Day 20 - Porthcothan to Newquay:  22.07 km

This will not be an inspiring dispatch. In fact, its sole motivation is to simply drag today's meager photos through the editor and throw them up for posterity. I don’t have the energy for anything resembling profound prose, so feel free to swipe past this one. Consider it a hollow entry just to keep the Captain’s Log updated before the abyss takes me.

It hadn’t truly registered until this morning just how exhausting yesterday’s gauntlet  was. We were tired, sure, but the reality is that we had completely numbed out, slipping into survival mode by the time we staggered into MacDonald’s Farm. We had a gorgeous little cabin booked, complete with a private wood-fired hot tub, but we possessed  zero energy to enjoy it. Primarily because the setup required us to channel our inner caveman and start the heating process ourselves with a log burner. It would have taken until nine at night to reach a decadent temperature. There was no universe where either of us had the mental bandwidth to start a fire and wait for that hot tub time machine experience to commence. As it was, just weaponizing our legs for the five-minute trek to the cafe for burgers felt like an Olympic feat.

This place was an immaculate slice of rustic luxury, and I wish we had the time and life force to appreciate it. Especially our personal alpaca attendants, who were stationed  outside the cabin like fluffy, majestic concierges, hoping we would take them for walkies.  Imagine their disappointment when I had to look them in their big, beautiful eyes and explain that walking was canceled, offering them a couple of basic biscuits instead as hush money.

To reach Macdonald’s Farm, you have to catch a bus from the Constantine Corner Store, which turned out to be a delightfully weird, high-stakes surprise. Google Maps had us into thinking it was your prototypical, depressing small-town British bodega, the kind that sells lukewarm cider, stale candy, and cheap smokes. It boasted atrocious online reviews, so we braced ourselves for absolute squalor, assuming we wouldn't even find a snack worth chewing, let alone dinner. Without belaboring the point, the shop deserves its digital reputation, yet it is infinitely more fascinating than your local convenience store.

The plot twist? The place is a  high-end foodie haven, a decadent playground for the elite. We are talking artisan sourdough loaves, local game pâtés, stinky cheeses, and everything you need to make a high-brow charcuterie board hit like a drug at your next book club. The wine section is stacked with pricey French, Italian, and Spanish vintages, flanked by limited-batch local gins and high-end whiskeys. No budget trash beer here. So why the digital hate train? Cornwall has always had a fierce, deeply ingrained suspicion of outsiders, a cultural hangover from its smuggling days when everyone was looking over their shoulder for the taxman. The current owner takes this historical paranoia to an absolute, unhinged extreme to deter shoplifters. On one occasion, she mistook a wealthy vacationer’s son for a thief from the previous week. She aggressively chased the boy around the aisles like a feral hound while he and his  father pleaded his innocence, explaining the kid was away at boarding school until forty-eight hours ago. Then there was the elderly woman who was berated for asking too many questions about a relocated item, and explicitly told she wasn't worthy of being in the shop. I guess you need to flash your crypto portfolio or bank statements just to browse.

We personally had no beef with her, other than she is abrupt and possesses zero interest in speaking to you unless you smell like old money. All that being said, the shop possesses genuinely top-tier shit. If my social battery wasn’t depleted and we had a few days to burn, I would have gladly bankrolled the local producers here. I also would have made Ken pretend to shoplift the artisanal fudge and infused sea salts just to see if she'd tackle him into the cheese display.

I just wasn’t feeling the magic today. I failed to calculate the deep, soul-sucking tax of surviving yesterday’s gauntlet. Today, my brain was stuck on autopilot. The weather was technically acceptable—a teasing morning sun giving way to petty, intermittent showers—but it was freezing. The Cornish air refused to warm up enough to make sitting on a rock and romanticizing the coastline anything other than an exercise in mild hypothermia. This specific stretch has its own cinematic beauty, but it’s increasingly choked by a sprawling landscape of hyper-expensive vacation homes and sleek boutique hotels. It feels less like conquering the untamed wild and more like weaving through exclusive enclaves for wealthy elites looking for a weekend getaway. Which, as you can imagine, makes hunting down a single night’s lodging on the trail a horror story. this coastline wasn’t always a playground for the gentrified. In the 18th century, these  coves were the wild west of the UK, heavily populated by ruthless smugglers running illegal brandy and tea  under the noses of the crown. Today, the contraband is just real estate and oat milk lattes.

