Woke up dry and warm. No woodlouse took up residence in my objects. I’m calling the lookout a win. We had a look around the headland a little bit, said our goodbyes to Daniel, and off we fucked. The trail started off innocuous enough but it didn’t take it long to deteriorate into swamps and rocks and nettles. Jolly good. Just what I wanted. A couple of blokes coming the other way warned us of treachery to come but we’re battle worn now. It’s just more of the same for us and when we told them what to expect I think one of them nearly cried.
The eyehole fodder today was astounding though. So many amazing rocks! I really, really like rocks. I should know exactly what I’m looking at now given that I read all about it yesterday but nope. Still no clue. All I know is that I very much enjoy putting it in my eyeholes. There’s a particular rock though, a dark rock, called serpentine and apparently it was fashionable in Victorian times to make jewellery from it. The shit is fucking everywhere and it’s not fun to walk on when it’s wet.
We managed to miss a turn just before we got into Kennack Sands which we’re blaming firmly on the lack of waymarks and not because I keep getting distracted waving my camera at particularly sexy chunks of earth crust, and ended up walking along the beach in our sodden shoes so that worked out well. Nothing I enjoy more than sand clinging to my feet. The sea though, it was crashing dramatically onto the beach like it was having a tantrum. All along this coast today the water was wild, smashing over rocks, kicking up spray. I could watch the sea all day when it’s like this.
The section from Kennack Sands to The Lizard is really fucking enjoyable though. There’s the odd bit that has you questioning all of your life choices but mostly it’s what passes as flat around here, it’s not overgrown, we could really get into a rhythm. It was around this point that I realised the South West Coast Path had added Trust Issues to my already extensive list of issues. I didn’t trust it for a second to not turn into a vertical drop into a field of cows, or deposit us ankle deep in floor-soup flanked on either side by nettles.
The closer we got to Lizard Point, the most southerly point on mainland Britain, the more the Path became swamped with huge walking groups. You pretty much just have to wait for them to filter through, unless they just suddenly stop en masse because their guide wants to shower them with information. Then you’re sort of sidling through them muttering, “Excuse me. Sorry could I just squeeze through, please. Excuse me. Sorry. Sorry. Excuse me…” and all as they glare at you like you just asked them if they could please step off the fucking cliff, seemingly horrified that they didn’t have exclusive use of the Path. Twats.
Anyway. We rocked up to Lizard Point and were miraculously rewarded with a bench that wasn’t taken. We bolted for it, stopping just short of elbowing rival tourists out of the way to claim our prize. We watched distant seals bobbing around in the water as we crammed butties into our faceholes and sipped a tasty hot beverage from Britain’s most southerly café. Life, guys. We’re doing it right.
We’d fully intended to smash out one more teeny tiny little mile of the trail before heading into the village from the west of the peninsula but we decided to fuck that off in favour of heading straight to a campsite more or less in the village. We walked north from the Point straight to Henry’s Campsite, pitched up and got some laundry done for the first time since Torquay. Washing your socks in the sink doesn’t count. I never thought I’d be a person who got excited about laundry but here we are.
As soon as we walked onto the site I was completely enamoured with it. The whole vibe was so chilled. The hiker pitches were sort of separated by huge plants, and we got a picnic bench in ours. We were surrounded by more tiny birds than we are when we wild camp. I mean, they have no fear and will probably shit all over the tent but I’m going to enjoy the novelty of being eyeballed by a brazen robin perched on my tent for a while. It’s much less threatening than the herring gulls we’re used to having to defend our dinner from in Brighton.
We’d read on the campsite’s website that they had barbecues knocking around for people to borrow, and that they sold charcoal in the shop. We’d become so obsessed with the idea of having a barbie over the last few days that we didn’t stop to consider the practicalities. We acquired the barbecue, purchased the coals and the various dead things and got it lit before realising that we had no barbecue tools at all. Well shit. But nothing would keep us from our feast. Turns out if you cut the top off a Stella can, flatten it and Gorilla Tape a trowel to it, it makes a perfectly adequate and somewhat classy spatula.
We’re going to have a couple of days off now because fuck it, we’re on holiday and we’ve earned it. We’ve walked over 500 miles so far and we promised ourselves prosecco after every 500 miles at the next appropriate city, town or village, so here we are. Two days of eating, drinking, and massaging Voltrol into my lower legs to try and get them to forgive me.
Black Head (nr. Coverack), Cornwall to The Lizard, Cornwall, England
Stayed at: Henry’s Campsite, The Lizard
Useful shit to know…
- Today’s toilets are at Kennack Sands, Cadgwith and Lizard Point.
- I refilled my filter bottle at a stream we crossed, we crossed three, and again in the toilets at Lizard Point.