I wake up to the sound of the ocean crashing outside my window. The sea air coming through the open window makes the curtain flick every now and again like a teenage girl playing with her hair. The air is fresh on my face. I breathe and stretch luxuriously like a cat. Would I lie in like this if I was sleeping on the path? Possibly. Possibly not.
The Old Success Inn looks across Sennen Cove. This morning white lines are coming in at regular intervals. Out there in the turmoil of water and waves sleak black figures bob about on their boards waiting for the right moment. I know that feeling of apprehension and expectation where all the senses are on high alert waiting for that combination of paddling hard enough, the wave shaping right and the pop being enough to be up and in command of that curling beast. When it all comes together it might just be the best feeling in the entire world.
What a difference a night’s rest can make. As I turned north towards Land’s End, my feet started to drag. I would curse when my foot might catch a stick on the path or slip on a stone. This isn’t so much physical tiredness but a sense of disquiet that descends on me when on these solitary explorations. The inner voice is often loud but can also turn nasty. I have learnt to know there isn’t a reason for it. It just happens in the same way that the sky might cloud over and it starts to rain.
Yet today I’m a different person. Emboldened by the sun and the freshness of the air. I smile and start singing to myself aware that I might be mistaken for a complete loon.
Whitesand Bay extends a long way north east from Sennen Cove. A female couple are walking behind me. They are the first fellow walkers I have met today. I have learnt to wait and let them pass. As I’ve said before this isn’t a race. I want to be slower than the rest. The older woman smiles and says ‘Morning’ while the younger one keeps her head down.
Conversations are funny. These brief encounters never to be repeated. Some people might question the point of them but to me they can be just as valuable as catching up with an old friend.
Near Aire Point I meet a walker with poles. He must be a bit older than me. He’s from Devon. ‘I just come down and do bits here and there when I can. I love it.’
I tell him I’ve just done half of it.
‘It’s all uphill from here.’ We chuckle and say our farewells.
Sure enough soon after this the path turns up the cliff and the way is steep. I pause for a moment and lean on a bit of fence where someone has written anti-Covid restrictions graffiti.
I remember walking on cliffs near Dorset last year and passing people wearing masks. As the rule also included wearing one on public transport I remember having to wear one in a strong wind on a ferry – a small open motorboat – to get across to St Mawes. Soon, I hope, these things will become a distant memory.
There are breakers all the way along the bay and a stiff westerly. I am accompanied by the constant shhh, shhh, shhh of waves breaking on the beach and a lower roar further out where their bigger brothers break before they reach land.
There are holes everywhere around here. In the land and cliffs. A perfect arch appears where sand has fallen away to reveal a seam of rock behind. There are signs warning of mine shafts. Sometimes they are even marked on my OS map. ‘Shafts’ as well as ‘mines’ and ‘cairns’ frequent this little corner of Kernow.
The Slow Walker 