Day One

So, here we are having finally arrived at the last episode of this strange odyssey. I have to apologise to everyone who reads this as I’ve been putting off writing this final chapter. I think because once it’s written down, it’s finally over. I never thought when this all started back in 2017 that I’d get so invested in what is (let’s face it) a fairly silly idea. It’s now nearly 5 years later (thanks, in part to bloody Covid) and my final journey was in June 2021 which is now 9 months ago.

Just to remind you what was going on then, we were coming out of lockdown 3 (2.5?) and everything was opening up again. Masks were still de rigeur and everyone was still nervous about crowds (or, at least, sensible people were). On the week I was travelling, the G7 Summit was taking place in Cornwall. Several people from work were going down to police it and I joked that I would see them there, never thinking that we would be anywhere near each other.

After four years, this was the final journey. Many people had tried to guess the final destination, but no-one got it right – until the night before when Graham Widger said “isn’t there a place called Zennor in Cornwall”. Not for nothing is he known as a git – but well done, despite that. As I get ready to go, the weather is in a celebratory mood – sunny and warm. However, apparently it’s worse in Cornwall – 5 degrees colder and with rain predicted for tomorrow. Facebook cheerfully reminds me that 4 years ago I was in Farnham – the last of my original 8 trips.

I have some trepidation about the journey. It’s a long train ride with three changes: Reading (inevitably), Newton Abbot and St Erth. I’ve been warned that my journey back will start with a Rail Replacement Bus, so I have a sneaking suspicion that the same will be true today. My train leaves at 09:04 and I’m scheduled to get to St Ives at 14:58. I’m not looking forward to spending 6 hours masked. However, elegantly attired in Magnum boots and shorts, I head for the station.

Slough station is as uninspiring as ever and so needs little more comment as I wait for my train. Todays book is The Man Who Ate the World by Jay Rayner. It’s about his search for the perfect dinner and while I enjoy his writing style, I find myself wishing I could afford to eat at just one of the places he is talking about. I will have to satisfy myself with searching for a decent pasty while I’m in Cornwall – keto be damned!! I checked my weight this morning, expecting two weeks of hedonism (or more appropriately hedonism-light) and a belated Christmas celebration to have stacked the weight on. To my surprise, the damage is only 2 pounds.

Being a seasoned traveller, I get into the right zone for my carriage as I have a reserved seat. I then check outside to make sure I’m getting in the right end. Excellent planning – or it would be, if the sign on the outside was correct – and it isn’t. So I walk the entire length of the carriage and take possession of my seat which, as usual, has no reserved sign on it. I am in the company of a couple of young gentlemen who are sprawled out and exhibiting all the signs of recovering from a hard night and an early, sunny morning. One is wearing a West Ham shirt, so he might have his head in his hands for more existential reasons than a brain-bursting hangover. At least they both have their masks on.

The journey to Reading is uneventful except for the trolley service – both retro and more efficient than the LNER app. I check to see where my connecting train and, would you believe it, it’s Platform 7B. I’ve missed it like an old friend. Or, possibly, more like a slightly annoying wart. Even on this warm day, 7B still maintains its’ traditional chill. I briefly consider popping into the waiting room to see if the urine smell has gone, but wisely decide to take a seat on a bench instead. I have 10 minutes to wait.

This time the sign is right and I board the right carriage at the right end. The carriage is packed with the three of us and so we are spread out as much as possible. As we head towards the south west, I try and work out why I’m changing at Newton Abbot. This train goes to Plymouth, as does the one I’m going to catch. In fact, that train starts at Exeter and we’ll be there in plenty of time to make the change. I could buck the system and change at a different station, but the worrying part of my brain is convinced that will mean I have flouted some obscure by-law and they’ll make me walk home. They then announce that half of this train is going to Newquay, which is only 30 miles from St Ives. Surely going there would have been faster? Rather than try and untie the Gordian knot of train timetables I decide to just go with the flow.

