17 July 2026

Distance on Coast Path: 17.5km; ascent: 346m

Total distance: 19.1km; ascent: 346m

Walking time: 4h 35′

Total time: 6h 16′

Overnight: Bus and train back home.

I’d always planned an early start for today as I’d chosen to travel back home the same day. This meant reaching Dartmouth in time to catch a bus just before 3.00pm which would get me to Totnes Station in time for the train journey home. Coupled with the forecast of another hot sunny day with little or no wind to help keep me cool I was happy to feel a slight chill still in the air as I loped down the hill back to the coast at Beesands and turned north to retrace yesterday’s walk to where the bus had dropped me in Torcross.

Torcross was still waking up, and as I expected there was nowhere to buy anything for breakfast. That meal, I reckoned, was another 5km away at the end of the long straight stretch of road which runs along a natural dyke between the shore and the freshwater lake – a nature reserve – of Slapton Ley.

A Sherman tank recovered and preserved.

Crossing the village car park I saw a strange sight – a military tank which seemed to be covered in black tar. I went to investigate. There was a memorial stone nearby whose inscription told the story. It read:

“This American Sherman tank took part in the D-day practice landings at Slapton Beach in 1944 where it was lost at sea and there remained until its recovery in 1984.

It stands as a memorial to those American lives lost during the course of the D-day practice landings at Slapton Beach in 1944. Their sacrifice was not in vain. Be they ever at peace.”

Slapton Sands road closed

Just past the car park were ‘Road Closed’ signs. Parts of the road – the A379 – were washed away in storms in January 2026 and long-term repair work had not yet started. So the only travellers on the road north from Torcross were cyclists, walkers and runners – including a young woman who had passed me in the car park and who had started running as soon as she reached the road. That’s her in the distance in the photo. It meant that the road was very quiet, and although the SWCP Guide Book recommends walking on a path between the road and the lake I soon found the soft sand too much effort and gladly switched to the tarmac where I could keep a good pace.

Motor traffic started again once I reached the junction where a minor road joined the A road, but not so much as to tempt me back onto the sandy path. So I carried on past the end of Slapton lake until I reached Strete Gate, where the A road turns away from the coast and where I was very happy to find my planned breakfast stop open – the Salcombe Dairy Beach Café. Mindful of the need to have plenty to drink and to take good rest breaks I ordered a double espresso, a can of San Pellegrino orange and a hot sausage roll, sat down on one of the café’s benches and took my time before setting off.

By now it was starting to feel hot in the full sun. There was no wind and the sea was flat calm. From Strete Gate the Path leaves the sea shore and climbs to rejoin the main road at Strete before leaving it again, negotiating a short but particularly steep dip above Landcombe Cove, and finally rejoining it to continue as far as Blackpool Sands. Here there was a car park and a café so I had another longish break drinking a can of iced coffee.

Leaving Blackpool I headed uphill alongside the road in some welcome shade. Bright blue hydrangeas were in full bloom on either side, as brightly coloured as rhododendrons. The Path continued to track the road for a few more kilometres – sometimes on the road, sometimes on a path alongside – until finally parting company at the far end of Stoke Fleming village. A minor road, a wide farm track and a bridleway then took me to the edge of Dartmouth.

For a major Devon river the Dart Estuary is surprisingly discreet. Steep cliffs on either side mean you don’t see it until you’re upon it – the view along the coast across the river mouth looks continuous. So it was not until I rounded Blackstone Point and saw the castle on the far side of the water that I knew I had almost reached the town.

I felt pleased and relieved that I’d made the day’s walk in good time. I had plenty of time to get into town and catch my bus despite taking more and longer breaks than usual, and without any hint of the problem of two days ago. A long flight of very steep stone stairs took me down through a wood, and I was thankful I didn’t have to climb anything like that again today. There was just one last thing which could go wrong!

Dartmouth Harbour

As always on my Coast Path odyssey I’d used Luggage Transfers to shift my larger bag from one overnight stop to the next. They had delivered a 100% unfailing service. But … where can they leave a bag if you’re not stopping overnight?

I’d called their office. Did they have anywhere in Dartmouth they could drop a bag? Sorry, no – but they suggested I ask the Visitor Centre. I called the Centre: a helpful woman said they might have been able to accept it but she couldn’t guarantee they would be open on that Friday afternoon as they were all volunteers and no-one had yet been rostered for that time. But maybe the Harbour Office could help – they have lockers. I called the Harbour Office. “No”, said Clare, the Office Manager, “we don’t have lockers, just somewhere people keep their lifejackets.” I explained the problem. “Well, we close at half past four, but if you’re sure you’ll be here before then and give me your name and contact details, and your bag’s clearly labelled, I think we can do it.”

And so it was that at 1.45pm I climbed the stairs to the first-floor Harbour Office, walked up to the Reception desk and announced “Hello! I’m Tony and …. that’s my bag!” as I pointed to it behind the receptionist. After a few more minutes thanking Clare and the others in the office I and my bag left to find first a cold beer (The Crab on the harbour front) and then where I should catch the bus to Totnes. An eventful few days with more lows than highs was over, and I was going home with the Salcombe to Beesands section of the Coast Path on my Unfinished Business list.

15 July 2026

Distance on Coast Path: 17.8km; ascent: 362m

Total distance: 17.8km; ascent: 362m

Walking time: 4h 41′

Total time: 7h 12′

Overnight: The Fo’c’sle B&B, Salcombe

Yesterday – Day 43 – had started well and ended badly. Today – Day 44 – started well and ended worse!

