2015 Review

This was the first year of our joint retirements. Kate insisted that she had only entered this state when she did not have to go into school. So, on what was for some the first day of the January term we started walking the Saints’ Way from Padstow to Fowey. This set the tone for one of the major activities of the year: walking the Cornish section of the SW Coast Path and visiting Cornish churches.

By the end of the year we had walked over 250 miles of the path and have only 50 miles to go, and had visited over 90 churches. Some of you may have followed our exploits at our new website: www.acornishjourney.wordpress.com It was difficult to avoid the words ‘bright sunlight’, ‘clear turquoise sea’, and ‘magnificent cliffs’.

The second major theme was enjoying the company of friends and family. At the end of January we moved Jonathan’s mother Felicity into a flat close to the cathedral in Truro. She settled in quickly and soon knew more about the history of the city than we did. She could now attend a great-granddaughter’s school plays.

We have been busy. With Emma and Wyl also in Truro we had two local grandchildren to entertain; Claire and Nick visited regularly from Epsom bringing two more; Peter and Rebeka came from Wimbledon when they could; numerous cousins arrived to see Felicity and, with our siblings and friends visiting as well, we were never short of company. Parties in bright sun on the terrace often featured.

Somewhere, amidst this reckless round of entertainment, we managed two ‘holidays’: as though every day of retirement in Cornwall were not a holiday. In the first we went to Bulgaria where we discovered that we had not forgotten how to ski. The second was with niece Juliet and her family at her glorious house in Tuscany. We bravely crossed the Tamar a few times to England for weddings, opera and visits: we even made it into Wales. We may try harder next year.

One of the high spots of the year was one of Kate’s leaving presents: a skydive. A six hour wait for a weather window resulted in a proud, ecstatic, if somewhat relieved former teacher (not to say husband).

After falling from 15,000ft	On the slopes in Bulgaria
A rare moment during the year was when the whole family - minus the Swiss branch - was assembled in Truro ...	... but that did not stop us putting the oldest to work
Scaring the neighbours	Scaring the fish

The arrival of a hot tub added to the variety of entertainment and relieved aching muscles. There is something magical though about lying in its warmth and watching the space station pass overhead on a dark night, listening to the hoot of passing owls.

Somewhere, in this giddy round of pleasure, we found time to support a Home-Start family, keep fit and help out in three local schools (K); sing, sort out databases for the museum and cathedral, help out in community matters and edit a book (J). We doubled the amount of time we spent sailing but it was still not nearly enough. First we must finish the Coast Path and then there are Cornish rivers to canoe and …

We leave with a message of love and much-needed hope for the year ahead. We love seeing friends from near and far. You are all welcome any time, especially if you enjoy walking, visiting churches, seeking standing stones and holy wells, sailing, canoeing, walking or just relaxing …

Much love for a Happy Christmas,
Kate and Jonathan

PS: There is a larger selection of pictures here which highlight some of the events of the year.

PPS: Any suggestions as to who these are and what we should do with them?

New book

'Let us now praise famous men and our fathers that begat us ...'

Well ... certainly a father. Paul wrote a main autobiography - Changes and Chances - and then expanded some of the elements in a series of subsidiary volumes.

Changes and Chances was one of about a dozen major books which were unpublished at his death in 2012. It has been transferred from typescript and is now published with minimal editing.

It covers his years from 1922 until the late 1970s when he first retired and accounts for his time in the Indian Army, through student-hood at Cambridge and as a young master at Uppingham, to being a headmaster in Cyprus during the 'Troubles' and latterly at Aldenham during the social revolutions of the 1960s.

Paul is famous for his clear thought, clarity of expression and directness. This style pervades Changes and Chances. He observes the changing world as he himself was growing and developing his ideas. Starting as a lonely boy whose best friend was a dog he became a headmaster who was almost blown up by terrorists, and whose fictional alter ego was destroyed in a film.