This service also has a retro trolley. This time I succumb to its’ lure and my coffee is accidentally joined by a chocolate brownie (which is not as disappointing as I expected and is crumbly with a big hit of chocolate). I hope this is a good sign of things to come. Of course, my excuse for having this is that while eating & drinking I can take my mask off. Not that there’s anyone within about 10 seats of me.

Jay Rayner wrote this book in 2008, and the section I’m reading makes a comment about bloggers. It’s actually a quote from Mario Batali. I hope they don’t mind me quoting it (let’s face it, they’ll probably never find out but if they do and they object, I’ll do an edit).

Many of the anonymous authors who vent on blogs rant their snarky vituperatives from behind the smoky curtain of the Web. This allows them a peculiar and nasty vocabulary that seems to be taken as truth by virtue of the fact that it has been printed somewhere. Unfortunately, this also allows untruths, lies and malicious and personally driven dreck to be quoted as fact.

This is something that has been commented on a lot recently and seems more relevant than ever in our current society.

My reading is interrupted by me occasionally looking outside at a beautifully green landscape with searingly blue skies. Skies which get cloudier and darker, the further the journey goes. As the train approaches Taunton an announcement is garbled over the tannoy. It’s a long announcement and he clearly knows it’s too long, so he gets faster as it goes on – which, naturally, makes it even more difficult to decipher. All I can catch is that we can change at Taunton to get a bus to Minehead. I don’t recall ever hearing that on this journey before, and it’s a nice reminded of my trip to Porlock two weeks ago.

By the time the train approaches Exeter, the sun has disappeared and the clouds look decidedly grey, tinged with black. This, unlike the raven, does not bode well. My concerns about the Cornish weather are coming true. I really hope not as I want to finish this madness off with a truly painful 10 mile hike rather than a more sensible but dull bus ride.

No journey would be complete without at least one comment on the toilet. It is one of these clever modern ones, with buttons everywhere and everything automated. With my previous experience still in my mind, I use it with no issues and return to my seat. I later hear a woman sat near me complain about there being no water in the bathroom and I mentally scoff at her – I had no problems – and I head off to use it again. It’s previously pristine condition has charged – there is water (or some unnameable fluid) all over the floor and ripped up tissues are everywhere. It’s as though it’s been infested by a particularly excitable flock of Morris Dancers. I wash my hands and the water stops before I’ve got the soap off. Previously, it started again but this time it doesn’t so I end up wiping my hands clean with tissues. Mine go into the bin rather than adding to the debris. I mentally apologise to the woman for scoffing at her. Unsurprisingly, this doesn’t seem to matter to her.

The second change is done and the train thunders along the coast towards Plymouth. This bit of coast is very familiar as I used to take the train to and from London when I first moved up there. I remember one journey when there was a storm and waves were breaking against the train as we traversed this section – spectacular, a little scary and, due to a leaky carriage, somewhat moist.

Jay Rayner is finished by this time and I have moved on to Living by Henry Green.

As we approach Plymouth, the sky is an unrelieved grey. We arrive and the train sits at the platform for over a quarter of an hour – because otherwise, the journey might be too short! Joy of joys, as we wait a woman drags a small and screaming child into the carriage. Luckily, they’re in the next carriage but his shrieks echo down the train until the doors mercifully shut. So far, there are no indications of refreshments on this train and I’m starting to feel both hungry and thirsty. Where is the retro trolley service when you need it?

As we head across the Tamar into Cornwall, it starts to rain. We cross one of my favourite bridges (the Brunel Rail Bridge) which gives an excellent view of the much less inspiring road bridge.

As we enter Cornwall, the looming clouds finally stop looming, and it starts to rain. The clouds in places are so low that it looks more like mist. All views are severely truncated but it’s still a beautifully rural bit of countryside.