Tonight, we have drifted into Newquay. No self-guided luxury walking tour would ever stop here, and honestly, I see why. It’s a real town. It isn’t particularly pretty, but it possesses this grungy,  unwashed surfer energy that completely envelopes the streets. You can instinctively feel that during the summer peak, it’s an absolute riot if you are young, love hanging ten, and enjoy a bit of chaotic hedonism. We are bunking at the Breakwater Hostel. If you are grinding along the path and feel a sudden, unhinged urge to relive those raw Camino de Santiago  days of albergue survival, this is your holy grail. We’ve been assigned a tiny, claustrophobic cell of a room on the third floor. The communal bathroom and shower require you to descend to the main level.  Pro tip: buy adult diapers or completely cut off all fluid intake by 6:00 PM. The showers are located in the exact same damp room where the locals store their surfboards and neoprene wetsuits. On the plus side, the kitchen is fully equipped, and the staff are pure, cheerful gold. The local Sainsbury's is only a block away, sitting next to the legendary Buns and Things guy, a local hero who rolls up in a food truck at dusk to sling magnificent, grease-dripping items on buns. Right beside this culinary oasis is Captain Matt’s Tattoo Emporium, in case you get the sudden desire to get inked, pierced, or branded after a few beers. The captain offers a package deal if you opt for all three, and the Bun Man will throw in a free breakfast bunwich to seal the deal. I may or may not go for the triple crown tonight. When in Rome.

 Day 19 - Padstow to Porthcothan: 22.19 km

There is no rest for the wicked, and frankly, my soul is screaming for a vacation from this vacation. Yesterday’s reprieve was a beautiful lie, nothing more than the universe prepping us for another absolute pounding by the elements. But before we get to the impending wreckage, let’s talk about Port Isaac - last night’s sanctuary.

First recorded in 1338, Padstow was born of grit, fish scales, and coastal trading. It was one of the most remote settlements in Britain, a safe harbor carved into the treacherous north Cornish coast. Mother Ocean is a cruel, unforgiving mistress. Between 1823 and 1846, 130 ships were violently wrecked on these cliffs, and the churchyard at St Endellion is packed with the bones of drowned mariners. During World War II, the town offered a different kind of refuge when the Bide A While Hotel became a boarding house for traumatized children evacuated from the London Blitz. Today, the village has swapped historical trauma for tourist dollars, known for its cinematic scenery and decadent eating establishments. Rick Stein has two joints here: one barely affordable if you skimp on rent, and the other so wildly expensive it borders on financial humiliation for a humble walker.

For comfort food, The Cherry Trees Cafe serves award-winning Cornish pasties and homemade scones as soft and pillowy as your nan’s embrace. I foolishly attempted the Cornish method, spreading the jam first and the clotted cream second. It was a complete shitshow. Trying to smear thick clotted cream over slick jam on a piping hot scone is like trying to shampoo a feral cat. It is a venture destined for destruction and mayhem. The pastry disintegrated, the cream slid off like cheap makeup, and my dignity vanished. Thankfully, I had a backup scone. For round two, I went full Devon, cream first, jam on top. Unfriend me if that offends your delicate sensibilities.