As might be expected, the account starts with a poem of which the first verse runs:

Changes and chances,
Dirges and dances:
This is the curious pattern of men:
Picking the daisies,
Driving like crazies,
Silent at breakfast and shouting by ten.

Changes and Chances is now available from www.lulu.com/shop (search on Changes and Chances or Paul Griffin) for £10.

We hope to print more of Paul's work soon, including some of the subsidiary parts of his autobiography and his novels.

The traveller

Once upon a time there was a lion, slightly cross-eyed, but solid and made of bronze.

His life was not what many people would call exciting. He spent his time on a large brown wooden door at the entrance to a house outside Nicosia. When people came to the door, they lifted the large ring in his mouth and knocked, sending a sonorous sound reverberating through the house.

The thing he most loved, apart from being important and guarding the front door, was the view. His house stood on a hill and had a wonderful view northwards towards the Kyrenia hills. He could watch the sun, wind and rain changing the patterns of the landscape and see the sinking sun illuminating the mountains at evening time. Up there great Crusader castles ringed the mountain tops reminding him of the history of the island. The Venetians had ruled the island for many years and he was clear that he was a lion of St Mark, the emblem of their power.

But new people came to the house. He was not sure about them, especially the new lady. She insisted that the porch behind him should go. The walls were pulled down revealing four square sandstone pillars, bringing light to the rooms within. His door came down. The lion was not sure that he was keen on this idea, especially when he heard that he was not going to be fixed to the new green door. What would his future be? Was he going to be melted down and turned into shell-casing or, worse still, into a cooking pot?

He need not have worried. He found himself attached to the wall under the canopy where he could watch people coming and going, avoiding the indignity of grubby hands swinging on his knocker. He could still enjoy the wonderful view even if he could no longer announce their arrival.

He gradually became accustomed to his new position. The family certainly made lots of noise and seemed to attract cats, of whom he naturally approved, and a rather lovely small brown dog. The latter had a habit of chasing the cats although never quite catching them.  

Time passed and the family started packing up to leave. The lion had great hopes that he would be replaced on a new wooden door where he could once again command all and sundry: but no, he was packed up and found himself on a long journey.

There were ups and downs: months spent in darkness and in lofts. Occasionally he was brought out and mounted on a wall so he could watch the countryside: at other times packed away. A black and white dog replaced the brown one and the children grew up. The smells, sounds, temperatures and copperness of Cyprus were a distant memory.

Eventually he found himself once more on a wall. The air was salty and the wind often bitterly cold but he had command of a small yard where a range of bushes and flowers thrived and brought colour and delight. Once more he had importance and could watch the comings and goings. The lady who had had him taken off the large door was still there, older but still recognisable and still talking to him. Lucky holey stones made of flint hung from a cord tied around his knocker.

He watched the lord and lady of the house get older and saw the children grow up and produce children of their own. Often these new cubs would pause alongside him and he would hear again the story of his life being passed on to them. He knew that, like them, he was a member of their family.

The lion realised that the feelings of rejection that he had felt all those years ago had turned to love and affection. He was a treasured remnant of a time gone by, valued by the family.

Then there was only the lady. He began to worry about what would happen to him if she left. He had heard talk of junk shops and even rumours of a return to Cyprus but his heart was now with the family. To return to a country he had left over fifty years ago held little appeal although he occasionally hankered for the sound of the cicadas and the smell of rosemary and pines on the hot breeze.

One day he found himself being packed once again and all his familiar fears came to surface. There was nothing he could do. After a journey he once more tasted the salt on the wind, heard the seagulls' cries and felt the wind on his face.

He recognised the people around him: the children who had grown up, the grand children and even regular visits from the old lady. In front of him was a creek and a garden. Once more he could watch the comings and goings from a position of retirement next to a front door. Beneath him was protective stone griffin - a very distant cousin - helping guard the entrance from unwanted intruders.

All would be well after all. Home was where his family was.

There is an essential copperness to this area, he thought. I may be bronze, but this is a place that values copper and tin. I feel at home here and continue to feel valued.

