Within minutes of arriving at St Agnes Head I almost step on a chough. I had just got out of my car to look at the sea and there he was strutting around right in front of me looking like he owned the place. As Cornwall’s national bird he probably has good reason to behave like this land is rightfully his and probably has a bigger claim to being Cornish than most people around here. He looks resplendent with his red legs and wonderful red hooked bill. He gives me what I read as a withering look and then proceeds to pick about for food in the heather. I think back to my friend with the sailing cap at Godrevy Head in October shouting ‘Look out for the choughs!’ And think at last I’ve found one.
Suddenly – following months and months of endless rain – a period of freakishly warm weather has descended on the UK. The sudden change threw me. 2 days ago I was lighting a fire in my fleece. And then yesterday I was having to dig around for unfamiliar stuff like sun tan lotion and shorts.
Beside the remote St Agnes Head car park a half naked middle aged man is sunbathing with huge earphones on. He slaps out a beat on his belly while a seagull stands between us staring at me, the odd feather ruffled by the westerly coming off the Atlantic. Two bald men sit in deckchairs eating their lunch. There is nobody else and over us hangs a blue sky, bold and awe inspiring after the days and days of grey. In the distance I can hear a cuckoo: wa-woo-wa-woo wa-woo. At last it feels like summer might be here.
I look back towards Chapel Porth where I started the last section of the path in March. The view is the sort of scene that comes to mind whenever I think of Cornwall. Green hills drop towards the sea and merge into the black of granite cliffs. These then meet the pale gold of the sand and beyond that the shimmering blue green of the sea with dark lines that magically appear like veins beneath the its skin. Amongst the moving lines are the black specks of surfers sitting, waiting and then every now and again taking off, a glistening black shape gliding along a crumbling white line. Even though it is a scene that I have seen many times before it makes me hold my breath and immediately makes me curse at not bringing my wetsuit.
This morning in the few seconds it takes to come round from sleep I was tingling with the thought of another trip along the path: the anticipation of what I’d see, who I’d meet and where I’d sleep. And the knowledge that I would be surrounded by the wildness, history and rough beauty of this land at the end of the land. It is the same feeling that I used to have on the first day of a summer holidays. Even then I would be dreaming of going west, to Cornwall or Somerset.
I set off with the seagull now standing on top of my car seeing me off. As always the sea is my only companion now on my left as I head east. I pass the coastguard’s hut and a man in a white shirt gives me a big wave with both arms. It makes me smile. The coast/path leading up to St Agnes Head goes due north and then around the point turns east. A mile out to sea Bawden Rocks, also known as Man and his Man are like a parent rock with its child, the one on the left the size of a four bedroom house and then its replica, the same shape but a fifth of the size. White foam froths at their feet and beyond that nothing there is nothing but deep blue ocean.
I don’t know why but here there are several walkers on the path. I know it won’t be like that for long. 90 per cent of the path I have done without seeing a soul. I pass a couple who don’t respond to my hello, then a middle aged Dutch couple who cut off their enthusiastic chat (in Dutch) to say hi. A minute later a well built man in blue with the unmistakable twang of the Antipodes says nonchalantly ‘Gday mate’. I smile for the second time in 10 minutes.
It’s only a couple of miles to Trevaunance Cove and St Agnes beach, another of those classic Cornish beaches that are secreted amongst the cliffs and suddenly appear into view when arriving from around a bend high above.
A steep hard standing takes me down to the beach past a few dinghies pulled up onto the concrete and past a small ice cream shop and then a pub right on the beach. The beach itself is another lovely swathe of sand with rocks that border its edges. On the western side is a great pile of grey blocks and rocks that once was a harbour. The effort that the locals here put into trying to have a safe place for their boats was extraordinary.
Between 1632 and 1916 no less than 5 harbours were built here but each was destroyed by winter storms. The first was never completed before it was demolished. The second took months to build in 1684 but then apparently came apart in a matter of hours. The third, built in 1699 was made by the same people who built the Eddystone Lighthouse. It lasted 20 years before it too was completely destroyed.
In 1793 an act of parliament was passed for ‘erecting and making a pier and harbour in the cove of Trevaunance in the parish of St Agnes’. According to the trusty information board on the way to the beach ‘The outer walls were made from large, dressed granite blocks drilled from top to bottom and laid so they were overlapped allowing iron bars to be driven the holes locking the blocks together. An inner wall was built and the cavity between filled with rubble and mortar made from stone and lime.’ This harbour lasted for over a hundred years and apparently was well used. The info board continues ‘Many goods were landed there including lime, slate, wine and most importantly, coal from Wales for the local mines. A major export was copper to Wales for smelting.’
A granite block washed away in 1915 and within a year once again the power of the sea had taken apart St Agnes harbour.
Now all the harbour is good for is to hold my towel and backpack as I rush into the cold water and feel the fire of adrenaline coarsing around my body. As I lay in the sea mesmerised by the sparks of light striking off the surface I think of the challenges of trying to live off the sea while living beside the sea. A great beauty, a great mystery and also a great threat. For many people living a coastal existence I suppose the sea is the giver but also the taker of life.
The Slow Walker 