Day 36 - Mevagissey: rest day

Happy Sunday to you all.

Seeing as it was the biblical day of rest, we figured it might be wise to stop pretending we were indestructible. My right knee has spent the last few nights filing increasingly aggressive complaints with management, while Ken’s knee brace has absorbed enough sweat and grime to qualify as a biohazard. One of the great lessons of the South West Coast Path is that you need far more rest days than you think. Honestly, a one-day-on, one-day-off schedule sounds less like weakness and more like advanced strategic planning. 

Mevagissey is an excellent place to surrender to idleness. Big enough to provide everything you need, small enough not to feel like you've been dropped back into civilisation with no warning. At weekends it fills with day-trippers hunting artisans coffee, harbour views and seafood that won't require a second mortgage. The village is blessed with a collection of junk shops that feel like the contents of several centuries emptied into a blender. One minute you're admiring a First World War helmet, the next you're staring at a tattooed portrait of an 1880s prostitute, some deeply questionable blackface memorabilia, and a cardboard box full of 1950s bras. That box has  seen  things. Entire romances, scandals and possibly a murder or two. The founder of Pears' Soap, Andrew Pears, was born here, proving that even a village famed for fishing could produce a man obsessed with cleanliness.

Local folklore claims that during the Napoleonic a warship was wrecked offshore. The sole survivor was a monkey clinging to a spar. Having never encountered such a beast, suspicious villagers concluded it must be a French spy and promptly hanged it on the beach. This story says far more about rural paranoia than international espionage. Still, dogs are welcome everywhere in Mevagissey, but I would strongly advise leaving your monkey at home. As everyone knows, monkeys work for the French Directorate-General for External Security. Then there is Hitler's Walk, a local park whose name has survived decades of debate. Some say it was named after a councillor whose enthusiasm for petty rules bordered on dictatorship. Others claim it came from Home Guard patrols scanning the coastline for German invasion forces during the Second World War. Either way, only in Britain could a pleasant seaside stroll carry the lingering aroma of wartime fascism, bureaucratic grumbling and rather decent coffee.

We were not here for the fascism or the racism. We were here for the Lost Gardens of Heligan. Heligan was once one of Cornwall's great country estates, owned by the Tremayne family since 1569. Before the First World War, twenty-two gardeners tended its formal gardens with almost monastic devotion. Then history arrived with muddy boots and a rifle. The young men marched off to war, and the gardens slowly slipped beneath a tangle of neglect, becoming one of Britain's most haunting lost landscapes. The numbers are enough to stop you in your tracks. Of the original twenty-two gardeners, only four returned. Two of those came home carrying wounds that would claim them within a few short years. Before leaving for the trenches, the men scratched their names into the wall of a lavatory known as the Thunderbox Room. It is perhaps the most British war memorial imaginable. Not a marble statue on horseback, but a collection of hopeful graffiti beside a toilet. Those names still survive, a reminder that the hands which once pruned roses and trained fruit trees were asked to hold rifles instead. Walking through Heligan, it is impossible not to think how fragile beauty really is. Gardens, like civilizations and pub romances, require constant attention or nature starts taking its deposit back. The estate lingered in obscurity for decades. There was a brief revival during the Second World War when the house became an officers' base. Sadly, the officers displayed considerably more enthusiasm for drinking and  slagging off the Germans than for weeding flowerbeds. The roses were abandoned, the ale was not. Some traditions, it seems, are eternal.

The gardens are a magnificent place to slow down, unclench your jaw and remember that nature generally does a better job of interior decorating than humans. There is a suspension bridge that locals cheerfully compare to the Bridge over the River Kwai, a pleasant café, sculptures tucked among the greenery and enough bees to remind you who really runs the planet. It is also dog friendly. Monkeys, however, remain under suspicion. Before Heligan's resurrection in the 1990s, Ian of the Shepherd's Hut  spent his spare time wandering the overgrown estate in search of mushrooms and the occasional wayward druid. These days he has asked guests to keep druidic activity to a sensible minimum. One wicker man reenactment a month was perfectly acceptable, but things apparently spiralled after Covid. The nightly human sacrifices have become something of a sticking point with the parish council. Complicating matters further, another shepherd's hut down the road has been aggressively pursuing the lucrative naked forest dancing under the full moon market. Ian has no desire to start a turf war with neighbouring pagans and risk having his strawberry patch cursed with aphids. Rural diplomacy is a delicate business. So if you plan on staying with Ian before or during your visit to Mevagissey, kindly leave the blood rites at home. Save them for the Wales Coast Path, where such things are handled with a little more professionalism.

 

 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.