A seriously disappointing change to the weather after the thrill of seal-watching yesterday. Today began with pretty persistent rain, eventually becoming a series of frequent heavy showers accompanied later in the day by the occasional burst of hail rattling across poor ol’ Billy Bailey’s roof. This was a day for staying in reading and doing puzzles (crossword and Sudoku) while the elements vented their wrath outside.

Our highlight was the excitement of an eventual escape from captivity to venture into St. Agnes to buy some beef for a culinary experiment. Of course, once in St. Agnes it decided to rain yet again. The culinary experiment in question was to be Rendang Padang, an Indonesian dryish beef curry, courtesy of an Indonesian-made "export quality" packet of spice paste bought in Indonesia (?) by Carol’s niece.

The instructions, having added the spice paste, were to:

"… shimmer while stirring for +/-15 minutes".

So I asked Carol to shimmer for +15 minutes while I tried to ignore her distractions and stir for -15 minutes. Quite a conundrum, but we seemed to manage it. The result was pretty good, too, for a packet. I wonder how one makes it for real? IF I had the Internet, I could find out.

The weather forecast was not exactly inspiring for today. There was a distinct bite to the still fast-flowing air, too, adding an unwelcome wind-chill effect. Mid morning was looking reasonably bright, though so we decided to treat ourselves to a car ride back west to Godrevy Point where, we were told, there is a sizeable seal colony.

Dawdling along the coast road instead of screaming down the main road, we were soon approaching an interesting sounding coastal feature called Hell’s Mouth. (Last week, on the way from the Lizard to Cadgwith, we’d passed the Devil’s Frying Pan. The Evil One seems to have quite a coastal presence.) Happily, there was also a lay-by to pull into so we could engage in some traditional tourist sight-seeing. We joined a few other fellow tourists and stared, as one must, straight into Hell’s Mouth, a decidedly precipitous formation cut into the coastal cliffs. I waited in vain for the Devil and his cohorts to put on something of a blood-curdling display of strength. Nothing; all was peaceful. Then, as if by way of an explanation, I noticed to my right a vicar, resplendent in dog-collar, also staring straight into Hell’s Mouth. What an utterly delightful juxtaposition. Today we could rest easy because the forces of good were clearly stronger and had vanquished the forces of evil.

Enough of the forces of good and evil; we were on our way to the National Trust area at Godrevy Point to see an example of the forces of nature. We had a short walk, only about a mile, past Godrevy Island with its lighthouse, in search of the seals. We peered over one cliff and saw two seals in the water but could see none basking on any rocks. This couldn’t be the source of excitement. A little further, however, we discovered the main attraction: a sheltered beach surrounded by cliffs, inaccessible to the public, upon which I counted about 130 basking seals. It was quite a thrill to see such a colony in the wild for the first time. Some were tussling in the surf, perhaps the traditional male dominance disputes. Occasionally one or two would go into the sea to show off their elegant swimming techniques before lumbering back up the beach. We could have watched for ages.

The weather had different ideas, though, as a “passing shower” (which looked more as if it might turn into a passing downpour) appeared to be approaching. Out with the waterproofs for the first time on this trip as we made our way back to the car to find somewhere for lunch (cold paella with the chewy wabbit sifted out!).

After the disappointment of a security-enabled wi-fi at Truro McDonalds, it was Hayle McDonalds to the rescue with an open wi-fi network. We were happy to sit with a cup of tea and catch up on posts and emails prior to doing battle with Redruth Tesco.

Memo to self: don’t buy wild St. Agnes bunny for Paella again. An authentic Paella Valenciana requires wabbit but our particular wabbit did not wespond well to welatively wapid cooking, did it Elmer?. Personally, I’d forget shooting that blasted buck-toothed wabbit ‘cos it’s no spring chicken and will be a tad chewy if our experience is anything to go by. I didn’t have this trouble in Spain where el bunnies were quite tender. Fingers crossed that this evening’s St. Agnes lamb fajitas will be a little more successful and not turn into mutton fajitas. On top of discovering that the Truro McDonalds has security enabled on their wi-fi, this was just too much, darn it.

