Day 34 - Falmouth to Portloe : 21.57 km

Day35  - Portloe to Mevagissey: 25.32 km

I didn't get around to posting yesterday. By the time we finished walking, my brain had clocked out. All I could manage was editing photos, taking a shower and demolishing a couple of boil-in-the-bag meals before falling face first into bed.

It sounds grim. Actually, it was one of the better days we've had. The weather finally loosened its grip on our throats. The rain stayed away and for the first time in weeks, walking did not resemble an elaborate punishment devised by a disappointed deity.

Our accomodations in Falmouth was the Star and Garter, a tiny pub with three  in enormous rooms tucked behind it. The views were spectacular.  Even better, the room came with bath products. At this stage of the trip, that alone earns a standing ovation. But the true miracle was sitting on the counter.A Nespresso machine. There were pods too. Plenty of them. Enough to get me caffeinated to a level normally associated with hostage negotiators and hedge fund managers.

The machine itself, however, had the temperament of a French film director.

Sometimes it made coffee. Sometimes it made alarming noises. Sometimes it simply sat there refusing to cooperate, as if offended by my presence.

Eventually I coaxed one glorious shot from it. That was all it took. Suddenly colours were brighter. Birds sounded more musical. I regained the ability to care about other human beings. Meanwhile, Ken embarked on a late-night expedition to Tesco Express in search of Millionaire's Bars. A mission that quickly deteriorated. Entering the shop, he discovered what can only be described as a full-contact disagreement unfolding in the cereal aisle.  There was shouting, posturing and enough aggression to suggest somebody had deeply insulted another man's relationship with Weetabix. Recognising that no confectionery item is worth being  stabbed over, Ken abandoned the hunt. Instead, he executed a tactical withdrawal with two chocolate croissants and exited the premises shortly before the police arrived. So that was our evening in Falmouth. A room with a harbour view, one hard-earned espresso, two chocolate croissants and a near-death encounter in a Tesco Express.

The weather yesterday improved. It spent the day dithering, unable to choose between fog, drizzle, or a brief flash of sunshine. Naturally, the drizzle and wind arrived during the boat crossings. The sea and I remain sworn enemies. If I had a past life, it certainly wasn't as a fisherman, pirate, or daring naval explorer. 

The walk itself was pleasantly uneventful. The scenery was lovely and, most importantly, the trail refrained from destroying our knees. At this stage my demands are simple: no rain and no endless rock-hopping ascents and descents. Lunch was at a farm café selling artisanal gin, cashews, and crab rolls. The sort of provisions one requires when wandering Cornwall.  The stage ended in Portloe, but our accommodation was a few kilometres inland in a Shepherd's Hut. Reaching it involved a "shortcut”.  Things began well enough until a woman pulled over and asked if we were lost as we prepared to march through a farm gate into what appeared to be another dimension. Ken confidently said no. Which translates directly to yes.

The first field was fine. Then an owl appeared - a feathered harbinger of poor decisions -  and the path promptly vanished. What followed was an overgrown hedge, a scramble over a large stone, a mud pit, and finally a trek through a wheat field. We arrived at the Shepherd's Hut coated in mud, seeds, and regret. Our feet were soaked from the wet grass. We looked like contestants eliminated from a particularly ruthless rural survival show.

If you walk this section of the SWCP, do yourself a favour. Stay in the shepherd’s hut.

It is easily in the top three places we have had so far, which is saying something after weeks of being dragged through Cornwall by a combination of rain, mud and our own questionable optimism. The funny thing is, I expected almost nothing.

The Airbnb listing had me imagining a rustic little box in a field. A bed. Maybe a kettle. Perhaps a blanket if the sheep were feeling generous. The message from the host reinforced the idea. He was very clear that it was basic. Please understand what you are booking. If you think you won’t like it, he would rather refund you than receive a bad review. Naturally, my brain translated that as:

“Welcome to an old farmer’s shed where you may or may not encounter a family of mice with tenancy rights.” I pictured a man renting out a trailer in a field to fund his evening pint. I was spectacularly wrong.

THIS PLACE IS FUCKING AWESOME.

Ian, the host, is exactly the kind of person you want to find after weeks of dealing with the logistical nonsense of long-distance walking. He’s warm, funny and genuinely interested in making sure you’re comfortable. Remember my ridiculous fantasy shopping list of champagne, Wagyu steak and an entire chocolate cake?