And with that thought the lion settled down to his familiar duties of watching and thinking, mulling over his past.

If an answer is required, don't even think of knocking. Our lion is far too venerable to make a loud noise.

The Coffin Path

A bright sunny post-Easter weekend persuaded us out to one of the loveliest stretches of the SW Coast Path near Zennor. This also gave us the opportunity to discover the Coffin Path, another of the ancient trackways of West Penwith. It turned out to be a good decision as the walk was lovely.

We parked in a small car park beside Trevalgan Hill and set off over its crest, past the very simple plaque remembering local artist Peter Lanyon, towards Trevalgan farm and eastwards onto the Coffin Path heading for St Ives.

'Coffin Path' is an unusual name for a path which links together a series of farmsteads; faintly macabre in a way. Tradition has it that vicars encouraged such straight tracks to their churches in order to attract the living and the dead, both of whom could provide money to his living. This may be true but seems rather mercenary.

In some parts of the country the route taken by a coffin traditionally became what we now think of as a right of way.

The landscape is ancient: the field boundaries consisting of massive boulders which must have been moved there by Bronze Age or Iron Age people (or, if you prefer it, the giants of W Penwith). The soil is thin and the bedrock shows through in places. It is a land suitable for cattle and sheep.

There is a real sense of continuity of occupation and agricultural husbandry on the landscape. The sites of the farms have probably been occupied since those early times, having been handed down through families. These are simple Celtic farms and the path is a natural linkage between them. The fact that the path also leads to a church would have been a bonus, guaranteeing a steady traffic on at least one day a week.

The path is very easy to spot. Some black and white posts mark the next hedge-crossing where as often as not there is a lovely granite cattle grid stile. The ground was dry and did not require our stout walking boots.

There was a faintly unnerving moment when we had to leave the path and head left to meet the Coast Path, a turning that we probably missed. We eventually found ourselves heading westwards on the Coast Path, comforting ourselves that D H Lawrence probably walked this way during World War I. He and his German-born wife lived in Zennor although we are ashamed to say we do not know in which house.

One farmer has diversified into holiday accommodation and there were signs of 'tourism' which, while not unwelcome, do manage to confuse. We suspected that the stone circle on the cliff edge and a couple of the 'standing stones' were distinctly 20th century additions. But a standing stone is a standing stone and must be revered.

This is a wonderful stretch of coast, hard going with some stiff ups and downs over large boulders but with dramatic scenery, crashing surf and the occasional inaccessible beach of black sand. Somewhere in the surf, the black head of a seal could sometimes be spotted checking up on the walkers above.

Eventually, we reached Zennor Head and turned inland to the village itself. An essential component of any A-Z of British place names, Zennor is compact, rugged, unyielding and well-cared for. The church of St Senara is one of Simon Jenkins' 1,000 Best Churches in England, rated one star. Cornwall does well in this book with 30 churches.

The greatest delight is, of course, the mermaid carving on the bench-end but the church has a rough simplicity of its own with bare stone walls and few comforts. Outside is a fine wheel-headed cross.

We ate our lunch out of the wind, using the coffin rest as a table. It is good to see that the two seats on either side have armrests for those needing to rest after carrying a coffin along the path.

Nothing in Zennor is light-weight, every stone looks to have needed the strength of several men to lift them into position. To men like that, a coffin would have seemed light.

Narrowly avoiding the lure of the Tinner's Arms whose siren song was as powerful as the mermaid's, we headed back eastwards onto the Coffin Path past five settlements. The area is rich in mysticism and magic and some of the groves we passed through were redolent of Madron Well further south. Overgrown and ruined masonry was covered in ivy and moss. A small well, now dry, was all there was to show of past activities.

Turning off at Trevessa, we made our way back to the car and homewards, revelling in having discovered yet another lovely part of this county.

The Coffin Path is highly recommended. If you do not want the long version, there is a short cut which delivers a 5 mile walk which includes Zennor.

We walked 8.7 miles in 4 hours. A map of our route is here (click on Coffin Path if it is not highlighted) and some pictures are here.