The earliest time The Sloop does breakfast is 9.00 so it was just after 10.00 that I set off. The knee that had troubled me yesterday was feeling much better this morning with the residual pain held at bay by overnight and breakfast-time paracetamol. An easy short climb took me to the low cliff path alongside Thurlestone Golf Course, then down to Thurlestone beach and South Milton Sands where an unnamed stream runs through a nature reserve before curving into the sea.

South Milton Sands

A short distance further, still on an easy path, I reached Hope Cove – first Inner Hope then Outer Hope – where I stopped for a coffee and found the Post Office and general store where I bought two fresh pains au chocolat to eat later and some Ibuprofen (better than paracetamol for joint and muscle pain, I find). From there it was only another few minutes’ walk to the headland of Bolt Tail.

Hope Cove and the headland of Bolt Tail

From Bolt Tail the coast runs south-east for 8km to its companion headland Bolt Head. The Path here is generally good with easy gradients as it undulates along Bolberry Down and Cathole Cliff before reaching the only significant descent/ascent into Soar Mill Cove where, out of care for my knee, I opted for a slightly longer but less steep permissive footpath reaching the Cove by a grassy inland path. The steep climb out of the Cove was unavoidable, but quite short.

Fancy bench on Bolberry Down.

It was a warm sunny day with the temperature in the mid-twenties, and it was around here that I realised I was longing for some shade: there had been none since leaving a little wood just outside Hope Cove. With no prospect of any to come I stopped for a rest on a bench.

Once back on my feet, whether it was the constant sun, the temperature, or maybe I hadn’t been drinking enough water, it was around this point that I got the first warning sign of a problem I have had only three times in the past twenty-five years. Each time it’s been when I’ve been tired and exhausted, so perhaps I hadn’t realised how much fitness I’d lost through inactivity over the past few months. The first signs are a tightening of my pelvic muscles and a slight tendency to stumble or trip as I walk. At its extreme I am hardly able to walk – my balance goes completely and I can hardly shuffle one foot in front of the other. The problem goes away without treatment but it takes a few hours’ rest.

I carried on cautiously, taking frequent short stops and managing to prevent the problem getting worse, and so reached Bolt Head. Between here and Salcombe there is one more down-and-up, Starehole Bay. I considered taking an inland route to avoid it, but one of the leaders of a group of teenagers from a nearby outdoor centre assured me the gradients weren’t very steep, so I stayed on the Coast Path.

Sparing the details I made it down to the bay, had a rest, then dragged myself up the other side thankful for the handrail at the section of exposed rocks at the foot of the spike of Sharp Tor. Slower now and with frequent short stops I at last reached shade and then a tarmac road leading into South Sands at the edge of Salcombe. I’d already decided I’d phone for a taxi at the first opportunity; a good thing because I could hardly stay upright on the last steep bend down to sea level.

The receptionist at the South Sands Hotel was helpful: she gave me a list of local taxi firms and said I could sit in the lobby to make calls using their wifi. After the problems I’d had the previous day trying to get a taxi the first call I made was to my B&B to warn them I might be late, and the lovely Christine immediately said she would send her husband to pick me up!

16 July 2026

It didn’t take much soul-searching overnight to realise that it would be foolish to attempt the walk I’d planned for today. It was longer than yesterday, the forecast was similar with little or no prospect of shade, and crucially there is only one place along the whole route (East Prawle) where a public road comes anywhere near the coast. There are no bus services. And my overnight stop was in a tent on a campsite with no facilities apart from the usual shower and toilet block. If anything were to go wrong I would be in serious trouble!

So I had a bus day instead. First from Salcombe to Kingsbridge, where I had a sandwich for lunch sitting by the tidal creek in the town, then to Torcross and finally a short walk over the hill to Beesands. Here I had an early evening beer at The Cricket Inn and a crab sandwich at the  Britannia By The Beach beach café before walking up the hill to the campsite and reaching my (expensive) furnished bell tent just before 7pm.

Despite the rather unfamiliar experience I had a fair night’s sleep until I was woken at 5.30 by pigeons in the nearby hedge. I was on my way by 7.30.

Beesands Bell Tent

Preamble:  getting there – 13 July 2026

Overnight: Worswell Barton Farm B&B, Noss Mayo (P & J Rogers)

Three buses a day run from Plymouth to Noss Mayo. I was due to arrive at Plymouth Station at 1613, in plenty of time to get to Royal Parade in the city centre to catch the last bus at 1740. This would get me to Noss Mayo at 1833, when I would have a meal in one of the two pubs in the village before walking with my bags the mile or so up the hill to the farm where I was staying the night. But best-laid plans …

The train was held up by a broken-down train ahead of it and eventually reached Plymouth at 1743, not even worth trying the dash into the centre for the bus. Demand for taxis was high but I eventually got a ride with a friendly young driver who was quickly out of his comfort zone as we worked our way through a maze of ever-narrowing lanes towards the farm. My plan now was to drop my bags at the farm, then get the taxi to drop me in the village where I’d eat before walking back. This worked out well and I had a pleasant meal at The Ship. The other Noss Mayo pub, The Crown, was closed on Mondays. The Ship was moderately busy for a Monday with groups sitting outside overlooking the water and enjoying the warm evening.

The light was beginning to fade as I walked up the steep first part of the path back to the farm, but as I came over the hill crest I was rewarded with a splendid sunset view back along the coast, with the dot of the chapel on Rame Head visible in the far distance.