Ian is absolutely the guy who would say, “Right, give me an hour,” and somehow return from the countryside with a bottle, a cow and a suspiciously perfect dessert. The hut itself is a masterpiece of thoughtful simplicity. It has everything you need and nothing you don’t. A proper shower. One of the best we’ve had on the whole trip. Bath products. Real ones. Not empty bottles  pretending to have a purpose.Tea. Coffee. A heated towel rack. At this point, a heated towel rack is a miracle machine. After weeks of Cornwall’s relentless moisture trying to turn us into seaweed, being able to dry clothes feels like receiving a royal gift. My only complaint? This place needs a cat. A proper hut cat. A  judgmental countryside creature who appears at dusk, demands affection, curls up beside you and silently judge you. Every good rural retreat should come with a furry little landlord.

Ian himself was fantastic company. Easy to chat with, passionate about plants and the sort of person who still believes kindness and curiosity are worthwhile hobbies. A rare and beautiful species. After weeks of expensive disappointments, damp rooms and meals that seemed offended by the concept of calories, this little shepherd’s hut delivered something unexpectedly powerful. A place made with love. A reminder that the best stays are not always the ones with the biggest promises. Sometimes it’s just a warm hut, a good shower, a decent cup of coffee and a human being who gives a damn. On the SWCP, that’s five-star royalty.

Today was a long day.

Good news is the weather gods actually gave a shit, swapping torrential rain for moody, cinematic fog. A few dolphins breached, looking beautiful and indifferent to our suffering. We passed a grim, concrete nuclear bunker, though frankly, it could’ve been yesterday; exhaustion has turned my brain into mush. This brutalist monolith was a wartime decoy, a bit of pure, theatrical deception to trick German bombers into thinking they were blowing Churchill to hell at Nare Head. It was an elaborate stage set, complete with fake explosions and simulated screaming. If a real atomic blast ever dropped, this damp tomb was supposed to keep four soldiers alive for four weeks. After that? Step outside and see if the world is still there, or if it’s just a radioactive wasteland. You can tour the place but that feels like tempting fate. I have zero desire to be trapped forty feet underground with random tourists from Berlin and a tour guide named Angus, drawing straws after a month of breathing each other's farts to see whose skin peels off first.

 Day 33 - Helford Passage to Falmouth: 14.83 km

"What a difference a day makes

24 little hours

Brought the sun and the flowers

Where there used to be rain"

The sun is still something of a rumour. We had rain today, because the weather gods have signed an exclusive contract with Cornwall. But things are markedly better. We cut the stage short and headed into Falmouth, which meant no mud, no tactical river crossings and an entire afternoon devoted to the noble art of being tourists. I even bought myself a sterling silver "Fuck Off" ring. Money well spent. It felt entirely appropriate to acquire jewellery that perfectly captures the mood of anyone who has spent the last month walking through rain with damp socks.

And best of all, we found food.

Now, one final word about Hotel Meudon.

For a place selling itself as a luxury experience, it may well be the worst value for money we've encountered so far. The bathroom toiletries consisted of elegant dispensers containing absolutely nothing. Every single one was empty. It was like checking into a luxury car dealership and discovering all the vehicles were missing their wheels. Breakfast, to be fair, was good. The coffee, however, was astonishing. Not good astonishing. Scientific astonishing. It posses no flavour, body or personality. We asked for a couple of instant coffee sachets to fortify it. Judging by the waitress's expression, you would have thought we'd requested an original Monet.

"Well, if you wanted stronger coffee, you could have asked."

"Can we have stronger coffee then?"

Another eye roll. Another pot arrived. The second batch was slightly darker. Progress had been made. Somewhere, a coffee bean had been briefly introduced to the process. The botanical wonderland featured prominently on the website was looking a little weary too. At one point the gardener was loudly complaining to another guest how much guests complain. Which, while entertaining, is perhaps not the immersive luxury experience the marketing department had in mind. Still, credit where credit is due. The room had a massive heated towel rack that could be manually controlled. After weeks of battling Cornwall's damp  clutches we dried every item of clothing in about twenty minutes.  And there was a bedroom fan. If you happen to be a woman navigating menopause, a bedroom fan is a sacred object.It is the hospitality equivalent of being handed complimentary Valium and told everything is going to be okay.

Falmouth is fucking awesome.

After days of mud, rain, logistical gymnastics and meals that seemed actively hostile to human happiness, arriving in Falmouth felt like civilisation again.  The main street runs along the waterfront. Sailors, merchants and pirates have been coming and going through this harbour for centuries. During the age of sail, Falmouth was one of Britain's most important ports, a place where news from across the empire arrived before almost anywhere else. Today the cargo is mostly tourists, walkers and people carrying artisan pastries. The streets are lined with funky shops, cafés and enough beautiful things to make me deeply resent my baggage allowance. If I had another ten kilos to play with, I'd be staggering down the Coast Path draped in linen dresses and hand-knit sweaters like an eccentric maritime duchess. And then there was the coffee. I had the best flat white of my life at a place called "The Café Above the Bookshop." Which is exactly what it sounds like. A café. Above a bookshop. Sometimes humanity gets things right.

