I have been stopped by a stream. The sun is out and dances on the riffles of the water, sending flashes into my eyes like cartoon explosions. The light hovers in the branches above my head the way sunlight wobbles on a swimming pool floor. There’s something a bit UFOesque about it. Am I feeling the effects of too much fresh air and not enough sleep? It’s possible.
Several times over the last two days of walking I get stopped by a moment in which I sense a little bit of magic, a little bit of sparkle. I know it’s all in my mind but Cornwall does seem to lend itself to moments that appear supernatural: fairies, grottos, shrines, mythical creatures, legends. They all seem to exist here in greater prominence than other counties of England.
My mind has kept returning to the ancient Celtic story of Tristan and Iseult, the ill fated lovers who met while Tristan was accompanying Iseult from Ireland to marry his uncle, King Mark of Cornwall. All would have been well – but not much of a story – if they hadn’t ingested a love potion en route from Ireland to Cornwall.
Oh how a love potion can spice up a story! I wonder if medieval writers would fall back on this device when they were stuck for ideas. And how love IS like a potion with its ability to transform, persuade and beguile even the most stubborn of us. Every time I look out to see I imagine them on their barque, eyes like saucers with desire, staring into each other and to hell with the consequences.
At Polbry Cove (I think) the path winds down into another hidden pocket of coastline. How many in Cornwall? And the only way to find these hideaways is to walk the coast path. Birdwatchers are here, one with an enormous lens like you might see at a centre court tennis match at Wimbledon. Something hovers. I think it’s a kestrel. They might be looking for Cornwall’s ‘patron bird’, the chough, with its flashy red legs, which is known to live in these parts.
The path follows a road and then up another hill and over the top to Cape Cornwall. It’s almost as far west as Land’s End but more pleasant. A craggy peninsula with a small peak. There is a red brick chimney on the point which was once the chimney for the Cape Cornwall tin mine. The chimney dates from 1864 and was kept here to be used as a navigation marker.
Looking west I can see the Brisons also known as ‘General de Gaulle in his bath’ which once seen requires no further explanation. I seemed to have timed it perfectly. It was supposed to be showers today but it’s been beautiful. Sunshine. Freshness. Now a blanket of grey cloud is spreading from the West.
This is where I leave the path this time. I turn my back on the sea and head inland to St Just. From here I’ll get the coaster back to Porthcurno. The lane wiggles its way over the hill. Yesterday before I got to Land’s End I had seen jackdaws performing acrobatics on the cliffs. Now there are at least twenty fluttering and squawking and flapping and bothering a solitary seagull. Their black shapes are like ripped bin liners being blown across the sky.
For the second time in twenty four hours I’m stunned by their behaviour. They’re like the teenage hoodlums of the bird world. I’m still staring at them, lost in thought, when a black estate pulls up beside me.
A man in his sixties looks out of the driver’s side window. He has a soft north country accent. ‘They’ve obviously taken exception to you. I live down the road. Sometimes I see them – they like to float on the wind.’ As he says this he moves his hand up and down to illustrate the wondrous gliding of a bird.
The Slow Walker 