14 July 2026

Distance on Coast Path: 22.5km (to Bigbury-on-Sea); ascent: 492m

Total distance: 22.8km; ascent: 492m

Walking time: 5h 26′

Total time: 9h 09′

Overnight: The Sloop Inn, Bantham

Here is a summary of my first objective of the day.

Erme crossing for Dummies

Phil and Jane run Worswell Barton Farm outside Noss Mayo, and couldn’t have been more welcoming or helpful. They do breakfast from 7 o’clock so any B&B guests like me who need an early start to get to the River Erme crossing for low tide can do so.

The Erme is one of the main rivers which rise on Dartmoor and flow south to reach the sea in a broad estuary. Most of these estuaries either have regular, seasonal or occasional ferries, or must be walked or driven around. The Erme has no ferry but is known to be wadeable within an hour either side of low tide, although walkers are warned the crossing may not be safe after heavy rain, storms or exceptional tides. Luckily none of those applied today. Low tide would be at around 12.00, so I needed to be at the crossing between 11.00am and 1.00pm.

I’d been very nervous about this first day: I was unfit; it was further than I’d walked for many months and with much more ascent, and as well as needing to get to the estuary in time I then had to finish the rest of the walk by 4.00pm to get the last ferry across the River Avon estuary to my overnight stay in Bantham.

Phil and Jane keep the local tide tables in their living room and gave my plan to leave at 7.45 their approval. “It takes three and a half hours to the crossing”, said Phil, “so you should be fine.” I was mentally allowing four hours, but that would be OK. They directed me across the field outside their farmhouse: “Make downhill to the bottom corner. You’ll see a gate which opens straight onto the Coast Path. This part is an old carriage drive so it’s pretty flat for the first few miles and you can make good time while you can.” I set off trying to look my most confident, but still anxious inside.

The Rogers were right about the first part of the morning. The old carriage road was a wide track, sometimes gravel, sometimes grassy, with easy gentle gradients and occasional cows. It was sunny and getting warm as the morning went by, with a strong easterly blowing in my face to cool me, and I made good time as far as Stoke, some seven kilometres into the walk.

After Stoke the Path became a narrow and twisting single track for a while before opening out again. A kilometre further a very steep descent off Beacon Hill needed care; the climb the other side of the dip was not quite as steep.

It was now 10 o’clock and although I had made good time I still had the niggling anxiety about the day’s timing so I decided to take a short-cut follow a High Level Variant by walking on the nearby road as far as Mothecombe village above the Erme estuary. This brought me to the crossing point around 1120. I would have crossed straight away but I was confused by the tide time displayed on the official information board: it gave low tide as closer to 2.00pm than 12.00. If this was right I needed to wait over an hour before crossing. Although there were a few people on the sands each side of the estuary there was no-one who looked as if they were about to cross. I dithered for a while, then decided to go with my original plan, remembering the wise words of the Rogers. “If the tide’s going out but you’re not sure about crossing you can always start, but check the depth as you go and if it looks too deep, go back and wait.”

View across the estuary from the Mothecombe side, looking towards Wonwell.

I don’t like crossing rivers barefoot: you never know what sharp objects might have washed up on the river bed. So I went onto the beach, took off my boots, looped the laces through the top of my rucksack and tied them together, put my socks in the rucksack pocket, set up my walking poles to help with balance, put on the faux-neoprene AquaShoes I’d bought a few weeks ago for £4.99 from Lidl, rolled my trousers up above my knees and set off over the sand towards the slip road on the far side.

The actual crossing was probably not much more than fifty or sixty metres. The water was clear and flowing steadily but not strongly; I could step and shuffle across without any problems. I even stopped mid-stream to take photos, though I was very cautious about not dropping my phone or a walking pole. At its deepest the water didn’t quite come up to my knees.

Looking back from midstream

Midstream

The far side (Wonwell beach) from midstream

At the far side I dried my feet, put my boots back on and left the AquaShoes by the side of the slipway for anyone to help themselves. I was glad to have done the crossing without mishap, and I was half an hour ahead of the time I’d set myself to reach the Avon ferry by 4.00pm so all was good as I set off for the second stage of the day. Until …

Until my right knee started hurting when I went downhill. I had to step carefully and try not to bend it. Then it started hurting going uphill too. The half hour I had in hand quickly evaporated and I realised I wouldn’t reach the ferry in time. Never mind, I’d just have to get a taxi. I’d phone from Bigbury-on-Sea, the nearest place to the ferry crossing.

Nemesis wasn’t going to let me off that easily. Sparing you the full story, dear Reader, Bigbury-on-Sea isn’t very Big. A phone signal was hard to find. I threw myself on the mercy of the nice people at the Henley Hotel and sat in their lounge while I phoned seven different taxi services, none of which could or would take me on the thirty minute drive around the estuary. “You should have booked yesterday”, two of them said. The Henley Hotel couldn’t offer me a bed or a meal, and anyway my bag was at The Sloop in Bantham, across the river. I finally called back to the lovely Suzi, aka Merlin Taxis, who on my first call had said she couldn’t collect me before 8.00, who now said she could take me if I didn’t mind waiting. She’d definitely pick me up before 9.00.

And so I finally reached my overnight stop at 9.15. Tired, exhausted, and with a sore knee I went straight to my room and collapsed onto the bed.