The whole place is themed around the Brontës, Austen and Potter. It's run by women, celebrates women and feels like the sort of establishment dreamed up after several glasses of wine by women who believe books can save your life. Frankly, they're not wrong. Men are absolutely welcome. But you need to be the right sort of man. A book man. A man who understands that intelligence is sexy, that women are interesting, and that discussing literature over cake is infinitely more attractive than shouting at sports on a television. Be that guy and you'll fit right in. Then you too can sit upstairs with a Wuthering Heights wine spritz, nibble on Brontë biscotti, contemplate Potter apple pie and briefly imagine a world where the matriarchy runs supreme. 

Aside from exhaustion, another reason we wanted to get into Falmouth early was to solve tomorrow's logistical puzzle. We are staying in a shepherd's hut. A proper one. The catch is that we need to provide all our own food. Dinner. Breakfast. Lunch for the following day. The owner has been wonderfully helpful, even offering to do a grocery run for us. Which sounds charming until you realise you are essentially asking a stranger to interpret your culinary desires using only a microwave and a toaster as working tools. For instance, my ideal shopping list currently consists of a bottle of French champagne, a massive Wagyu steak, an entire chocolate cake smothered in butter icing and enough proper Italian coffee to restart my nervous system. To be fair, I suspect if I sent him that list he would at least make an honest attempt. Instead, maturity prevailed. We settled on boil-in-the-bag curries, Soba noodles, olives and several tubes of Pringles. Which, after weeks on the Coast Path, feels less like convenience food and more like a banquet scene for a Roman emperor's weekend orgy. The Romans, incidentally, never conquered Cornwall. They got close, looked at the weather and the terrainl and decided life was complicated enough already.A decision I understand more with each passing day. As for alcohol, I have higher aspirations. I am hoping to acquire a bottle of mead from an elderly druid tending sheep on a cliff somewhere between here and tomorrow's destination. Whether such a man exists remains to be seen. But after spending weeks walking the South West Coast Path, it seems no less plausible than finding a reasonably priced sandwich.

So yeah, I hit bottom yesterday. It was the slow accumulation of small discomforts, disappointments and exhaustion until there was simply nothing left in the tank. I was still carrying it this morning. The sections after the Lizard have been hard in a way that's difficult to explain. Not because they're the most challenging kilometres on the South West Coast Path.  It's because they have become a daily grind of mud, wet rock, endless climbs and grey skies. Day after day of putting on damp clothes and stepping back into the rain. There comes a point where the landscape, no matter how beautiful, can no longer compete with discomfort. That's the part nobody puts in the brochures. The Cornish coast is magnificent. It has swallowed ships, fortunes and entire generations of fishermen.  Yet lately, my battle has not been with the ocean. It's been with morale. The lack of food has taken a bigger toll than I realised. I was waking up in the middle of the night ravenous.  I'd sit  in the dark shovelling handfuls of chocolate Minstrels into my mouth. When the Minstrels ran out, I started eating packets of Cup-a-Soup powder. Not because it tasted good. Because it was calories. Ken was doing much the same. Living off complimentary biscuits, tea tray sugar packets and whatever else could be scavenged from accommodations along the route. Two supposedly sensible adults reduced to foraging like raccoons. There’s humour in it but beneath the humour was something else. I underestimated how much constant discomfort wears away at you. The rain. The uncertainty. The logistics. The endless calculations about food, accommodation and transport. The feeling that every day requires just a little more  than you have available. Yesterday, for the first time, I genuinely wondered whether I was enjoying any of this. That felt awful to admit. I chose to be here. And I am aware walking this path is a privilege. There are moments when the clouds break and the whole world seems impossibly beautiful. But there are also moments when you're wet, hungry and exhausted, and beauty feels very far away. It's still hard going. We’re hoping the weather improves because another 600 kilometres of this feels daunting. Physically, we'll probably manage. It's the emotional side that worries me. I need a day where my feet stay dry and a meal that feels generous. I need to stop smelling like damp laundry left too long in a washing machine. Mostly, I need a reminder of why I wanted to walk this path in the first place.  Even after all of that, we got up this morning and kept walking. Maybe that's the lesson. Not courage or toughness. Just the quiet, unremarkable act of putting one foot in front of the other when enthusiasm has packed its bags and gone home.