After a night of sporadic rain, we spent a leisurely morning that continued as the night left off, waiting for the rain to clear. This it did, by about 11:00 AM and we decided against a completely lazy day and wandered back over to Wheal Coates, this time turning south, to walk through Chapel Porth to Porthtowan. It’s only about five miles there and back  but there are several descents and ascents so it was quite good exercise.

The usual array of surf bums were in the water at Porthtowan. "Towan" is Cornish for "dune" and there it was at the top of the beach. Just opposite the towan, there is also a bar/restaurant claiming to have wi-fi access (just ask at the bar for the password). So, if we can’t face going into Truro McDonalds, maybe this would be an alternative – over a pint, of course.

A somewhat sinister sea mist (a har, perhaps?) blew in across Wheal Coates on our return leg. The "sinister" refers to an old movie (called "The Fog"?) I seem to recall in which a sea fog conceals a galleonful of murderous, cutlass-wielding pirates.

Ornithological notes: we have a pair of buzzards apparently resident in an old chimney associated with the Wheal Coates mine workings; Carol also heard our second cuckoo this morning, our first being at Kestal Farm last week.

Our first full day in St. Agnes and what a brilliant morning; blue skies with a smattering of high-level wispy cloud. The wind was still present but not quite as strongly as yesterday. Judging by the weather forecast, though, things are about to get worse with the word "gale" being used together with "north". Yukko! So today sounded like time to enjoy it while it lasted.

It’s but a short walk from the Caravan Club site at St. Agnes Beacon to the coastal path at Wheal Coates. Then it was decision time: south to Chapel Porth and beyond (quite a bit of descending and climbing) or north towards Trevaunance Cove (a fairly consistently high path)? We chose the latter. I think I was being driven by my stomach, as usual, ‘cos I fancied one of the local wild rabbits I’d seen in one of the St. Agnes butchers yesterday.

We dallied a little around Wheal Coates to take a few shots in the (relatively) early morning sun – "Wheal" is apparently Cornish for "mine" – before walking north up the coast. It’s as well to stick to the marked foot path to avoid tumbling down any of the abandoned mine shafts, only some of which are protected. I can’t help but be amused by the warning sign used near the shafts (see picture of poor man falling headlong down shaft hotley pursued by various rocks) though I’m sure it’s a real danger on those unprotected shafts. The route goes directly north passing Tubby’s Head, turns east at St. Agnes Head then passes Newdowns Head before descending into Trevaunance Cove where the weekend surfers were out in force. Our timing was perfect: the pub had just opened and it would have been rude not to sample their hospitality.

Now we had a climb back up into St. Agnes itself, eventually via the intriguingly named "Stippy Stappy", a steep row of cottages, to purchase the aforementioned rabbit before heading back to Billy over the Beacon, yet again, for lunch.

We need to do some more serious shopping for the weekend and, of course, find another wi-fi network. First port of call: Truro McDonalds. So, if you’re reading this, we’ve found one.

After a week of strenuous enjoyment based near Marazion; today we were due to move on to our second site. First, though, I had to try and fix the sink waste pipe, one joint of which had somehow managed to become disconnected spewing dirty water into the under-sink cupboard. I was used to having to travel with a toolkit for good ol’ Freddie (our previous van) – I can’t remember a trip where nothing required attention – and, though I consequently habitually pack it, with our new van, I was hoping that it would be so much unnecessary ballast. Alas, not so. First, I had to fix a bathroom door hinge pin which insisted on dropping out regularly, now the sink waste needed taping together.

We took a morning opportunity to zoom off to show gratitude for Penzance McDonalds wi-fi by posting a couple more blog entries, before returning for a leisurely striking of camp. We’re pretty practiced at this routine but, because we couldn’t arrive at our next site before noon, we managed to spin out packing until 11:15 AM when we bad farewell to Kestal Farm and set sail for St. Agnes.