The Saints' Way 3

It was a bright, cold Sunday morning when we set out to complete the Saints' Way. Scraping the ice off our car windows, we set off into a fiercely bright sun, the windmills standing stationary in their gaunt white elegance against the clear blue sky. The weather forecasters were predicting cold, ice and snow for most of the country but not for Cornwall.

The usual drill led us to Fowey in search of a parking space or car park. Imagine my horror at the idea that a long stay car park, on a Sunday, in winter still cost over £5 for any stay over four hours. Fowey may be a nightmare of narrow streets for a driver: unless one has a Chelsea tractor and one is driving to one's weekend retreat of course. Needless to say, the car park was almost empty. I love the way we encourage tourism.

We trusted our satnav to get us to Luxulyan and discovered roads which were barely the width of the car and had a full crop of vegetation down their middle. These were worthy of some of our paths and were undeniably more interesting than some of the roads we had walked down.

The sunshine endured as we set off across some muddy fields: The worst it has ever been, said two redoubtable ladies walking two Jack Russells which hopped nervously from stone to tussock, to stone. Someone was going to need a bath at the end of the walk.

There was evidence of past industrial activity, much overgrown, as we made our way through the woods above the valley, the church bells ringing us on our way. A severe gale had blown through during the week and the ground was wetter than ever. As before we found ourselves squelching through mud and then washing our boots in the stream that poured down the paths.

The off-road walking was a pleasant change from last week, even if it did squelch.

We skirted the Iron Age Prideaux hill fort which looked inviting for a future visit and found ourselves walking down a valley into St Blazey, and an area that is not one of Cornwall's scenic gems.

Closing our eyes, we crossed the magnum via of the A390 and headed up hill through Kilhallon, dropping down into Tywardreath with its church.

Gribbin Head, with its monument, and the sea had been visible for some time: a sight which must have cheered any past pilgrim with its promise of reaching the end of their walk: as long as they did not know about Par. As we climbed the side of the hill above Polkerris, the view was not one to lift the soul: the china clay works, vast white estates and caravan parks spoiled what might have been a grand sweep of coast.

The route turned sharp left at Tregaminion chapel. This little stone structure seems to have been built a chapel for the Menabilly estate and neighbouring farms and was built in 1813. It stands amongst some trees, and we were delighted to see the snowdrops were out around our only Cornish cross of the day.

We set off across country once more, aware that Fowey lay just over the brow of the hill.

On the walk we had been pondering deep questions of the universe like one's favourite recitations if one found oneself in an open-air theatre and wished to test the acoustics. How many people could remember a whole speech from Shakespeare: the obvious choice. And what might that speech be if one provided it on a small tablet?

To be or not to be was a natural choice but which others would one include? In Trebah, one might choose A Garden is a Lovesome Thing if were not quite such an awful poem. There is surely a relevant piece in the Midsummer Night's Dream. I know a bank where the wild thyme blows, Where oxlips and the nodding violet grows, is short but apposite.

And at the Minack: surely the Tempest - Our revels now are ended. But what about John of Gaunt's This precious stone set in a silver sea: a great piece when the waves are not actually crashing over the Minack rock.

Being on the Saints' Way, perhaps we should have taken our Chaucer and recited bawdy tales to our passing companions. One little bunch would have appreciated anything not by Bacon.

The final way down into Fowey was a joy. The sea was a blue mirror only marginally distinguishable from the sky. The path was Love Lane which had natural stone steps leading down to the appropriately-titled Readymoney Cove.

Walking through Fowey reminds one just how prosperous this town now is. Seasalt bags were being carried; the houses were well-maintained: clean and well-painted; cars were universally German or four-wheel drive and new. How different from the more honest port and Cornish town of Falmouth.

We emerged by the church and declared our trail completed. A final 9 miles (14.3km) in 4.5 hours. There are more pictures here and the map is here.

Having collected our ruinously expensive car, we headed northwards as a  light rain started falling, preventing us from enjoying the Tristan Stone as we passed it.