On the sacred topic of sustenance, it is imperative that you check Google Reviews before spending a single pence here. Like any tourist trap, the culinary scene is a gamble: it’s either a magnificent orgy in your mouth or a deeply disappointing, dry hump of a meal. The fish and chip shop next to Cherry Trees rocks a horrific 1.5-star rating despite its prime real estate and aesthetic seating. Meanwhile, Harbour Ice Cream scoops decadent, locally made dairy heaven, but do not touch their espresso under any circumstances. Despite a sign boldly lying about "real Italian coffee," it was a crime against humanity. I paid five pounds for a flat white that turned out to be tepid brown water topped with sad, chemical foam. The internet reviews completely backed me up on this, a digital warning I ignored at my own peril.

Last night’s stay was Cullanan’s B&B, clinging to the edge of the harbor like a barnacle. These places are anchored by a rapidly fading generation. It’s becoming brutally common to get a text saying your host has fallen ill and can’t take you. We’ve been hit by this heartbreak twice now. Our original Port Isaac booking was with a legendary guy from a previous hike, but three weeks before we landed, he reached out. Cancer, swift and merciless, had moved him to palliative care, and he  transferred us to Cullanan’s. This is why the surviving old-school B&Bs demand multi-night stays. It’s not naked greed; it’s that these beautiful, frail humans simply don’t have the physical mojo to strip sheets and scrub toilets every single morning. It’s a tragic decline, mirroring the loss of the ancient minshuku lodgings along Japan’s Shikoku pilgrimage route.

But Cullanan’s? Absolute peak charm. The hosts are an elderly, childless couple who spent their youth sailing world oceans, scaling jagged peaks, and executing highly classified, deeply badass missions for the Royal Marines. Historically, Cornwall was the crucible for the real-world elite commando units of the 1940s, and looking at the grain-heavy photographs lining the hallways, it’s blindingly obvious this pair lived a life that would make The Ministry of Ungentlemanly Warfare look like a corporate team-building exercise. They’re well into their eighties now. He navigates the steep stairs with a cane and stubborn determination, though I half suspect that limp is from an old injury sustained while rappelling down an Afghan cliffside to escape hostile tribesmen. The wife is a majestic Viking shield-maiden who could captain a longship better than any man  and return with more plunder  and women than Ragnar Lothbrok and hissing combinedf. The house is a living museum, dense with soul and thick with the perfume of clandestine history. Our room was tiny, featuring a shower casually positioned right next to the bed but I could have stayed there for an eternity, drinking gin and listening to their lives. 

It was a total bastard of a walk today. Thank God the universe threw us a bone with only a few three-hundred-meter inclines instead of the usual twenty soul-crushing peaks, because I was already running on fumes.  It was freezing, and I  did not pack enough layers for this bullshit. What began as a dreary overcast drizzle rapidly degenerated into gale-force headwinds and weaponized sleet that felt like shards of broken glass hitting your face. We fought that for four hours, and I mean a visceral, full-body bar fight with the sky. At times, the sheer atmospheric pressure made forward motion impossible, and getting violently body-checked sideways onto the wet turf was just the baseline vibe.This stretch of the coast has been killing people for centuries. It’s littered with the carcasses of  Spanish and French trading vessels that miscalculated the savage Cornish reefs. Today, the sea was proudly demonstrating that lethal pedigree.

Every single beach was under strict "red flag" lockdown. The lifeguards were out in full force, acting as highly stressed bouncers to ensure some influencer didn't try to chase TikTok clout by filming an aesthetic death-drop in the surf. Monstrous thirty-foot waves slammed into the ancient cliffs, exploding into a thick, soapy sea foam that carpeted the cliffs, making the landscape look beautifully, poetically alien. I am so profoundly exhausted from fighting those sixty-five-kilometer gales. My face feels like it has been sandblasted down to the skull, and my eyes need a  gallon of Visine just to stop the burn.  We crossed paths with those overconfident Americans, but they’ve vanished into the mist, presumably crying into a damp fleece. Meanwhile, the hardcore German ladies are sheltering at the same farm glamping grounds we are, and like us, look completely beaten into submission by the elements.