22 April 2026

Distance on Coast Path: 11.8km; ascent: 194m

Total distance: 14.1km; ascent: 285m

Walking time: 3h 30′

Total time: 4h 16′

Overnight: Self-catering, Plymouth

I was the only passenger on the 9.15 ferry from the Barbican to Mount Batten. It was another clear but windy day which turned warm later. While we were waiting to set off the Ferrymaster – a young man in his early twenties – commented on the small crowd of young people gathered on the quayside: he thought they must be a group of French school pupils. “They come over on school trips on Brittany Ferries, get a coach here from the terminal and hang around, then get the boat back to the terminal. We never did that sort of thing at my school”, he said regretfully. I asked what he was doing apart from driving the ferry: he said he was doing a marine engine maintenance course at college. I wished him luck.

Getting closer, but still a way to go!

From the jetty at the other side I walked again the short distance to Mount Batten Point then set off along the next section of the Coast Path. After a short distance close to the shore the path rises to an open green sloping area dotted with park benches. This is Jenny Cliff, the last entry in the Plymouth Waterfront Walk guide book, because at the far side is the Plymouth City boundary, marked by the “Plymouth Doormat”, a wide concrete slab set in the ground across the path. It carries a message facing anyone approaching from outside the city — “Welcome to Plymouth. Please wipe your feet”.

Emerging from woodland the path follows the cliff to pass below Staddon Fort, a WW1 and WW2 military base now decommissioned and privately owned. Then a high security fence and notices declaring ‘No Public Access’ and warnings against touching any unexploded objects appear as you approach Staddon Point and Fort Bovisand. This Fort is still actively used by the military. I stopped at a bridge across what was clearly a man-made cutting about 5 metres wide which ran in a straight line up the sloping cliff side: I could just make out what I thought were low windows in an ivy-covered wall at the top. Once again a chatty dog-walker told me more about it. It was, he said, a firing range; what I thought were windows at the top were actually slits for rifles. He told me the whole cliff area around the Fort is used by Special Forces for training in techniques like cliff assaults by stealth. The tattoos on his arms made me inclined to believe him.

Below, the harbour and buildings of Fort Bovisand were clearly still in active use, though quiet today with only a lorry moving slowly on a dirt road.

Fort Bovisand

Before Bovisand Beach the Cliff Edge Café came as a welcome chance for a break and an early coffee. There were several other customers sitting outside – the café is close to a car park at the end of a road. It had a good feel to it – friendly service and several welcoming signs.

Cliff Edge Café, Bovisand

The Path dropped down to the beach and up the other side to bring me to Bovisand Holiday Park on what I decided must be a private road. The Holiday Park seemed a step up from the familiar rows of static caravans – landscaped enough to hide much of the site, and after I passed through the second automatic road barrier a row of not unattractive single-storey holiday bungalows ran down towards the coast. Signs hinted that those in the know called the site “Bovi”.

Bovisand holiday chalets

From there onwards the walk was much of the same – low cliffs, coves, bays, headlands – all very pleasant on a day that was warm and clear, if still quite windy. I rounded Wembury Point and soon reached the point where the road from Wembury village reaches the coast. The village itself was out of sight; it is however the nearest village to the ferry across the River Yealm which was my objective for the day. A short climb back onto the cliffs was followed by a level and recently-surfaced path which I followed for about two kilometres to a path junction where I took a rough driveable track which went steeply down to a dead end at a small jetty on the Yealm estuary.

The ferry here – which I was not planning to take – is one which is summoned by setting a big sign at the jetty. It operates a triangular route linking this point (and thus Wembury village) with the villages of Newton Ferrers and Noss Mayo, both on the other side of the Yealm but in turn separated from each other on the northern and southern sides of a tributary creek. The Coast Path starts again at Noss Mayo, which will be my starting point on my next visit.

I turned back up the steep track to the path junction, then took footpaths leading to the edge of Wembury village where I could wait for the bus back to Plymouth.

21 April 2026

Distance on Coast Path: 14.2km; ascent: 104m

Total distance: 17.6km; ascent: 104m

Walking time: 4h 03′

Total time: 5h 12′

Overnight: Self-catering, Plymouth

It seemed to me that the section of the Coast Path which twists its way along the waterfront through urban Plymouth deserved to be treated differently, so I organised a short visit to complete this and the next section over a couple of days. Thus I set off from my one-room self-catering apartment near Plymouth Hoe carrying a very light rucksack and wearing trainers instead of boots, to walk to the slip where the ferry from Cremyll had dropped me back in October last year.

A little over five hours later, almost at my walk’s end at Mount Batten, my head was full of the contrasts I’d seen, my phone’s photo gallery showing a screenful of pictures I’d taken.

When I finally sat down to write an account of the day I didn’t know how best to do it. To describe everything would need a whole booklet. In fact someone has done just that, and I recommend that anyone who wants to follow the Coast Path through Plymouth should visit the Tourist Office at Sutton Harbour (near the Mayflower Steps) and pick up a free copy of ‘Plymouth’s Waterfront Walkway’, a thirty-page booklet with detailed information on the many interesting things along the way. You can also download it from the link above, but it’s good to have the paper version with you as you go. I wish I’d had it with me on my own walk, but I only found it afterwards! So what follows is a string of impressions in truncated note form of what I came across on the way.