At Bodmin Parkway, I get an excellent view of the opposite platform and some excellent examples of idiocy. One has a mask dropped around his neck, the other has one hanging out of his top pocket. So clearly neither are medically exempt. So their reason for not wearing them? Not a clue. Just to make it worse, they’re stood either side of a sign telling everyone to wear masks while in the station. *sigh*

At St Erth, my suspicions are found to be true and I need to use Bus Replacement Service for the last stage of the trip. The reason is now clear – the G7 conference in Carbis Bay which happens to be right beside St Ives where I will be staying. As I approach the double decker bus, there are 6 staff hanging around outside and I am invited to sit anywhere – or to drive if I wish! I decline the kind offer and take the front seat upstairs. I’m the only passenger as the bus heads to St Ives.

On the approach to St Ives, I get some excellent views across the town – and of the warship moored in the bay. St Ives is based around a harbour and the remarkably busy car park is on top of a hill to the east of the town.

My overnight stay is (naturally) on a hill to the west of the town. But it’s too early to go there, so I head down the insanely steep path into town.

St Ives is a typical Cornish town and looks like many other I’ve been to.

As I head down to the harbour it steadily gets busier, until I come out onto the quay, which is crowded with tourists. Given the fact that its quite cold and the weather isn’t brilliant, I’m surprised to see so many people here. Everywhere is full, so I head off to the streets behind the front, where I find some extremely steep lanes and a complete lack of places to eat!

Eventually, I give up and return to the front and end up in a place called The Searoom, where I have a nutritionally balanced meal of mussels, chips and cider.

It’s not exactly cheap, but it is very tasty and I’d recommend a visit to anyone coming this way.

https://www.stivesliquor.co/searoom

Suitably sustained, I head up some very steep roads to find my overnight accommodation at The Nook. I get inside to find 7 men sat around chatting. They all have that air of being police so I suspect they’re here for the G7. I naturally don’t ask. I also don’t ask why none of them are wearing masks. I do ask where the owners are. They have no idea. In the end, I give up and phone them and they give me a pass code for the key safe which contains my room key. I terminated the call and then checked my thesaurus for the definition of impersonal. Yes, there it is halfway down: The Nook. Now the advantage of this place over the last pace I stayed is that they are providing breakfast. I head up to my room to find a lovely note telling me that they have decided not to provide breakfasts at the moment. I check around to see where my rebate is for this decision, but instead they’ve left me a tote bag, some apple juice and some crackers.

I settle down to plan tomorrow and to work out where I can get breakfast in the morning. There isn’t anywhere nearby to get anything, but I eventually find a Spar about a mile away and I stock up for a light snack, breakfast and something for the journey tomorrow. I am now ready for tomorrows hike – though I am concerned about the sections described as a “scramble”.

Day Two

The day dawns grey and overcast. Much like my mood after I am woken my the boding ravens on the garage roof outside. Or are they crows? I decide in the end that they are Cornish Choughs. Judge for yourself.

Whatever they are, they’re bloody loud. That’s the view from my room btw – lovely, eh?

As I’m awake, it’s breakfast then boots on and head out. Well, that is, after the traditional fight with the shower. This one is slow to start and then extremely reluctant to turn off. Eventually the timeless struggle of man versus machine is won by man leaving and heading for the South West Coast Path.

The age-appropriate hoody goes on because weather.com is filling me with doubt. It states that there will be scattered showers with the biggest coming through around 09:00. Which should be just as I’m somewhere with absolutely no shelter. I could wait until after then, but the weather doesn’t seem to get much better. So I gird up my loins (and everything else) and head out.

Now, some may recall that I had a previous encounter with the South West Coast Path when I was in Porlock. There it was clearly marked with signs, even when it wasn’t really needed. I am expecting the same here. Of course my expectations are immediately shattered as I get onto a completely unmarked path. This must be the right one – if I go any further towards the coast, I’ll be in the sea. It starts off as a tarmacked path with plenty of early morning joggers. If it’s like this all the way, this will be a doddle.

I head off and very quickly find myself alone on the path with no sounds except for the wind and the cries of birds. I’m still unsure this is the right path, but then I find this.

