Day 23 - Portreath to St. Ives: 22.53 km

Day 24 - Rest Day

Dear God, is it possible to be more exhausted than we are now? I need a holiday from this holiday. The South West Coast Path has seduced us with its beauty, then mugged us in a dark alley and stolen whatever was left of our quadriceps. This has been the most intense and exhilarating long distance walk we've done, which probably explains why we came back after ten years. A third round seems unlikely. Not because we don't love it, but because it is hard as fuck, both physically and logistically.

That said, the Cornish coast is magnificent. There is a reason so many walkers choose to spend a week or ten days here. The scenery is pure theatre. Cliffs plunging into turquoise water and long stretches of hard packed beach where you can stride for kilometres feeling almost heroic. The practicalities are glorious too. Cafés appear every 6 to 8 km like benevolent saints bearing hot tea and functioning toilets. The climbs are still plentiful, but less savage than Devon's relentless campaign of vertical punishment. The paths are beautifully maintained and largely free of ankle-snapping stones. As a result, trail runners swarm the place. This brings us to the people. Dog walkers are the obvious highlight. Every wagging tail feels like a small blessing from the universe. The trail runners, meanwhile, keep materialising behind us shouting, "ON YOUR LEFT!"

To be fair, my irritation has less to do with the shouting and more to do with the fact that these bronzed woodland gazelles seem capable of bounding up hills that leave me negotiating peace treaties with my lungs. I don't resent them. I resent the evidence that such knee strength is possible.

Coming into St Ives was a bit of a shit show. The last time we did this walk, we stayed in Hayle, about 12 km outside town, then walked into St Ives the next day. This year I foolishly combined the stages. Learn from my mistakes. By the time you reach Hayle, you'll already feel like you've been tumble-dried by the Atlantic.

Because of Ken's knee, we'd planned to catch a bus. Buses around here operate according to principles known only to God, seagulls, and possibly retired Cornish witches. A bus scheduled for 4:15 may arrive at 4:45. It may arrive at 5:15. It may simply vanish into folklore. Routes shown on Google Maps often bear only a passing resemblance to what appears on the bus stop timetable, and taxis generally need booking 24 to 48 hours in advance. This is my way of saying: be prepared to improvise.  I completely understand why so many people now book self-guided package walks. The scenery is heavenly. The logistics are a full-contact sport.

On a side note, English people are wonderfully chatty right up until the precise moment they decide not to be. Then the shutters come down with all the warmth and subtlety of a medieval portcullis. Case in point. We stopped at a café yesterday for lunch. I'd needed a toilet since about 6 km earlier and was approaching a level of urgency normally associated with breached dams. It was either the café or another ten minutes to the public toilets.  There were only two people waiting. After several minutes of performing what can only be described as an interpretive dance dedicated to the bladder, I knocked and asked, "Is anyone in there? Are you okay? There's a queue."

"I'M BUSY!" came the reply.The woman in front spun around and barked, "WHAT IS YOUR PROBLEM?"The man behind her piled on. "YOU PEOPLE think the world revolves around you."Just like that, I became That Bitch.  Exiled, shamed and socially tarred and feathered. I immediately required another Hedgehog ice cream for emotional support.

As for St Ives, the place has always had a flair for storytelling. It began life as the 

village of Slepe before a ploughman supposedly unearthed a stone coffin containing the remains of St Ivo. Local clergy confidently identified the bones, which launched  a prosperous side hustle of people coming to be blessed by the bones of what was probably some dead Roman who was shanked by Celtic woman for being a dick. Another legend credits the town's name to Saint Ia, an Irish princess who crossed the sea on a single leaf after a heartfelt prayer. Personally, after weeks on the coast path, I find that no more implausible than Cornwall's bus schedules. Then there are the tales of nine Amazons, and not the warehouse variety. These warrior women supposedly landed here, danced naked on the Sabbath, and were eventually transformed into stone. Their petrified forms were blamed for shipwrecks along the coast. Cornwall is full of plaques commemorating vessels smashed against these shores, often accompanied by stories of fearless local women rowing into storms to rescue sailors who had absolutely no business being out there. So, according to local folklore, women cause the wrecks, women save the wrecked, and men mostly seem to be along for the ride. History may dispute that version of events, but it is certainly the more entertaining one.

I love St Ives. It possesses that rare and beautiful balance of refinement and grit. Just enough class to make me feel vaguely aristocratic while still allowing me to wander about looking like I've slept in a hedge. The waterfront is a glorious collision of elegant wine bars and tacky amusement arcades. You can sip a £14 glass of wine while listening to the electronic death cries of a coin-pusher machine. It is magnificent.The real power brokers of St Ives, however, are the seagulls. These are not birds. These are organised criminals with feathers.

For centuries St Ives made its living from fishing. Somewhere along the line the gulls realised it was much easier to extort tourists than catch their own lunch. Evolution at work. They now operate a sophisticated protection racket. The payment is usually fries, ice cream, Cornish pasties, or occasionally an entire sandwich.

The locals understand the rules. They consume takeaway under cover, or while maintaining a level of situational awareness normally associated with combat zones. Tourists, meanwhile, wander the harbour carrying open containers fish and chips with the innocent optimism of lambs entering a wolf convention. The gulls know exactly who is new in town. Japanese tourists barely step onto the waterfront before a squadron appears overhead conducting what can only be described as aerial surveillance. Then some guy decides to toss a handful of chips into the air for a TikTok video. This is the equivalent of throwing dollar bills into a prison riot. The gulls descend in a screeching cyclone of entitlement and fury. The locals react with equal outrage because they know that one idiot feeding the birds today means fifty emboldened feathered gangsters mugging pensioners tomorrow. Nobody escapes judgment. Not the tourists. Not the gulls. Not the aspiring influencer who thought unleashing airborne mayhem for fifteen seconds of internet fame was a solid life choice. In St Ives, the sea may be beautiful, the wine may be excellent, but the gulls remain the undisputed rulers of the harbour. Everyone else is just paying tribute.