Admiral’s Hard. That’s what the slipway for the ferry is called. Down Cremyll Street – glimpses of the water – a relic of old machinery. Ducking down a side entrance for a view of Royal William Yard. Past a pub called “The V O T” which turns out to be “The Victualling Office Tavern”, a clue to what’s to come. Decrepit garages and storerooms fronting directly onto the street. The dilapidated and faded rear entrance to the Durnford Hotel – is it still operating?

Old and new

Royal William Yard

Through the entrance gate to Royal William Yard. This place is huge! I hadn’t imagined it like this. Solid stone buildings, tall chimneys, fading lettering above doorways. “Bakery”. “Cooperage”. This is how the Royal Navy was kept supplied with food and drink (‘victualled’) in Victorian times. A massive operation. Some buildings converted to fashionable waterside apartments. Evidence of attempts to attract commercial trade – Nando’s, Wagamama – but I’m not convinced.

Cooperage

By a door under an archway, a wooden post with a yellow top and an SWCP waycorn. The headquarters of the SWCP Association. They seem surprised when I walk in to say ‘Hello’. They’ve only just moved in so haven’t got used to drop-in visitors yet. I leave the Yard by the four flights of new stairs cantilevered onto the Yard’s defensive wall.

Through a small park and into Durnford Street which has fine Victorian houses painted in Wedgwood colours, and quotations from Arthur Conan Doyle cast in iron and set into the pavement. At the far end the road is closed even to walkers. The diversion takes me down Stonehouse Street, all single-storey sheds: tool hire, car body shops, car spares, tyres new and part-worn, MoT While-U-Wait, garage door installation. Incongruously, Devon Hair & Beauty Supplies.

Back on the official route looking down at the Brittany Ferries terminal then following the promenades and road beneath West Hoe and The Hoe itself, past the closed and deserted art deco Tinside Lido and the Royal Citadel for a coffee stop close to the Mount Batten ferry pier.

The Barbican and Sutton Harbour, Plymouth’s original harbour. American tourists disappointed with the very low-key Mayflower Steps – pavement plaque, small arch, two flagpoles with Union and US flags.

By Sutton Harbour

Over Sutton Harbour’s lock gates to the National Marine Aquarium. Built in the late 1990s to an unremarkable design on a rather cramped site. Paid entry, so I just look round the shop and find only tourist tat.

A transition point. No more tourists and coach parties but a succession of once-separate localities. Low functional buildings and houses from Victorian times and earlier mixed with modern heavy industry. Breakwater Hill – an old road now blocked to traffic leads from Coxside to Cattedown, emerging at a huge waste processing plant served by big tipper lorries. The road is covered in dust, the pavement blocked or non-existent. A very large ship is being loaded with scrap. Bricked up old warehouses and the backs of newer corrugated buildings. At the end, The Passage House pub looks out of place and not very inviting, though it is open. More car workshops. “Quality Used Cars”.

Coast Path at T R 2

A little further, a modern building which looks like the headquarters of a medium-sized accountancy firm has “T R 2” in solid stone sculpted outside. I later learn it’s the Production and Learning Centre of Plymouth’s Theatre Royal. It’s next to a cement works and opposite the storage tanks of a bulk fuel depot. Past a large scrap metal dealers – “Trade and Public Welcome”, “Cars Motorbikes Small Vans” – I follow a pavement alongside a busy road to traffic lights at the junction with the A379. Turning right the Laira Bridge takes me across the River Plym, here known as Cattewater. Over the bridge another vast shed: “Bridgestone Exhausts Tyres Batteries”.

Crossing the River Plym (Cattewater)

Still on the main road, another dusty and forlorn pub, The Morley Arms. A petrol station. A modern glass-fronted showroom “Plymouth Marine” sells shiny expensive-looking jet-skis and outboard motors. On the other side of the road is a retail park, “Sugar Mill”. I’m now in Oreston, the next old locality. Still on the main road a long breeze-block wall about head-height and with rough, stained grey rendering separates the road from a straight creek with moored boats – Pomphlett Lake. A series of poems with the words cut out of iron strips is fixed to the wall: one laments the wall separating it and the reader from the water beyond.

Turning right across the end of the creek and passing a stone rhinoceros standing in long grass by the side of the path, I turn right again to follow the opposite side of the creek. I can see now that as well as the moored boats Pomphlett Lake is also a boat graveyard. The derelict hulks are not the last ones I’ll see on this visit.

Derelict Hulk

I follow the Coast Path through Oreston, Hooe and Turnchapel, now merged together but each still separately identifiable with its old fishermans’ cottages and one or more pubs. I feel I’m following half-forgotten paths which once ran along quaysides but are now cut off from the water by security fencing and razor wire to protect the expensive yachts in the yards behind. There’s new building too, almost exclusively modern waterside apartments, not ugly or oppressive, just bland: the kind you would see in stock photos in Getty Images.

Finally I approach Mount Batten peninsula. There’s a lot of construction going on here and it’s not obvious where the Path goes. I adopt my most confident demeanour and walk through the expensive boatyards. One, Plymouth Yacht Haven, is an aircraft hangar-sized shed with an open front revealing several large and expensive yachts jacked up undercover like a millionaire’s version of a Kwik-Fit tyre and brake shop.

The jetty for the ferry back to Sutton Harbour is fenced off but the temporary alternative is only another 100 metres along the peninsula. I have time in hand so I walk past the Hotel Mountbatten to the end, then along the wide breakwater which runs about 300 metres out to a small observation tower. The strong wind which has been blowing all day carries me along but I have to fight it on the way back.*

The ferry journey back to Sutton Harbour and The Barbican takes about ten minutes. The small boat weaves a course through moored boats of all types and sizes and past a commercial bunkerage depot which displays the price of marine diesel in the same way as your local petrol station advertises unleaded petrol.

