Between St Loy and Penberth I was in a trance. When I arrive my eyes are brought into sharp focus.
Aside from those closest to me, the tramp has been my greatest constant. For 20 years I’ve struggled to sleep. And when the chips have been down I’ve forced myself out. Anywhere, but preferably away from noise, away from people.
Better a view. Even better a peak. Best of all the sea.
I’ve been hungover more times than I care to remember. I’ve been out without sleep (worse) or coming down and without sleep (worse still). But that was all a long time ago.
When I found out there was nothing that could be done for dad, I was – thankfully – on Thorpeness Beach in Suffolk, a beach I’ve been going to all my life, somewhere I must have walked more than anywhere.
I’ve proposed on walks. I’ve had relationships end on walks. I’ve been in love, broken-hearted, euphoric, sad, confused about life, confused about anything, over the moon, over the edge and under the cosh.
And every time a path in the wild has been there with me.
****
Penberth is a cove similar to Lamorna. Four or five buildings are nestled into the miniature valley that ends at the sea. All but one are made of the same granite that lies hidden beneath all of this. A lane comes from within the middle of the valley so that it seems that the grey of the road is appearing from inside the green, like it’s a road into the earth.
The road ends outside a small two up two down cottage. At the end of the house is a 3 arm washing line with t shirts fwupping in the breeze. Outside there is a pile of brightly coloured buoys next to the wall of the house. There are flowers too. The effect is, well, jaunty. I shield my tired outdoor eyes to try to take in the mass of colour. Outside the house there is a sign. On it are the words ‘THESE DAYS WILL PASS’.
The other side of the road from the cottage a slipway made of round stones, like the walls of Fred Flintstone’s house, drops into the sea. At the top of the slipway four fishing boats are lined up in parallel lines. It’s clear from the detritus lying in and around them that they’ve been used today. To the left of the cottage a long low building beside the road recedes up the valley. Boathouses. For winter.
I learn later that some of the recent BBC version of Poldark was shot here. Yes, I could be in the 18th century. Not much would have looked different then. There would have been more people tramping and sleeping out in the open. I smirk at an 18th century version of me with great coat, baggy trousers and hobnail boots. I stop myself before I imagine my swimming outfit.
A short, broad man with arms the colour of teak is walking out of the cottage with the buoys. He must be at the other end of his sixties but those arms look tight and taut, the tattoos just a blue black smudge.
There’s no mistaking this man’s job. A job that is as much a lifestyle, culture or birth right as a job. And one intimately tied to this land and sea. His name is Neil.
The Sigg is almost empty. Could he please fill it up for me? Neil goes into the house and returns a minute later out of the open front door.
‘I was born in this cove in the white house further up the hill.’
He tells me how they used to fish for days pointing nonchalantly to the greyness at our feet.
‘There’s still fishermen but most of them are old : only one young un doing it from here now.’
‘The mackerel have gone. There used to be a lot out there.’ He points just into the bay.
‘In the Spring there could be up to two to three hundred boats out there.’
It can’t happen anymore he tells me. A recognition of the huge reduction in fish stocks in recent times.
I thank him and say goodbye. I turn towards Porthcurno and as always my mind begins to wander.
The Slow Walker 