The campground features a small, grease-trap of a cafe, and we all converged there to inhale burgers and fries like wolves that hadn't seen meat in a month. Outside our yurt, the resident alpacas are tightly folded into the grass, desperately praying for the storm to end, while Wilbur the pot-bellied pig has wisely sought asylum inside the chicken coop. Only two unhinged billy goats and a group of local  children on a trampoline remain outside, actively giving the weather the proverbial middle finger while doing things no living being should ever do to test the laws of physics. Time will tell who wins this  battle against Mother Nature, and who goes home with a broken radius or a fractured hind leg.

It's All Downhill (and a lot of Uphill) from here

So... as you may have guessed I am behind in blog posts.  Thing is, walking 8 or 9 hrs a day is tiring!!  My life for the past 10 days has been walk, sleep, walk, sleep.  We've also had some wild adventures that I will get to in the next post.  But then again, would you expect anything less from me? ;-) 

June 3, 2016

Rest Day in Bude

So not much to report on Bude.  It is a nice place to have a day off from walking and for Ken to hit the shops looking for replacement underpants.  He eventfully found a pair at a local running store that cost way more than a pair of underwear ever should.  They are some new space age seamless athletic design for no chafing and sweat wicking.  Apparently, all the guys who run the London Marathon swear by them.  All except one guy who posted a Google review of 3 stars.  He said that at 50, he needed more “support” from his Runderroos.  So now Ken has buyer’s remorse and I have to keep reminding him that this is not a marathon – this is a meditative walking experience - so the only support he needs is for his arches and his Third Eye opening.

We stayed with a guy named Steve (Airbnb) and had a great time.  His dad was visiting and they were both hilarious. He gave us the bedroom with the jetted tub which, yes, I lived in for two days.  A few years ago Steve also hosted a documentary team who were filming a British Special Forces guy trying to run the entire SWCP in 10 days (this same guy also re-created Shackleton’s row boat journey from Elephant Island to South Georgian Island using the same gear as Shackleton).  Anyway, he did make it with the Shackleton re-creation but he blew out his knee on day 5 of the run.  Not sure what this means for us as he dropped out on the stage we have to do tomorrow.  But Ken does have his high tech running panties so that should give us an advantage.

June 4, 2016

Bude to Crackington Haven

19.13 km 

28,187 steps

The first half of this stage is fairly benign.  About 7 km in you get to Widemouth Bay, which has a nice beachside café for coffee.  We made a stop and soon after, the sea mist started rolling in and the day become grey and humid.  The last half is a lot of climbing and going back down again.  Then more climbing.  Then more going back down.  The kind of stuff my nail-less toes love.

Along the way we met another couple doing the trail in the opposite direction – Dave (retired Royal Marine) and his wife Carol.  They were running the trail in short shorts looking pretty damn fit and glamorous.  Dave probably had special issue military Runderroos that gave him an advantage on the climbs.  Anyway, they had their camper van parked at Crackington Haven and told us to come by for tea.  We got into Crackington Haven and did in fact find the van and had a nice tea break with new friends.  Afterwards, Dave and Carol offered to drive us to our B & B which was great because according to Google Maps, it was otherwise a 30-minute road walk.  We stayed at Hannah’s Cottage – a small working farm owned by Stephen and his partner Jonathan.  There was even a campsite down the lane for Dave and Carol!  The cottage was Martha Steward fabulous.  We got tea and chocolate cake when we arrived.  Then I completely flooded the new bathroom spraying the showerhead everywhere.  In the morning Stephen made us a HUGE breakfast with Mario Lanza playing in the background.  It was just like being in Cape Cod for the Tennesse Williams Festival all over again.

June 5, 2015

Crackington Haven to Tintagel

21.75 km

34,325 steps

We caught a lift with Dave and Carol back to the start point in Crackington Haven.  They would walk with us to Boscastle and then catch the bus back to their van while we “soldiered on” to Tintagel.  It was overcast and humid with more ups and downs to test the knees and de-nail the toes.  At Boscastle, we stopped and had lunch together while some random guy belted out Scottish folk tunes to raise money for veterans.  At one point, he started singing “The Wheels on the Bus go round and round” like he was Glen Daly. 