In conclusion, an interesting day and very different from any other day on the Coast Path, varying from the historic to the derelict via the industrial. Notably there has been nothing newly built of any interest. The centre of Plymouth is undergoing a major reconfiguration and redevelopment but none of that reaches the waterfront.

* Mount Batten has an interesting history including its time as RAF Mount Batten and its association with T.E.Lawrence (‘of Arabia’). The ‘Plymouth’s Waterfront Walkway’ booklet has a section about it, and Wikipedia has an article with links to more details.

1 October 2025

Distance on Coast Path: 21.0km; ascent: 297m

Total distance: 22.0km; ascent: 351m

Walking time: 5h 15′

Total time: 6h 59′

Overnight: Copthorne Hotel, Plymouth

I woke in the night around 3.00 and took more paracetamol, then slept until my alarm at 7.15. Sitting tentatively upright on the edge of the bed I took stock; I decided I felt quite a bit better than yesterday though still not 100% well. But I should be able to walk to Plymouth – my last day in Cornwall and the last of this visit.

My B&B hosts Ian and Lorraine had been out when I arrived. In messages we’d exchanged they said I should let myself in, so the first time we met was in the morning. They were very tolerant about me calling out ‘Hello!’ at the bottom of the stairs when there was no sign of breakfast at five past eight – apparently somewhere in the booking details it said that breakfast was at half past.

Ian offered to drive me back to Portwrinkle to pick up the Coast Path. When I was ready to leave I was surprised to find him waiting outside behind the wheel of a rather ancient black taxi. I sat in the back as he drove up the hill to the Finnygook Inn then down another narrow lane towards the coast. We passed the two German women heading the same way. Ian pulled up at the side of the lane with no houses in sight. “Here you are”, he announced, “the footpath’s just here.” I saw a wooden coast path sign leaning at an angle and pointing through the hedge into a field. I thanked him, grabbed my rucksack, and pushed through the hedge into the field behind as he drove away. I’d skipped past Portwrinkle without seeing any of it.

Once up on the low cliffs it was easy going past Whitsand Bay golf club, and I soon arrived at the secure gate at the entrance to the Tregantle Firing Ranges. I wasn’t surprised when the two Germans caught me up there – this time we introduced ourselves: they were Lucy and Edith, Lucy being the one with the better English. None of us had checked beforehand, but no red flags were flying (there was one tied to the gate) and the gate wasn’t padlocked so we were confident we could take the path through the ranges.

I’d seen Tregantle Fort on the map but hadn’t expected such a solid and imposing structure, nor that it was still in use. It was built between 1859 and 1865; according to Wikipedia it “is one of several forts surrounding Plymouth that were built as a result of a decision in Lord Palmerston’s premiership to deter the French from attacking naval bases on the Channel coast” (see here for more). The three of us took photos but I lingered longer and Lucy and Edith left several minutes before me.

Tregantle Fort

Beyond the fort at the edge of the ranges a security gate opens onto a public road. But inside the gate a tempting well-kept gravel path runs parallel to the road, and I followed it downhill. Before long it twisted away from the road then straightened out again, but I sensed something wasn’t quite right. A quick check on my tracker confirmed that if I carried on I’d end up on the beach with no way of continuing, so I turned round looking for a narrow path I’d passed not long before which seemed to head back towards the road – this was confirmed by a dog-walker who was coming down the path as I reached it.

The Path now followed the public road for more than four kilometres, sometimes on the road itself, sometimes alongside. I hoped I might find a coffee stop in Freathy – no luck – or maybe the Whitsand Bay Holiday Park – no luck again, very ‘Private – Keep Out’.

On the sloping cliffs below the road odd single-storey houses were dotted randomly, some seemingly well-built, some no more than shacks. Beyond the holiday park the Coast Path dived off the road into this strange area. The houses were all different, each in its own plot, irregularly spaced and angled though mostly facing in the general direction of the sea. No-one was about: the whole area was deserted, though obviously inhabited. Were they all second homes and holiday lets or were some permanent homes? I couldn’t tell. Until the narrow path widened into a driveable track as it neared the road again, most didn’t seem to have access for vehicles. It was very strange.

Rame Head and St Michael’s chapel (14th C)

The Path met the road at a junction and immediately left it again to follow the coast and the cliffs – still easy going – out to Rame Head, a significant landmark on the Channel coast. Just inland from the path is a car park and a Coast Watch station: although the official Coast Path cuts across the neck of the headland I opted to climb the short distance to the medieval chapel which stands on the cone-shaped point, silhouetted against silver clouds in a mid-day blue sky.

On the way back from the chapel I saw Lucy and Edith leaving on the path. I had wondered why I hadn’t seen them ahead of me on the road earlier, and had an idea what might have happened. They were too far away to greet, and anyway it was now half past twelve and I felt like a rest and something to eat. I would really have liked a coffee too – there had been no opportunity to get one since breakfast.

View back along the coast from Rame Head

St Michael’s Chapel and view towards Plymouth Sound.

It was just after 1 o’clock when I set off again. It’s an easy path, wide enough for groups to walk together, heading first east then north before it reaches the village of Cawsand. But it’s also rather featureless and quickly becomes a dull four-kilometre schlep. A Royal Navy ship silently edged into view from Plymouth Sound; it barely seemed to be moving as it manoeuvred apparently purposelessly in the open water. I couldn’t get the idea out of my head that somewhere on that ship there was someone scanning me with sensors sharp enough to read the logo on my sunglasses.

