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.