After a lengthy trip of 27 miles lasting all of 45 minutes, we pulled in to the Caravan Club site on the western slopes of St. Agnes Beacon. The site is magnificently situated with views west over Wheal Coates, across several bays and down the northern Cornish coast to St. Ives in the distance. Being on the slopes of the beacon, the price for this somewhat exposed but magnificent situation can be the wind. Today it was whistling across the beacon with a vengeance. ‘T is a good job that small and mighty Carol is responsible for internal tasks, otherwise she’d have slipped in to a quick Mary Poppins impression, disappeared over the beacon and be half way to Swansea, by now.

Fortunately, coming largely from the south, it is not a cold wind and, having survived setting up, we enjoyed a bracing walk of a mile or so across the beacon into St. Agnes itself to get provisions for our evening meal and some new flowers for Billy/Carol. We got lots of local produce and cut down on the food miles: Cornish beef, locally grown chard, Cornish blue cheese. However, after our return saunter back to Billy into the face wind, we noticed that the carnations we had bought were marked "product of Colombia". Watch out Holland! At least shipping food half way around the planet feeds people; can it really be necessary to ship pretty but essentially useless decoration so far?

Levelling the van in something approaching a gale was an "interesting" exercise; as Billy shook about in the gusty wind, the bubbles in the spirit level danced alarmingly. Even with the corner steadies down, we’re wallowing about a bit. I’ve never been sea-sick in a caravan before.

I think we’re level … but who knows?

Our last day near Marazion and another fair day was forecast, so we surprised ourselves a little by getting out of camp by about 9:30 AM and setting off.

Our first stopping off point, by way of a little leg warming-up exercise, was to call in on one of the National Trust’s more recent acquisitions, Godolphin House and grounds. The grounds in question contain Godolphin Hill, up to the top of which Carol was intent on marching me – about three quarters of a mile. Then, of course, having marched me up to the top of the hill, she had to march me down again – another three quarters of a mile. And when I was up, I was up – and could see, through wind-induced-watering eyes, St. Ives and the north coast to one side with St. Michael’s Mount and the south coast to the other. And when I was down, I was down – and Carol went off to look at the Godolphin House gardens while I went "ooh, ah" at a reasonably impressive bluebell wood. And when I was only half-way up … well, you get the picture.

Having warmed-up the ol’ legs, we headed off to England’s (also Britain’s and, indeed, Cornwall’s) most southerly point, the Lizard. It would have been all too easy for us to dive off right into Kynance Cove, having fallen in love with the place on our previous trip, and to have walked down to the Lizard. However, so as not to get stuck in a rut, we decided to start at the Lizard and walk up the eastern side to Cadgwith, a distance of 3.75 miles.

The Lizard is another National Trust area so, Carol being a member, we could park for free. (Cheapskates!) The National Trust clearly breed their car park attendants very tough because, as we stepped out of the car a particularly ferocious southerly wind blasted across England’s most southerly point and sliced through us, whilst the car park attendant sat outside quite calmly in little more than a T-shirt. Must be from Newcastle, I thought, though he didn’t sound it.

This stretch of the coast path is quite narrow in places so we had to clamber aside occasionally to let opposing walkers pass but we made it to Cadgwith in about 90 minutes. The coast wasn’t quite as spectacular as that around the Minack but it was very pleasant nonetheless. I was unable to resist a pint of the guest beer, Old Leg Over, helped down (not that it needed any help) by a pack of Nobby’s Nuts, in the Cadgwith Inn. (What is going on, by the way? The polite young man behind the bar wanted to know what flavour peanuts I wanted. Well, peanut- flavoured, preferably.)

They should clearly change the name of Old Leg Over to Old Leg Up ‘cos my legs felt pretty spritely on the return trip to the Lizard. It had been reasonably calm since leaving the Lizard on the way up. Now, as we again approached the Lizard, we got the full force of the southerly straight in our faces once again. Very bracing! (I have to confess that they no longer feel at all spritely, as I write this.)

After a very self-righteous 9 miles, there was just time to call in to one of our favourite fish shops at Porthleven where a splendid looking Gurnard was waiting to provide us with our evening fishy feast. Another one of which Hugh Fearnley-Whittingstall would approve.