There are two things to note about Cawsand. Getting there signals that you’ve almost reached Plymouth – it’s  on Plymouth Sound rather than the open sea; there’s even a ferry to Plymouth. But even better, it’s the first place with a café since leaving Portwrinkle. The Shop In The Square sold me an americano and a packet of crisps and I sat outside on their tiny terrace to enjoy them.

I wasn’t paying attention when I heard “Hello!”. It was Lucy, who’d just come up the short passage to the shore. She and Edith had taken their coffees down to the harbour; she’d come back for a refill. If I’d like to join them I’d find Edith down there. So we sat chatting in the sun drinking our coffees and sharing crisps, and I confirmed my guess that they too had followed that path from the fort but hadn’t realised the mistake until they got to the beach, where anyway they’d taken a bit of a break – which is how they came to be behind me at Rame Head despite leaving the fort before me.

After a good break, and remembering there was a ferry to catch, we prepared to set off. They went in search of a toilet, I worked my way through the streets of Cawsand and its conjoined twin Kingsand soon to reach a gate marking the entrance to Mount Edgcumbe Country Park. A diversion sign which had been in place for at least two years (it was in the 2023 SWCP guide book) led uphill into mixed woodland. Waymarks disappeared but I kept on a broad track which contoured above a curious circular structure on the sea shore marked on the map as Fort Picklecombe. It looked more like a folly than a fort.

At the point where the diverted path should have turned downhill a newer diversion notice barred the way, a fallen tree apparently blocking the path. I carried on, getting less and less confident about finding the way as the path I was taking forked and other paths led off on either side. There were no waymarks, and I started cursing the Country Park for its lack of consideration. Getting more frustrated by the minute I ended up navigating by map and tracker through a maze of paths and tracks, though of course not every path was shown on the map. At one point I dropped down across an open field to join a driveable track and followed it on a twisting route past signs for the park’s National Camellia Collection. I was definitely not in the mood for that, nor the formal garden, nor the Orangery. I was glad at last to reach the exit gate and walk the last few hundred metres to the ferry quay.

“See you at the ferry”, Lucy, Edith and I had said to each other as we parted in Cawsand, and I was sorry not to see them there. I had a quarter of an hour’s wait for the next ferry at 4.30, but with the problems finding the way through Edgcumbe I realised they could be ahead of me or behind so I never got to say goodbye and wish them well for the rest of their journey. The ferry arrived and I stepped aboard, ending my walk in Cornwall.

Coda: Feeling tired, I got off the ferry, walked up a short bleak road and found a bus stop right by. A bus came along with “City Centre” on its destination sign. I got on. In the centre I walked through building works where Armada Way was being pedestrianised and found my hotel. In the early evening, feeling lightheaded, I went for a disappointing meal in a not-very-Greek Greek restaurant, walked back to the hotel and went to bed. Next morning the short walk to the station felt like a big effort. I slept much of the way on the train, getting home mid-afternoon. By six o’clock I felt really ill – so short of breath I could hardly manage the stairs. It was the start of a cough and cold that lasted more than two weeks. Having cut short two days ago I was lucky that I’d been able to walk the full Portwrinkle – Plymouth section without any trouble.

30 September 2025

Distance on Coast Path: 17.0km; ascent: 417m

Total distance: 18.3km; ascent: 417m

Walking time: 4h 37′

Total time: 6h 22′

Overnight: Sheviock Barton B&B

I woke up soon after 2am with a seriously sore throat. Not just a niggle; one of those “Uh-oh! What am I in for now?” sore throats. Only half awake, I stumbled around to find my paracetamol and water bottle, gulped down two tablets, and thankfully dropped back off to sleep before too long.

My throat was feeling just as bad when I woke with the alarm at 7.10. I was thrown for a moment when I looked out of the window and couldn’t see anything. “What is the matter?” I thought, before I realised it was thick fog outside. I took more paracetamol before going down for breakfast.

With a coffee in front of me I assessed the situation. I didn’t feel great, but on the other hand I didn’t feel so ill that I couldn’t walk. There were several places along the route where I could pick up a bus; none of the bus routes ran the whole way along the coast, but it did give me some options. The first place of any size would be Looe; I reckoned I could make it that far, and depending on time and how I felt I could decide my next options there. And so I left the Crumplehorn Inn at 9.10 and Polperro at 9.30.

With my level of awareness down to about 75% I didn’t take in much of the Coast path from Polperro to Looe, but then the SWCP guidebook doesn’t have much to say about it either. Porthallow and Talland Bay came and went and by 11.00 I had reached the road at Hannafore which leads into the centre of Looe.

There is one thing I do remember however: I had paused at a path junction where a ‘Public Footpath’ sign pointed straight ahead on a clear grass path across a field, and a ‘Coast Path’ sign forked off to the right down to the bottom of the field. Keen to make as little effort as possible I was looking at the map to see if straight ahead was an easier option when two women, fit-looking with walking poles and day rucksacks caught me up. Greetings exchanged, the choice of path discussed, then general chat revealed they were from Germany and were walking the whole of the Coast Path from Minehead to Poole in one visit with accommodation and luggage transport arranged by one of the companies that does that sort of thing. One of them did all the talking, the other obviously spoke little English but smiled and nodded along as her companion translated. I did find out they were staying that night in the Finnygook Inn in Crafthole where I was booked for an evening meal. They chose the official route downhill while I carried straight on. They passed me again before Looe, going at a strong pace as I plodded uphill.