Boscastle’s two claims to fame (not withstanding the fundraising Scottish Bard) is the Witch museum and the flood of 2004.  We didn’t go to the museum but you can see a video on the flood in the info center.  I’d recommend Googling it on YouTube because it is quite an impressive feat of nature. The torrential rain led to a 2 m (7 ft.) rise in river levels in one hour. A 3 m (10 ft.) wave, believed to have been triggered by water pooling behind debris under a bridge suddenly gave way and surged down the valley into the town.  It was like a Tsunami.

From Boscastle it is on to Tintagel.  It was really humid by now with zero breeze.  Basically the next 4 hours sucked.  As you come to the end of the walk you see the cliffs of Tintagel Castle – the ruins of which are supposed to be the birthplace of King Arthur.  In fact, the entire village is one massive homage to King Arthur and Merlin.  It’s kind of Spamalot meets the SCA (Society for Creative Anachronism).  By the time we got in, all the tourist re-enactments were closed but we got our fill at the King Arthur Arms where burly men in chainmail and Celtic war paint played pool and checked their iPhones for messages. 

June 6, 2016

Tintagel to Port Isaac

18.63 km

29,297 km

Ugh.  Just when you think the worse bits are over you realize they are not.  Trailblazers describe this section as “the most challenging leg of the whole walk.  The trail itself is well trodden but the never ending series of ascents and descents may have the weak willed swearing to hang up their boots.”

So I think I just sort of blacked out at this point because I can’t remember how we made it from Tintagel to Port Isaac.

I do remember as we began the walk at the Merlin Caves that suddenly Dave and Carol popped out!  God damn.  Those two are not just epic runners they are also wizards! 

At some point we did make it into Port Isaac and found ourselves in front of a hotel with the biggest Great Dane I have ever seen.  This dog was mutant size.  The owner invited us up to visit him.  This dog weighs 165 lbs.  His head is the size of a small car.  On the veranda are two equally large life like statues of the same dog.  Ken goes over to them and says to the “live” dog “These look just like you!  I bet one of these is your ancestor.”  To which the owner in all his very British seriousness replies “Yes they are.  The one you are leaning on right now his great grandfather Sir Sachamo Lead Belly Manchester James Brown III.  I commissioned that statue to intern his ashes.”

Awkward….

Our lodgings for the night were at Lane End Farm with Nab and Linda.  What a great place!!  I am so sad they are retiring the B & B this year because these two are the best B & B proprietors I’ve ever met.  They are both so funny and can’t do enough to make your stay comfortable.  Linda even made me fresh haddock and poached eggs for breakfast.  Yes, fresh.  If you give her 24 hrs. notice she gets it from the fisherman at the docks.  She’s the type of woman you know takes zero shit from any man but has the heart of an angel.  I mean, this is a place that has a “ladies cupboard” filled with feminine hygiene products, hot water bottles, chocolate covered digestives cookies and Midol.  She and Nab have been married 42 years and Nab say they are still newlyweds (gush!).

Port Isaac is famous as the setting for the British series “Doc Martin.”  I have never seen it so I cannot tell you anything remarkable about it.  What I will say is that the village at the harbor is really nice and I wish we had more time to hang out there and people watch over coffee and gossip with Nab.

June 7, 2016

Port Isaac to Padstow

21.48 km

34,182 steps

“If medals were given out for the toughest section of the SWCP then the initial 3 miles of this winding 12 mile stage would certainly stand on the podium.”

Jesus F Christ.

ENOUGH WITH THE REPETIVE CLIMBING AND ASCENDING ALREADY!!

So the good news is this is really, really supposed to be the last of the SWCP death marches.  This better be for real, this time, because I do not have enough toenails to sacrifice to the SWCP God to get me through another stage.  My knees are organizing a revolt and are forming a union, which means they will demand a lot more break time than Ken is currently allowing.  I fear a crippling strike is imminent.

