Day 31 - The Lizard to Coverack: 21.58 km

Holy fuck.

When they say the Lord giveth and the Lord taketh away, they neglect to mention that sometimes He takes away your knees and whatever fragile optimism you woke up with that morning. If yesterday was a warm embrace today was a prison shanking in the courtyard. This wasn’t the hardest stage we've done but it was a stage relentlessly determined to remind us comfort is temporary and gravity is forever. By the end I was dreaming of fries and rosé.  I have earned those fries. I have earned those glasses of rosé. I have earned enough calories to alarm a nutritionist.

Last night we stayed at Haelarcher Farm House, where we booked ten years ago during our first SWCP trek. It's now run by the original owner's son and his wife. Unlike Tricia's Ministry of Breakfast Compliance, this place radiates warmth (and you get a kettle) When we arrived, they had a Canadian flag flying for us. I nearly burst into tears. After weeks of being asked which part of America we're from, I felt seen. Ken has entered into a passionate interspecies love affair with their dog Bosco. The feeling is mutual. Bosco greets him with the enthusiasm reserved for soldiers returning from war or drunken newlyweds on a honeymoon. Their relationship is moving forward quickly. The Lizard itself remains one of my favourite places on earth. People call it "delightfully Bohemian," which is British shorthand for "everyone here is gloriously odd and nobody is interested in pretending otherwise." I bought a serpentine necklace from a man whose house was covered in eccentric signs, warnings, declarations, and observations. This man either knows things the rest of us don't, or he desperately needs a podcast.

He hated Mark Carney because of his eyes. Believes chemtrails explained Covid. Thought Brexit had been a disaster. Also believed the EU wants Britain for its oil.

Distrusts the French with an intensity normally reserved for serial killers and telemarketers. Loves animals.Thinks most humans are a waste of perfectly good skin.Naturally, I liked him immediately. Despite the conspiracy theories and wildly creative geopolitical analysis he also guarantees his work for life.  I believe him.

Beneath all the eccentricity was a kind, funny, warm-hearted soul.

I didn't get much sleep last night thanks to the Lizard Lighthouse foghorn, which spent the entire night bellowing every thirty seconds like a wounded sea monster.

In fairness, the fog around here is no joke. There is a lot of it and it swallows horizons, ships, common sense, and your will to live. The coastline has a long history of wrecking vessels that got a little too confident. Which is why nearly every able-bodied person in Lizard is trained by the Royal National Lifeboat Institution. When things go sideways, these people launch themselves into monstrous seas so strangers get to go home for dinner. The local lifeboat crews have rescued countless sailors over the centuries, including passengers from several unfortunate White Star Line ships. As it turns out, Titanic wasn't exactly an isolated incident. White Star had a habit of introducing expensive vessels to rocks shortly after launch. Lifeboat crews would row out through appalling conditions and save everyone they could. The historical accounts always praise the bravery and composure of the women and children. The men tend to get less coverage. Draw your own conclusions.

The fog stayed with us all day. Visibility was sometimes six feet at best. The landscape drifted in and out of existence like a half-remembered dream. Cliffs appeared without warning. Headlands materialized from nowhere. More than once I found myself expecting an army of White Walkers to emerge from the mist. The first half of today's route was surprisingly reasonable. A few climbs. A few descents. The usual Cornish undulations. The second half, however, can fuck right off. Swamps. Rocks. Steep climbs. More rocks. Then additional rocks for variety. The fog concealed every summit, which meant each climb came with the psychological torture of not knowing whether you were almost finished or only halfway to misery.  What was supposed to be a 4.5-hour walk became a 7.5-hour slog. I no longer trust Mapy.cz. The app claimed today's stage involved only 147 metres of elevation gain and loss. This is an outrageous lie. One particularly savage climb was listed as 52 metres. Fifty-two metres my ass. I am convinced it was 520. A DOGE intern armed with a spreadsheet and dangerous levels of power deleted a zero.  I’m certain of it. By the end I was exhausted, muddy, and questioning my relationship with all topographical data.

Tonight we're staying at the Paris Hotel, which sounds like the sort of place where elegant people sip champagne beneath chandeliers while discussing art and infidelity. In reality, it’s a pub on the waterfront in tiny Coverack. When we arrived at 6 p.m. the place was empty. Thirty minutes later it was packed tighter than a lifeboat during a maritime emergency. There is one place to eat, therefore everyone eats there. The food was not Harbour Inn levels of despair, but my relationship with British pub grub remains complicated. I am convinced vegetables are illegal in Cornwall. Fries, however, are mandatory. Fries appear beside everything.  Order  a light salad and someone in the kitchen will throw a  handful of fries onto the plate while muttering, "for her own good." Ken ordered the meat pie with mash and vegetables. It was advertised as beef. Whether it contained beef remains a matter of ongoing scientific investigation. As plates arrived diners began comparing notes like detectives at a crime scene.

"Nope, that's not what I ordered."

"Mine neither."

The dish acquired the nickname Mystery Pie. I ordered the special: pork tenderloin with mushroom risotto.It was food. It possessed flavour. As far as I know, it was pork. By the end of the day I had hiked through enough fog, mud, and rocks, and I would have eaten seaweed if somebody covered it in gravy. The risotto was creamy, the pork was tender enough, and nobody had to identify it using dental records. Sometimes that's all you need.