What did we make of the Saints' Way?
It is unquestionably fun to have completed a crossing of the peninsular following what was probably a pilgrimage route. This brings our total to three such crossings: the St Michael's Way and Saints' Way on foot, and the Camel Trail by bicycle.

It was also something of a triumph to have created the trail in the first place, persuading Cornwall Council to invest in signage and limited support material.

At the end, we were left with one big question: how historically accurate is it?

The Tinners' Way, or Old Land's End Road as it is also known, is relatively easy to see on the ground. Passing through under-developed land, the ancient tracks are still evident as they follow sunken lanes or field boundaries consisting of stones of such size that no one has thought to move them for hundreds of years. The track follows the natural fall of the land. It exudes authenticity.

None of this is true for the Saints' Way. It travels through a much more developed landscape where large stones are not the usual field edges. The paths do not head for obvious landmarks. There are few sunken lanes - although where there are, they are lovely - and one rarely follows the natural curve of the land or contours.

The biggest criticism is that there are too many roads. Although these are generally quiet and make for easier walking when it is wet, they do destroy the sense of enjoying the countryside and lead to some pretty zig-zag turns. It is perfectly possible to be walking west then east then south in quick succession.

When Cornwall's roads were modernised they were largely created by laying tarmac over existing tracks, many of which may have been little more than cart tracks. As the Saints' Way had long since fallen out of use and purpose, we do not today have an obvious single road from Padstow to Fowey, nor even part of a road. It really does not look as though any part of the original Way survived long enough to have become part of the modern road network.

Without a very evident series of paths, or roads in place of paths, we were left with a feeling that the original Way was either rather more informal or actually consisted of a variety of routes joining the two coasts.

Where might these have gone? The people who created the modern Way did a good job of linking up the most obvious churches, the wayside crosses which were well-known as route markers, and even some characteristic triple stiles. But the whole does not quite gel.

They may have neglected the importance of water as an early medieval form of transport. Arriving at Padstow, it would have been a simple matter to transfer to a small river craft and use the tide to reach the interior of the county. Little Petherick, with an early version of its church, could have been a stop but Wadebridge or even Bodmin would have been within reach. After all, the Romans built a short-lived trading post at Nanstallon on the edge of Bodmin, a short distance from Lanivet.

On the south coast, Fowey is easily reached in a small boat from Lostwithiel - see our earlier posting about canoeing between the two - and Lostwithiel is a day's walk from Bodmin/Nanstallon. also, as one heads south, the sweep of St Austell bay is very inviting and it is hard to dismiss Par as a possible place of departure.

Even if the journeys themselves were not done by water, then the sides of the river valleys would have provided a natural highway. The original route would have followed a course in a broad strip bounded by Wadebridge, Bodmin and Lostwithiel on the east - is there a hint that a modern road does link these three - and Withiel, Lanivet and Luxulyan to the west. We had followed the western edge of the strip.

The most authentic part of the route is also the most unspoilt. If you are limited for time then walk from Lanivet to Luxulyan or Lanlivery. There are some lovely stretches of path; a great collection of crosses and stiles; some lovely damp copses around streams; simple Cornish churches and rolling countryside. This central section might just be the core of an original route.

But look out for fallen signposts - lack of maintenance means that many have rotted - and don't take a car anywhere near Fowey without a fat credit card.

The Saints' Way 2

On a Sunday when the French were marching in their millions pour Charlie, we set out on the next stretch of the Saints' Way from Withiel to Luxulyan. clutching our pencils in solidarity.

We were following the route of people who also sought a safe entry to paradise through rather more peaceful means than the terrorists, following the instructions of a rival prophet.

A major storm had crossed the UK and the ground was wet. For once we were not entirely sorry that most of our day's walk was going to be on roads as we pretty soon came across a small lake, barring our way. Ingenuity found a way around it and we skirted the aptly-named Retire and on to Tremore.

