Even by Cornish standards Porthcurno beach is magnificent. To the coastal tramper approaching from the east the land is flat. The sea is a steadfast companion on the left. Grassland undulates and curves inland. Like the beautiful curve at the bottom of the back of someone I know.
Grass is bright. Rocks protrude in clusters. Suddenly a path will lead off to a headland sticking out into the sea with blocks of stone teetering on top of each other.
Amidst the grey and the green there is a surprise in store. The beach appears in a moment. One moment the walker is only aware of grass, rocks, sea and sky. The next he is dazzled.
Two great arms of rock reach out to the sea on each side of the beach. Their grassy tops become patchy as they reach the granite cliffs at the end of each headland. The green becomes grey and ends in points like ships’ hulls where the waves fizz and froth.
In the cleft in between is a narrow strip of near spotless sand. A seam of white gold. The view is so sudden and so striking it makes me say something out loud. The beach is a rough triangular shape, the point towards the land, the base towards the sea like an immaculate breast pocket handkerchief in an old man’s suit.
Where the sand meets the sea the water is green-aquamarine-light blue-dark blue in that way that nature has of making things appear with changes so subtle they defy description.
Today the beach actually isn’t spotless. There are black specks dotted about on it. People are always drawn here. Beauty breeds popularity. And Porthcurno is just that: a rare beauty; a real cracker.
How lucky I am, I think to myself. How many times have I felt this? Me alone with this. Moved by the vastness of it all like seeing the world for the first time. That strange mix of sad happiness that I can’t put into words. I hold my hands out and look skyward. The wind blows through me. The sunlight fires off sparks in my eyes. The sea glitter flashes and sparkles and dances all the way to the horizon.
The Slow Walker 