So at least I know I’m in the right place. Suitably braced, I head off with cries of pheasants coming out of the undergrowth. Or are they piskies? I become more convinced of the latter as the morning goes on. Bouyed up with confidence, I proceed with the tarmac underfoot, until …

From here on, the path is best described as elusive. It gets crossed by sheep paths and can be extremely difficult to work out which way to go. You would have thought it was simple – too far to the right, is clearly bad – but at several points I found myself peering over into the abyss.

After taking one of these tracks and then toiling back to what I assume what was the actual path, I encountered the man I think of as the Last Jogger. He came from the direction I was walking in and stopped looking at the track I’d just toiled up. “Is that the way, then?” He asked. I advised him to keep going and he disappeared off. He was the last person I would see for nearly 3 hours.

I head on, the weather fortunately holding off although I can see rainclouds in the distance. I’m trying to work out where I am in my South West Coast Path book, but one headland looks much like another.

The path winds in and out, often descending into little valleys made by streams and then with the joyful thought of an ascent on the other side.

It is still delightfully un-signposted and then I eventually find one that the piskies have failed to remove.

I’m definitely starting to feel piskie-led and my feelings on it are made less sanguine when they seem to be leaving messages for me.

This little piskie “conceit” is now actually starting to scare the crap out of me. I toil on, the path sometimes going up streams (literally) and after three hours, I finally see someone coming in the other direction. We pause to talk and they tell me that there’s a “bit of a scramble” ahead. I’ve already been through a couple of sections described that way and they weren’t a problem, so I laugh and say I’ll be careful. My laughter is clearly heard by the piskies, who are probably pissing themselves as they watch me navigate the “scramble”.

I’m sorry, but that is NOT a path!

As I get to the last headland I can see that the path has two routes ahead, both of which have people on them. Good lord, it’s rush hour on the South West Coast Path. Distracted by them, I miss my footing and feel a sharp wrench go up one hamstring and twist my ankle. Luckily, I’m wearing boots, so no damage is done and after a bit of massage, the hamstring clears. Cursing the piskies I head on up the bluff.

By the time I get to the top, the low cloud is more like mist. I’m absolutely knackered – this relatively short walk has drained me. As I slowly amble across the bluff a voice from behind warns me and I step aside for a jogger. Who is wearing a weighted vest. Git.

On the other side of the bluff, I part company with the coast path and head into Zennor. I walk through pleasant farmland to the tiny village of Zennor.

I head to The Tinners Arms, (https://tinnersarms.com) where I order coffee and Aspalls Orchards and wait for them to begin serving lunch. I’m bitterly cold and most of my clothing is damp. I probably shouldn’t have the cider, but when in Cornwall…

About 40 minutes later, the couple that told me about the scramble comes in – hold on, how the hell did they get here so fast? Maybe I was walking that slowly. Another few people arrive and they all get served before me. I’ve clearly been forgotten. I’m actually happy to just sit there and warm up and I read a bit more of Living (which I’m now getting into and starting to enjoy).

Eventually my order is taken and I go for Leek and Potato Soup, followed by Deep Fried Squid and Chips. The food is really good (the chips are particularly excellent), but I’m full and I leave most of my main course.

My decision now is how to get back. I could retrace my steps (NO!) or I could walk a direct path through farmland. Alternatively, I could get a taxi. This seems the most sensible alternative as my age-appropriate hoody and baseball cap are both soaked and walking in them would be pretty miserable. When I get outside, the tables are full – clearly it’s not as cold as I think it is. That makes the taxi an even better idea.

The taxi driver is completely silent. Maybe he’s from some kind of Cistercian Order of Taxi Drivers. I’m happy as it means I don’t have to make polite conversation. It takes 15 minutes to get back to The Nook – a journey that took me 4 hours. It makes it all seem a little pointless. I spend the rest of the day camped out in my room at The Book. Which, by the way, hadn’t been cleaned.

