Day 17 - Tintagel to Port Issac:  18.18 km

Sweet Jesus, kill me now. I thought yesterday was a descent into the lower circles. Not even close. Today was a bruising, soul-crushing gauntlet, a masterclass in exhaustion that leaves you feeling entirely hollowed out. I am beyond tired, the kind of deep-tissue fatigue where your bones feel like lead and your brain feels like porridge. But before I unpack today’s wreckage, we need to talk about where I laid my weary head last night: The Tintagel Inn.

First, let’s talk about Tintagel itself. This windswept Cornish outpost is the ultimate, unhinged mecca for the King Arthur truthers and the crystal-gripping witch demographic. It’s a turf war of the weird. On one side, you have the guys who want to LARP in the footsteps of Merlin; on the other, the girlies who genuinely want to get naked under a full moon, sip something unholy, and manifest their ex’s downfall around a bonfire. It’s total main-character energy, but with more damp tweed. Did you know the whole Arthurian connection is basically the ultimate medieval PR stunt? Back in the twelfth century, Geoffrey of Monmouth just straight-up invented the idea that Arthur was conceived here, purely to jazz up his fan-fiction history book and drive property values up.

The place has certainly seen better days. I remember it as this vibrant, chaotic wonderland of Wiccan boutiques and Excalibur kitsch, packed with pubs catering to anyone who wanted to wear floor-length black velvet, channel peak Stevie Nicks, or get a little too familiar in a dark corner. Back then, you wouldn’t have blinked if a couple of knights pranced past clapping coconut shells, or if a human sacrifice was happening up on the cliffs. It was magnificent. It was lawless.

Today? The town looks like it took a massive beatdown in a pub parking lot after insulting someone’s mother. Brexit put it in a headlock, Covid delivered the knockout blow, and now Tintagel is just a melancholic ghost of her former glory. 

We pulled up to the Inn. The place looked straight-up derelict, an abandoned, hollowed-out pub with zero signs of life, looking like the music died precisely in 2018 and never recovered. We rang the bell, bracing for a horror movie jump scare, but instead, a lovely woman greeted us and handed over the keys to our "loft room.”Loft" is just British hospitality-speak for "you are sleeping in the attic, bestie." This meant stairs. Infinite, punishing stairs that were barely eighteen inches wide and steep enough to trigger a panic attack. But the universe gives with both hands: the room was massive, boasting a TV large enough to distract us from our existential dread. Thank god the Cornish air was biting. This attic in summer heatwave would have literally baked us alive like cheap pastries.

There are no dining options, so dinner was a low-rent feast of instant cup noodles and sandwiches from the local Spar. And frankly? It was heaven. Once I showered and washed off the grime of the trail, wild horses couldn't have dragged me out of that bed before dawn. Morning brought a surprisingly decent breakfast. The coffee was an absolute shit but the guy running the morning shift was pure joy. The dining room was bizarrely packed. A few hardcore hikers, but mostly tourists there for the full,  King Arthur Reality Tour. Since today’s trek was clocked at five hours, we didn’t rush. We romanticized our morning, exploring the ancient local church and taking turns aggressively trying to yank Excalibur out of its stone. Spoiler: we are not the chosen ones. Then, it was time to hit the road to Port Isaac.

Holy mother of god were we in for it.  

You quickly realize every single day on this coastal path is "the hardest stage." The brutal, knee-shattering ascents and drops never fucking end. Today added a spice of pure terror as we navigated sheer cliff edges in gale-force winds. Pro tip: trekking poles apparently double as sails when the universe wants you dead. It was a high-stakes struggle to stay upright, and then the rain hit. Imagine walking inside a wind tunnel while someone  pressure-washes your face. At one point, pinned to a brutal incline, I screamed "I FUCKING HATE WIND!!" into the void. God and I will be having a very tense HR meeting about this later. Historically, these savage cliffs were the domain of 18th-century Cornish wreckers who lured cargo ships onto the rocks for ooting. After three hours of fighting the elements, I respect the hustle. The saving grace arrived six kilometers in: a tiny hamlet called Trebarwith with a posh oasis called The Strand. The espresso they pull is pure, dark nectar from the gods. There is a civilized toilet, a stunning beach patrolled by a ridiculously attractive lifeguard, and it’s so remote it feels like a private VIP lounge. It was heartbreaking to leave that slice of heaven, but we had four hours of punishment left before reaching the land of Doc Martin.

That four-hour stretch beat the shit out of us. Finding a spot to inhale a snack without your hamstrings violently seizing was an exercise in futility. We eventually descended into a jagged ravine where a few other broken souls were huddled like refugees in the rocks. I inhaled my Scotch egg in three  seconds flat. Did you know the Scotch egg was invented by Fortnum & Mason as a luxury snack for wealthy travelers on the go? Today, it was survival fuel. Everything was blowing everywhere. One couple was desperately anchoring their shivering chihuahua, who looked ready to achieve liftoff, before finally stuffing the poor creature into a backpack. I would have gladly paid a hundred quid for a cab, or flagged down a passing helicopter with unholy desperation. I was entirely done.

Then came a ridge fully exposed on both sides. That part can just fuck right off. We hit narrow bridges with zero railings where the options were simple: the wind blows you left and you fall five feet into a ditch, or it blows you right and you join the ancestors. I ran across those bitches like my life depended on it.  Which it did. Oh, and we have officially entered "stiles country." No civilized gates here. It is all hoisting your broken body up and over stone walls on narrow steps in a relentless gale. Tonight, we are sheltering in the obscenely posh Port Gaverne Hotel. Partially because I fucking earned it, and mostly because it is the only place within miles that allows a single-night stay. Welcome to the gatekeeping of the British Riviera: as you get closer to the money, hiker accommodation vanishes because these places demand a three-night minimum. I will give you the full, decadent breakdown tomorrow. Right now, I need to pop some pills and marinate in Epsom salts for the next four hours.