About all I can remember for this stage are being hot and sticky, sweating a lot, climbing a lot and then having to walk stinking to high heaven on a beach for 2 hours.  Sand is not your friend when you are on the SWCP. 

The torture ends at Rock where you catch a ferry over to Padstow for the night.  Padstow is fondly referred to as “Padstein” in deference to Rick Stein.  Until now we had no idea who he was but he is THE GUY when it comes to Michelin star food cuisine in England.  He has had a cooking/travel series on TV for the last 7 yrs., has nine dining establishments and a cooking school devoted to seafood in Padstow.  So here we are in a foodie’s paradise and didn’t even know it!  We thought about dinner at one of his seafood places but they are closed Mondays and Tuesdays.  That and the $230 CDN per person price tag for a dinner sitting nixed the idea.  And all I have to wear is an Edward Sharpe concert T-shirt and a pair of lyrca shorts so takeaway Chinese it is!

June 8, 2016

Padstow to Porthcothan

24.62 km

36,207 steps

If you haven’t already guessed it, I am pretty tired at the end of the day so this section of the walk will only contain relevant highlights and some bitching and moaning.

As mentioned previously, the grinding ups and downs of the SWCP are behind us now so the walk is more humane.  My bald toes are grateful.

We spent the night in Porthcothan at the Penlan B & B.  When we arrived, there was a large German Shepard lying under a shrub in the front yard.  He looked like he was dead.  Seriously.  We got to the front door there was a sign that said “BEWARE OF GUARD DOG.”  The proprietor (Mary) greets us and Ken makes a joke about the “guard dog sleeping on duty.”  Mary freaks out and pushes past us yelling “SKYE SKYE” and proceeds to shake the dead dog violently under the shrubs.  Skye suddenly leaps to his feet dazed and confused and starts barking wildly while looking around at what exactly or why he has been aroused from his nap.  Afterwards Mary tells us that 3 months ago Skye began to have seizures.  They have since learned he has a brain tumor.  Since Skye is already 12 years old they are just focusing on palliative care for him.  Ken is batting 0 for 0 in the dog joke arena.  He made up for it when the Swedish woman who was staying next door came into our room in a towel asking Ken if he could help her turn on her shower.  Apparently he is much better working out the hot water system than he is with dry canine humor.  We had dinner up the hill at some shitty pub where Ken complained about the sun being in his eyes and I whacked moles in the arcade.  

(I would like to take this opportunity to give a big shout out to another fabulous "couple" we met on the trail - Mick and John.  They were "racing" us for the first week of the SWCP and then they bailed.  Something about the SWCP not being manly and rugged enough for them so they blew us off to go hike the Welsh Coast.  Good luck boys!  Hold on to your knickers :-) 

Another day at the beach

When you give your dog raw meat and steroids...

Hey!  Who wants to ride the giant sling shot 20 times?

Bude - Land of the hipster life guards.  I so wanted to start something in the pool that day...

It really isn't a trip until I french kiss a cow

Straight outta Cornwall!

Where everyone gets crabs and then has to see Doc Martin in Port Isaac

Catching the ferry to Padstow

Druid Goats - they're real.

So....  Ken zoomed in on this photo after he took it and we are about 90% sure it is Prince Harry.  And as off the wall as that sounds, you need to realize that the reason Ken took this photo was that this beach stop was pretty much deserted except for a few guys "having coffee" across the street and this "surfer" running down to catch some waves.  It was so casual and yet, so out of place.  Plus dude is a hot bearded ginger with a board so it HAS to be royalty!

I CAN FLY!!

And so it goes....

And yet another lighthouse more epic than the one at Lynton

Another way point in the journey

Sometimes this trail really takes the piss out of you

Random snack van!!!

Another toe nail bites the dust

SWCP screen saver moment

Ken living on the edge

Ken makes a new friend

Ken looking to see when the next Chinese Take Away shows up on the path

Me whacking the patriarchy - uh moles - at the bar.