If the day needed a theme then it was wheel-headed crosses. We found our first at a crossroads just outside Tremore. At last, we had a sense that we might, just possibly, be following an ancient Christian trackway.

Before long we were heading downhill into Lanivet where the church sports two enormous crosses and an inscribed stone.

A service was under way and we enjoyed watching a farmer and his sons delivering a horse-drawn plough to be blessed at the end of the service on this 'Plough Sunday'. This they had bought on e-bay and claimed it was 100 years old and had not been used for 45 years. It clearly needed blessing, though.

Restored by some coffee we left Lanivet, soon becoming aware of the road of the sound of multae bigae et curres and soon found ourselves walking sub pontem sub maximam viam. A via we suspected quae ad Londinium ducit.

Imagine how delighted we were to find our next stone: a small milestone Ut Lani with a charming cartoon hand on it.

This was the prelude to a positive rush of crosses as we headed for the very obvious bulk of Helman Tor, avoiding the magnum oppidum which we suspected to be Bodminium.

It was also clear that we were entering an area full of creative denizens.
The signpost makes a small spelling error, substituting Fentopist for Fentonpits. The door has a sign with which one can only sympathise and they obviously did not read the instructions on the packet of bulbs.

Further on, we were charmed to find a small cat resting on a chimney breast.(click on the photos to see them full-sized).

Back to the walk, we headed towards Helman Tor and climbed its bulk, admiring the Neolithic defences as we did. A triangulation point, clearly placed there by the Romans with their gromae, graced the top, close to the logan stone. Well actually, almost all the stones were logans as they appeared like a pile of pebbles for a giant's game of skittles.

Lunch in the lee of a rock and onwards across a wetland nature reserve. It was certainly wet - the hint was in the title - but at least we found some genuine Cornish paths to relieve the tedium of roads.

We emerged onto a road and comfortingly discovered that we were back on the western arm of the Way.

After nearly a mile of road, we were taken off into the undergrowth, following a distinctly overgrown track through some wonderful marshy ground, over granite stiles, ducking under trees and avoiding the clasping moss hanging from the trees. This felt much more traditional.

Our resident expert was captivated by the stiles which, she said, had inspired the 'discovery' of the Saints' Way; or so the noticeboard had said.

It was a stone's throw into Luxulyan, probably a giant's stone for grey wethers lay in every field where the Helman Tor giant had tossed his pebbles, no doubt seeking to squash the community of this innocent village.

Another cross and the church of St Ciricius and St Julitta greeted us at the end of our day's travel. The story of their martyrdom is particularly unpleasant, involving rocks, boiling oil, the rack and various other horrors. It was not a day on which we wanted to contemplate any form of martyrdom; a difficult concept to understand. The only real mystery is how the church came to be dedicated to two such obscure 4th century martyrs from Antioch.

We rescued our car and headed for home as a light shower of rain reminded us how lucky we had been.

There are more photos here and the map may be seen here.

Distance: 17.4km (10 miles) in 4 3/4 hours.
 

The Saints' Way 1

The harbour of Padstow: safe if the Doom Bar was not playing up 

A new year and the first real day of retirement tempts us out into the great outdoors and the first stage of the Saints' Way from Padstow to Fowey (eventually). An early start with two cars sees one left at Withiel and the other on the start line outside St Petroc's church in Padstow.

For those who do not know it, the Saints' Way is the major long distance footpath across the middle of Cornwall. Traditionally, this was used by pilgrims from Ireland and Wales keen to make their way to Brittany to start the long trek to the shrine of Sant Iago, St James, at Compostela - a religious trip which earned a plenary indulgence equivalent to that offered for a trip to Rome or Jerusalem. Those medieval Popes knew a thing or two about politics, bribery and tourism. Pilgrims unenthusiastic about rounding Land's End by ship could use the 30 or so miles overland route which offered a relatively safe harbour at each end.

The starting line: St Petroc's church in Padstow

Their other alternative was to use the St Michael's Way from Hayle to Marazion (see previous posts). This offered a shorter land route but more hazardous seas. Despite carving deep into the Cornish heartland, the Fal does not seem to have been as popular as a departure point, perhaps because of the lack of a good port on the north coast in the early medieval period.