St Georges Day dawned to BBC Radio Cornwall blathering on about nationality and what it means to be English, as opposed to Cornish or British. The Cornish undoubtedly have a very strong sense of identity and may now, apparently, enter Cornish as their nationality on official forms. (Wait a moment …) Somebody actually mentioned something about an English government which, last time I checked, did not exist. The Scots have their parliament, the Welsh have their assembly, and the nearest thing the English have is a British Parliament run, for the last 10 years or so, largely by Scots. My inescapable conclusion, therefore, is that "what it means to be English" is to be unrepresented for the most part, save at the local level by a bunch of self-serving councillors.

Political mumbo-jumbo aside, St Georges Day was advertised as being largely dry and pleasant.  So, rather than slaying any passing dragons in the name of valour, we decided to take our steed a little way west to investigate the coastal path near the Minack theatre near Porthcurno. As it turned out, the best deal for us was to use the Minack’s free car park, fork out the £3.50 each to go in, play tourist and have a look around. As it also turned out, the day, down in that part of the coast at least, turned out far better than advertised and we were treated to views of sparkling blue-green sea under brilliant cerulean skies. This was the kind of weather I live for.

The Minack must be the most stunningly situated, most uncomfortable theatre in the world. The auditorium is essentially the cliff face with rows of cast concrete seats and stairs added in and around the natural rock. This all overlooks a stage perched seemingly precariously over the western reaches of the English Channel as a backdrop (note: English Channel, not Cornish Channel nor British Channel); a truly spectacular location. How the wandering thespians project their voices sufficiently to be heard above the noise of the waves crashing rhythmically against the rocks beneath, I can only imagine. Cut to Verona, where two families both alike in stature, etc … :

(Enter rock left.)

Juliet: "Romeo –crash-, Romeo -boom-, wherefore art thou –roar– Romeo?"
Romeo: "Eh? -crash- What? –thunder– Speak up Jules –crash-; there’s a dreadful roaring –roar– in my ears!"

(Exit rock right.)

Great stuff which I can only imagine because nothing on this planet could persuade me to sit through an entire dramatic production on those backside-crucifying concrete seats. Besides, I’d far rather devote my concentration to the spectacular coastline surrounding the location, which is simply breathtaking.

With an uncharacteristic cultural interlude behind us, we eventually elected to take the coastal path west towards Land’s End. (Land’s End is now disgustingly commercial and eminently missable – it’s just the direction we took with no intention of actually getting that far.) With the colourful spring plants along the coastline enhanced further by the clear air and sun – brilliant yellow gorse and pure white wild garlic (three-cornered leek/garlic, apparently) mixed with occasional vivid bluebells and pink campions – we’ll be thinking long and hard before spending spring elsewhere, I suspect.

We went as far as the Coastguard lookout at Gwennap Head before turning back for the return trek fuelled by an enormous but excellent Cornish Pasty for lunch. With some spectacular rock formations and the unexpectedly good weather, this was one of the most visually appealing stretches of coastal path we have walked.

What a fabulous day. 🙂

After yesterday’s incessant seven or eight hours of rain, we were looking forward to today’s promise of dry weather with, dare we say, a bit of sunshine thrown in.

Just southwest of Helston I had seen, on good ol’ Google Earth, a circular walk around a body of fresh water called The Loe. Actually, the main arm is called The Loe with a smaller arm being called Carminowe Creek. It’s about 5 miles around and in the grounds of a National Trust property, Penrose House. The most interesting feature is that this fresh water lake is separated from the sea by a sand bank, Loe Bar, only a hundred yards or so wide.

There is another feature which interested us. As well as being a mere spit southwest of Helston, it is a mere spit southeast of Porthleven which is home to a splendid fishmonger. We’d been there before and seen fish so fresh that it was still in rigor mortis. So our plan, such as it was, was to saunter around The Loe, have a gander at Loe Bar making suitable "ooh, ah" noises, then spin into Porthleven and grab fresher fish than we are ever able to buy at home for this evenings gastro-entertainment.

