Here I am still staring at the sunbeams that lance downwards onto patches of Towan Head, the small finger of land that points out to sea west of Newquay, the green of the land brighter inside those shafts of light. I think back to Newquay and the empty road train rumbling along the High Street, the wonderful white washed huer’s hut gleaming in the autumn sun and my funny little sleeping pod inland at Newlyn East. On the coast path you can see your past, in this case lit up like a spotlight onto a stage as if a divine hand is making me aware of what came before and appreciate what I’ve seen. It’s been like this all the way round, looking back and trying to remember what had come before and where. Is it going to be 10 years next year since I started it? Can that be right? Or was it 2016? I can’t remember and it doesn’t matter.
I’m brought out of my reverie by dark figures walking menacingly along the cliff edge. There are four or five huge black birds with thick necks and large bills swaggering self consciously, their bodies leaning from side to side with each step they take, Putin-like. They are ravens, the largest of the crow family.
Not long ago I was listening to Radio 4’s series of 2 minute guides to birdsong ‘Tweet of the Day’ (surely one of the finest pieces of radio broacasting anywhere ever). This particular one was about ravens and narrated by Sir David Attenborough. Attenborough made a play on William Blake’s immortal line from Jerusalem by referring to them as having ‘dark satanic bills’. He also said you might see them on a beach eyeing you up as potential prey! I have to admit that seeing them close up like this, with their imposing size and beady eyes, did make my stomach give a little lurch.
At Park Head a family of four look thoughtfully out to sea. The daughter, who looked about 12, said in that curious way of teenagers: ‘What’s it called when two people..?’
The parents say seriously: ‘Bigamy. It’s illegal.’
The mother emphasising ‘Very much illegal’.
I pass them with a smile and set my gaze on Park Head.
Park Head is a great flat expanse of short grass that tapers down to a sharp hooked point that looks north west into the Atlantic across thousands of sea miles towards I imagine somewhere like Nova Scotia or some other such chilly place in North America. The earth here is so flat and comfortable underfoot and the view so striking that I sit down on the cliff edge like a teenager on a school field. From this angle I can now see small islands to the west of Towan Head: they are known as The Goose and The Chick. Although they appear to be next to each other they are at least a mile apart. The Chick sits south west of The Goose off the end of Kelsey Head near Holywell Beach where I slept outside the night the Aurora arrived unexpectedly in the sky over Cornwall and stunned people all over southern England with its dreamy, hazy colours. That was May.
Much closer to me but across Mackerel Cove sheep lie nonchalantly on the cliff top, their heads facing away from the sea. Do they have good awareness of being too close to the edge? Or are there quite often sheep casualties on the Cornish cliffs? It definitely seems that some are happy to take the risk.
Walking away from Park Head I see a bird that looks like an oversized blackbird with a longer curved beak. An orange beak. No, more like pink. No red. And the penny drops. And there is another and another. Then two more appear. Choughs again, and five of them this time. Once again a meeting with that elusive emblem of Cornwall. The only time I’ve spotted them on all my wanderings around the perimeter of Cornwall has been in this corner of the county, between here and Holywell. They mill about seemingly unperturbed by me, pecking away with those flashy beaks before flying away to Park Head.
At Porthcothan I have a slight sense of trepidation before going into the sea from the small beach. The sign warns of strong currents but the water is too blue, too alluring, tempting me in like the mermaid of Zennor seducing young Mathey Trewala so that he left his earthly home and went to live with her under the waves. Or so the Cornish story goes. Maybe like him I’ll disappear into that watery world and never been seen on dry land again. The waves slide and collide sideways into each other and I bob about without thought just feeling the coldness of the water stinging my legs, my eyes wide open staring out to sea and my breath like the sound of the waves on the sand behind me. I’m totally ‘absent’. And at last – for the first time today – the sun appears and lights up Trevose Head with its white lighthouse.
When I come out smiling inanely like a madman, I’ve totally lost track of time. It’s a dash to get changed, hopping about to get into jeans, getting sand out of toes, struggling to pull socks on and into my boots. It’s a turbo walk to get to the village and finally at the end of a sand track between thick hedges I suddenly spill out onto the road. I get to the bus with 2 minutes to spare.
The Slow Walker 