I am back at Penberth looking at the same lines of fishing boats that I saw in September. It’s a Saturday. En route from Somerset I stopped at Launceston where the rain fell in diagonal lines while people scuttled from their cars to shops and back again.
Here, in the same county, it could be another country, another season. I’ve brought a fleece, woolly hat and anorak but right now I could do with shorts and sun cream. The slipway is made out of and surrounded by oval boulders like dinosaur eggs.
As I write this I think of my travel writing mentor, Peter Carty, and his advice. ‘Keep working on your intros, make sure the reader is aware of the focus of your blog.’ Come to think of it, what is my focus? How slow, solo walking is one of the most powerful experiences any of us can have?
For anyone who thinks they want to pursue travel writing Peter is your man and I have no reservations about using this space to give him a plug.
http://www.travelwritingworkshop.co.uk
There’s no sign of Neil the fisherman today. The washing line is empty and the front door is closed. I say hello to an old boy in a worn smock and a brown bobble hat. He has gaps in his teeth, one eye red (from an injury). There are two younger men with beards and black t shirts wrapping up shopping bags on one of their boats.
They tell me they’ve finished for the season.
A UN report came out the week before this that revealed the extent of plastic pollution in the oceans. It made depressing reading. The report published by the United Nations Environment Programne (UNEP) stated that ‘by 2040, volumes of plastic pollution flowing into marine areas will nearly triple.’
The report continues ‘Consequently, all marine life – from plankton and shellfish to birds, turtles and mammals – faces the grave risk of toxification, behavioral disorder, starvation and suffocation’.
Heading west (as always) lines of waves peel through sea glitter. Hundreds of thousands of ripples sparkle all the way to the horizon. You’d never know to look at it that something is going severely wrong. So beautiful yet so damaged.
When I arrive in Porthcurno I decide to use the toilets in the car park. Holidaymakers to and fro. For a long time the toilets are locked while the cleaner’s singing and whistling echoes amongst the white tiles.
People loiter about outside. Some appear fidgety.
When he’s done he stops to talk. Upfront. Chatty. Typically Cornish. Like so many others I met when I trained to be a teacher here in 2008. It’s always seemed different from where I grew up in the east where people have always seemed more suspicious.
‘It’s because they’ve been invaded so many times’, my Dad used to say.
My toilet cleaner friend is tall and well built. He is 62. He has several tattoos on his arm. He has one tiny blue dot beneath his right eye. It’s the smallest tattoo I’ve ever seen.
‘Where’ve you bin then?‘
‘I’ve walked from Penberth today. I started at Studland five years ago. I’m doing it slowly.’
He tells me he’s from Marazion and I say how lovely it is.
‘Oh yeah. I wake up and look at St Michael’s Mount everyday. I love it. Take it easy on the cliffs, mate. Get on.’
And he’s off with his bucket and mop, his whistling the last reminder of him as he disappears round the corner of the path.
I have a portfolio of so many coast path brief encounters like this. This cheerful toilet cleaner, Neil and Derek and countless other before them. Met once and never to be seen again.
The Slow Walker 