Whilst the day itself may have been dry, the ground underfoot was far from dry following yesterday’s soaking, naturally. So, we slipped and slithered our way through various patches of mud around the less-well-drained sections of the walk supported by our Leki poles. The sun did put in an appearance but it was initially something of a half-hearted affair, though Carol did manage to grab a shot of The Loe with some rarely seen blue sky. Shyness had overcome the Sun by the time we reached Loe Bar, though, and it was hiding behind the more familiar grey murk.

Porthleven fish shop was again grand, the main difficulty being choice. (Hugh Fearnley-Whittingstall would be proud of us; we chose a megrim which, apparently, suffers from bad PR and is considering re-badging itself as Cornish sole in an attempt to become more appealing to the fish-buying public.) Less grand was the fact that Porthleven appears to lack a half-way reasonable shop to provide the necessary accompaniments for our megrim/Cornish sole, so a brief detour to Penzance Morrisons was called for on the way back.

The sun and blue sky returned after our walk, naturally, and very welcome it was, too (he said, as a few spots of rain began hitting the caravan roof).

It’s just after 5:00 PM and the day’s rain appears to have finally ceased. Glory hallelujah! Having been pleasantly surprised yesterday, today we were unpleasantly surprised. We’ve spent most of the day pleasantly enough, cozy in Billy Bailey with the heating ticking over, passing our time reading books and doing various puzzles while the rain beat steadily on the roof. Weather aside, things are idyllic as we now have the farm to ourselves.

Eventually, we gave up waiting for the advertised afternoon clear-up and have just been down to the Penzance McDonalds car park to investigate their wi-fi network. It’s brilliant. From the car park, we managed to get yesterday’s blog posted and went through our emails. This proved a very worthwhile experience since it seems there is a chance for us to house- and dog-sit in Lliber in the Jalon Valley, Spain, towards the end of the year. Bravo! This would be a new gig for the people we were unable to accommodate this February. ‘T would be good to see our business building and have more than one client near Jalon. Thank you, McDonalds. I may well become a fan and start living on McFlipper in McBatter, or whatever the hell they call the less unhealthy options.

In fond memory of Spain and sun, we also visited good ol’ McTesco for a red pepper (guess who forgot it yesterday) so that we can make a Mediterranean feast of Paella Valenciana (see Gastroblog) this evening. We may not be able to sit in the sun but we can certainly brighten things up by eating it. 😉

Weather forecasters are wonderful. If I understood today’s five day forecast correctly, we were in for cloud building with showers giving way to potentially heavier rain. Tomorrow, “however”, would start overcast with the possibility of showers leading to possibly heavier bursts of rain. (And the difference is ..?) As the low moves away southeast “though”, the Atlantic will start influencing our weather more and we will get weather fronts moving in from the west bringing showers with the possibility of some heavier bands of rain (again, the difference being ..?), and so on and so forth. So, let me get this right: no matter what the weather systems do, we are in for showers followed by rain. Excellent!

After a sustaining consolation breakfast of bacon and eggs (which we never eat at home), we decided to brave the elements before it actually rained and walk to the coastal path at Perran Sands, about 2.5 miles from our camp site. At least the bluebells thought it was spring, even if the weather was having other ideas. Given the consistently depressing weather forecast, imagine our surprise as the sun broke through and we peeled off first one layer, then another, to end up walking in our T-shirts. The light was pants with a grey murk all around the horizon so our views of St. Michael’s Mount were far from photogenic, but it was a much more pleasant walk than we were expecting.

Heading east, as we were passing a somewhat rocky Stackhouse Cove, a couple of the rocks appeared to be disappearing then reappearing, as rocks often do in a slight swell. These seemed to be reappearing in a slightly different spot, though. They’ve got eyes and whiskers. At last – a couple of seals (Grey Seals, I think) very close in to the rocks on the shore. (Not close enough for a camera, regrettably, but fine for binoculars.) We’ve often hoped we’d see a seal from the Cornish coastal path but hitherto with no luck.

With the day made by our long-awaited seal encounter, we headed further east as far as Hoe Point (about three miles) before cutting back inland for the three mile or so wander back to Billy Bailey and a well deserved cup of tea.

Now it’s time for a shower followed by the last remaining beer before fixing Coq Au Cara-Vin by way of evening entertainment.