy.

What one forgets is that this coast was feared by sailors of tall ships. The prevailing wind is from the South West and a large sailing vessel could easily find themselves unable to sail to windward, out of Mount’s Bay. If so, then they stood little chance of survival in a storm. The wind would drive them straight onto the lee shore: the long expanse of sand known as Loe Bar.

It was the wreck of HMS Anson which moved Henry Trengrouse to invent the ship-to-shore rocket carrying a light line as a precursor to a rope. This technique, so simple in concept, eventually led to the saving of many lives.

Loe Bar itself was once connected to the sea and was the entrance to the harbour of Helston. The harbour silted up and the Bar formed, leaving a fresh-water lake behind it. The remnant of the original river is now a boating pool near the old cattle market beside the A394 in Helston.

The two miles from Porthleven to Gunwalloe fishing cove is a single beach of sand, still famous for its steep shelving undertow which has taken lives even recently. At its end, a small open space pretends to be a cove which still retains some vestiges of its fishing past.

Beyond the fishing cove, the land rises over Halzephron cliffs.

What a lovely word is Halzephron. According to the equally lovely pub, it is derived from the Cornish words for strong wind: hardly surprising given that it is face-on into the prevailing wind and that wind has crossed the Atlantic, undisturbed.

Over the headland, it was a short walk to the objective of our walk: the glorious church of Gunwalloe, surely one of the most televisual of churches in the county having featured in series from Wycliffe to Poldark.

Apparently tucked into the back of a sand dune and with a beach on either side, it looks as though it might be overwhelmed during any storm. Its separate tower is all that holds back the sand.

A tour of the church was essential before heading for the pub for lunch. Then the return journey which included the mandatory paddle on the very edge of the sea on the Bar, the soft sand crunching beneath our toes.

One answer to the problems of shelter on this coast was the creation of the tiny Porthleven harbour: somewhere a ship could tie up in safety. It would be a brave captain who attempted to take his ship in through the long arms of the entrance in anything other than a calm sea for it is far too narrow and dog-legged.

Really good walks contain a pub and church but this time we went one better: ours ended with an ice cream on the Porthleven harbourside. What a day.

A sunny Sunday tempted us onto the South West Coast Path once again. As we are trying to link up a number of short walks, we had planned a stiff walk from the Lizard up to Dean, or Porthoustock, quarry.

The journey started by the exquisite St Wynwallow at Church Cove, surely the most southerly church in Cornwall, with its calm interior and serpentine lectern.

Leaving the cawing rooks, we headed onto the lovely cliff path which wound its way northwards.

It was a lovely time of year with the vegetation emerging in yellows, whites and blues. The blackthorn was in full blossom, the wild garlic a profusion of white; the gorse and primroses in yellow and the bluebells out. In places, the red campion was starting to appear.

The route was a delight: high cliffs and a calm sea hundreds of feet below. Once we had cleared the area of the Lizard we were fairly solitary and could walk along the cliff’s shoulder on a dry path.

Small cove after inaccessible small cove hinted at the opportunities for landing contraband late at night. It would be a steep climb with brandy for the parson on one’s back. Or had we been watching too much Poldark?

Our first sign of population was at Cadgwith, surely the most photogenic and famous fishing cove, tucked into a corner facing east: everyone’s idea of a Cornish fishing village from generations of calendars and chocolate boxes.

The reality of life is very different of course but on a sunny day it is hard not to enjoy the illusion of tranquility.

Shortly afterwards, we passed the tiny Poltesco cove, once the centre of the serpentine industry but now a calm ruin close to the beach. The National Trust has tidied the place up and add a charming bridge, bench and the obligatory explanatory panel.

A long trek on a south-facing cliff followed, relieved only by the existence of the large sandy beach of Kennack Sands where large Britons did what Britons do on a beach: sit on picnic chairs and wrap themselves up in rugs or behind windbreaks.

Close by was one of the less welcome eyesores of this part of the coast: a staggeringly unimaginative holiday camp. Seen from a distance it looks like a serried rank of simple ‘units’, each of which has its own balcony: to keep the occupants in or other guests out being unclear.

From the air, the true horror is revealed.

It was something of a relief when someone pointed out a basking shark out in the bay as it turned our attention from the land.

The stretch to Black Head was the most remote of the walk. We saw few people and enjoyed the proximity of the gorse-laden heathland that spreads northwards towards Goonhilly. A tiny valley garden was an unexpected bonus with camellias, azaleas and even clematis in flower, protected form the gales in a fold of the land.

Approaching Chynalls point we could see yet another large white ‘former hotel’ now converted to some other use, probably a care home. This promoted us to wonder at the way we put our old people in remote places with empty views of the sea when it might well be company and activity that they really desire.

Coverack is no Cadgwith and is something sub St Mawes in style but the houses were immaculate in the heart of the village and most managed to retain a genuine Cornish architectural style. The words ‘second homes’ and ‘holiday homes’ were on our lips.

Leaving Coverack, we headed onwards around the aptly named Lowland Point. Here, the landscape changed dramatically with the path no more than a few metres above the beach on a wide area of raised beach covered with large rounded boulders. This was not an attractive area of the path and we recalled the walk from the other direction, past quarries and destroyed landscape.

Just before the quarry, we found a familiar path and headed up around the excavations and back to our car.

We had covered 12.2 miles in 4.5 hours.