Before walking, it is natural to question the placing of the apostrophe; or at least it is to us. It would never do to be following a grammatical solecism. Did many Saints use this way or was it the way of Sant Iago? This, understandably leads to a debate about who named the holy men and women of Cornwall as Saints and what one had to do to achieve this accolade other than a) be holy b) be a hermit c) preach.

We settle for the style used on maps and guides, and set off through a less-than delightful 1960s housing estate and up St Dennis Hill and along Little Petherick Creek.

Little Petherick church

The trail is mostly well-signed but we quickly discover that it has an unnerving habit of launching you over a stile into a field with no indication of the direction of travel. Fields, being large, this leaves several options and we try most of them, eventually emerging at the bridge at Little Petherick where a charming small church also dedicated to St Petroc guards the crossing. Much over-done by the Victorians and Edwardians (Comper) it reeks of Anglo-Catholicism.

One of our guides says 'too many roads for my liking' and we become inclined to agree. The first part of the journey has felt 'contrived' rather than historically natural like the Tinners' Way (see previous posts). There are no green lanes following contours or climbing hills, no natural landmarks such as menhirs although there is a general sense that one is heading for St Breock Down which is the nearest thing to a beacon around here. There are lots of roads and quite a bit of mud.

To add to the quasi-religious nature of this walk we conduct the search for signposts and landmarks in Latin: ecce signum, magnam viam video, signum vides? and so on. I think this should really become compulsory on such outings.

Mind you, some of the signa are less than helpful, like this sample which reminds one of Harry Potter's King's Cross platform.

Crossing the magna via, vulgarly called the A39 Via Atlantica you enter a no-man's land of small upland farms where roads are tracks and the only thing breaking the horizon is either woolly, a hump or bump from the Bronze Age or a windmill.

The longstone

The monolith

We emerge on St Breock Down and shelter from a cold wind behind the longstone to eat some lunch. Why the longstone simply gets a mention on the map when it is a very respectable standing stone with some lovely quartz graining and every bit as exciting as its inaccessible companion, the St Breock Down Monolith (EH), escapes us.

We set off again in the direction of Withiel and become aware that we are heading in the approximate direction of Hensbarrow. If Philip Marsden is to be believed - and why not - then this was one of the important hills of Cornwall alongside Rough Tor which has been in view through the haze for much of our journey. Today Hensbarrow is little more than a pimple lining the edge of the Cornish Alps. Behind its ridge is the largest hole in Cornwall, helpfully shown on the OS map as a large white space: Clay Pit. It could equally, and more appropriately, be entitled Terra Incognita.

St Clement, Withiel

An early traveller would have followed such landmarks: 'leave Padstow and head for St Breock - you cannot miss it as it has a monolith on top - then head for Hensbarrow. Once there ...' We will complete this saying when we complete the trail.

We are once more on a road passing one of those doubtful looking places which turns out to be a 'secluded exclusive countryside hotel and country club'. Smart cars emerge and roar off in various directions. Echoes of Howard's Way as ostentatious and meretricious new wealth spills out onto the road with the recycling (several very visible champagne bottles).

A final steep downhill and compensating uphill brings us into Withiel and to the door of the church which is, strangely, dedicated to St Clement rather than any Cornish saint although it is not clear exactly which St Clement. The large church reminds me of Altarnun or St Neot: over-large churches tucked into the rolling green landscape of a hidden or out-of-the-way valley.

We climb thankfully into our car which has survived intact and head off to collect the other, allowing ourselves a small but relevant detour to mark the day. We will admit it: our feet and limbs are aching and what better way to rest them than a hot tub. Bliss! Distance: 16.6 km (10 miles) according to Google, 11 miles according to the guidebook. See map here

Time taken: 4 hours 40 minutes

Calories used: not half as many as we consumed when we got back.

To be continued ..