Day Three

My journey back starts in grey, overcast weather. My train from St Erth leaves at 10:30, but as I have to use the Bus Replacement Service, I have no idea how long the journey will take. As a result, I head out at 09:00 … just in case. This should be an easier journey as the train goes straight through to Reading. The tote bad from The Nook comes in handy to carry my boots and my feet have the relief of lighter shoes.

Once I head out, it’s clear that my knees and calves are very unhappy with me about yesterdays little jaunt. I plan a cunning route to the car park that avoids the worst of the hills, but I’m limping a little so it’s not my fastest walk ever. It does, however, give me a great view over the bay.

At the car park, there is a steady stream of buses turning up and lots of very helpful staff who tell me where to wait. They are also helping people getting off the buses – tourists get directed down the hill, protesters get directed to the top of the car park. All very civilised.

As my bus arrives, the staff help a little old man on and completely ignore the little old lady who is stood beside me. I offer to help her and so I find myself wheeling her wheely suitcase on for her – oh, the piskies are laughing at that one! I’m the last one on, but still get the front seat on the top deck.

I get to St Erth with plenty of time (no surprise there). The staff on duty here are excellent. Once they work out I’ve got an hour to wait, they explain that I can get an earlier train if I pay a bit more – but I don’t want to do that. I sit down on the now rainy platform and 15 minutes later, one comes back to me. He’s checked and I can definitely take the earlier train if I want to. I check my ticket and it’s for a specified train, so wouldn’t work – but I’m very impressed at their customer service.

I’ve now moved on to reading Glory Season by David Brin.

By the time my train arrives, two other staff members have come to speak to me and asked if I have a seat booked. When I confirm that I’m in carriage J, I say that I think this means I have to be at the end of the train. They confirm this and point to the other end of the platform. When my train is called I head down to the unsheltered end of that platform where there is nowhere to get out of the now persistent rain. I get an excellent view of Carriage J sweeping majestically past. I get on and walk through largely empty carriages to get to Carriage J.

Where someone is in my seat.

I check my seat number and am about to ask them to move, when I realise I’ve miscounted and am still in Carriage H. I head off, negotiating my way past the retro trolley and slump into my seat. 4 1/2 hours to Reading.

The carriage gets fuller at Camborne, including the requisite delightfully crying child. Luckily it stops fairly quickly – maybe someone left it on the platform. Oh no, there it goes again. At Truro a couple get on and (quite reasonably) have to ask three youths to move as they are reserved seats. As they stand up, I can clearly see the reserved signs and wonder why they sat there in the first place.

The three get off at Bodmin Parkway and are replaced by a couple who have brought their chihuahuas with them. To misquote Joey, “It’s not a dog!” Luckily they are quiet. At the same station, a woman gets on with a child in a pushchair and a slightly older child dragging along behind her. She decides to let them play. This comprises them running up and down the carriage shrieking at the top of their voices.

And yet, strangely, none of this really bothers me. Not the strident way that Chihuahua woman demands “TEA” from the retro trolley. Not the loud man behind me who seems to be on his phone for the entire four hours. Not the brats running up and down.

When I’m queuing on the approach to Reading and my way is blocked because a couple and their 3 toddlers are trying to use just two seats, I barely care. I’d like to think this is finally a sign of maturity, but I think it’s because I’m sad that this project is over.

So there it is. Thank you to everyone who has followed this mildly insane project. It has been the subject of many conversations and enough inspired guesses to give me another 24 trips if I wanted to do it. I have thoroughly enjoyed myself, and I hope you have found this entertaining. It’s definitely been fun to write it. So what happens next? I have an idea that I discussed with John and Janice (you met them back in K is for Kensington) about a Grand Tour. But that’s going to have to wait until I have a better idea of my financial future. I retire next year, so I can’t make any commitments. What am I doing this year? Well I’m doing three countries in 9 days in May/June. And who knows, maybe I’ll add that to the blog too.