Approaching Looe along Looe River

The Looe River separates West Looe and East Looe, and although not generally known as ‘the Cornish Budapest’, the two sides have slightly different vibes and differentiate themselves enough to have separate coats of arms. Pragmatically, the arms for the complete town combine the two ‘per pale’ (split vertically).

Dragging my feet and in need of a coffee break I walked along the river through West Looe, crossed the bridge (nothing like Budapest’s), turned back down the river through East Looe, bought a coffee and a pastry in Pier One and sat outside to look at the map and consider what to do next. It was about 11.30.

The next two coastal villages were Millendreath and Seaton. The latter was about six and a half kilometres away, but crucially was on the route of the 75 bus which I needed to get to my B&B at the end of the day. Although I didn’t feel great I decided I could walk that far and think again when I got there.

Teabag Bentley

It was 12.15 when I left Looe, soon passing through an area of expensive properties above Plaidy beach. One of them was the home of The Cornish Coffee Company (they sell tea as well).

After a 1 o’clock lunch break at Millendreath I reached Seaton at around 2.15. It’s a nondescript place with an odd row of new detached houses, each different, but looking like they were built of Lego.

I sat on a wall by the beach – sitting seemed a worthwhile thing to be doing. Downderry was only just over two kilometres away first along the sea wall and then the beach (tide permitting). I checked the tide times – the tide was falling. Another two kilometres? OK.

By the time I reached Downderry I’d had enough. My planned destination – Portwrinkle – was only another five kilometres but it was five kilometres too far. I took a footpath from the beach to the coast road, found the bus stop (it had a bench!) and settled down to a long wait for the bus.

I hadn’t been able to find an affordable overnight stay in Portwrinkle (another place I’d never heard of) and to reach my B&B in Sheviock on foot from there would take about an hour. My original plan had been to get the bus to the B&B, walk the kilometre back uphill to the Finnygook Inn at Crafthole for a meal – I’d booked for 7.00 – and walk back down the hill. This now didn’t seem like such a good idea. Instead, I got off the bus at the Finnygook about 5.30 and ordered my meal soon after 6.00. I had seabass, and it was very good!

The two German women I’d met earlier came in for their meal while I was eating; we waved to each other. When I was ready to leave I went over to their table, keeping a safe distance in case I was infectious, and we chatted for a few minutes, parting with “probably see you tomorrow”. It was dusk as I set off down the narrow lane, and within a few minutes it was dark enough to get my torch out. Luckily there wasn’t any traffic. Arriving in the small village without much idea of where to find my overnight stay I was lucky to catch the sign in my torchlight after only a few minutes. It was now 7.45 in the evening; I took paracetamol and went straight to bed.

Updated 7 May 2026

Downderry – Portwrinkle (reversed)

22 April 2026

Distance on Coast Path: 5.1km; ascent: 179m

Total distance: 7.9km; ascent: 179m

Walking time: 1h 47′

Total time: 2h 22′

On a three-day visit to Plymouth I planned to fill in the gap I left last year between Downderry and Portwrinkle when I wasn’t feeling very well (see above). I took the bus from Plymouth city centre which goes on the ferry between Devonport and Torpoint. This should have connected with a second bus to take me to Downderry to continue the walk to Portwrinkle but delays on the ferry service meant I missed the connection. I quickly devised Plan B, which was to stay on the bus I was already on and take it to the nearest point on the stretch of the Coast Path I was aiming for. That point turned out to be a road junction close to Tregantle Fort. From there I could walk west to Portwrinkle – a distance of about 3km – and then continue to Downderry to wait for the bus back to Torpoint. I would walk the missing section in the reverse direction.

Portwrinkle

There’s not much to say about this short section other than to recognise I made a wise decision not to attempt it when I was feeling poorly. It has many more ups and downs than the earlier part of that day: I think I would have given up on what would have been the long slow grind up from Downderry. Otherwise it was Coast Path as usual, with the bonus of fine weather, blue sky, dry paths and tracks and the easterly wind – still strong after the gales of the previous days – blowing me along as I headed west.

Plan accomplished, I settled down to wait at the same bus stop in Downderry where I had waited last time, and like last time the bus appeared only 15 minutes late to take me back to Torpoint and the Plymouth ferry.

29 September 2025

Distance on Coast Path: 21.4km; ascent: 640m

Total distance: 23.3km; ascent: 640m

Walking time: 6h 15”

Total time: 8h 20′

Overnight: The Crumplehorn Inn, Polperro

Self-catering meant I could get off to an early start, so after breakfast of a pot of Instant Porridge I was away by 8 o’clock, heading for Par Sands. The footpath to the coast crosses a road obviously connected to the port and the mineral workings, but it’s an empty road. At the gate either side I found a temporary notice announcing an injunction against some named, presumably local, people forbidding them to access the road beyond the path crossing and any of the surrounding private land. This was peculiar, but more understandable when I realised the road is an unusual private road – a haul road – for hauling china clay from the driers (‘drys’) at Par Docks to Fowey. It was a railway line until 1968 and much of the route runs through a tunnel.

It was a bright, clear and chilly morning with the sun still low in the sky ahead of me as I walked past the holiday development. The sun reflected off the heavy dew on the mown grass at the side of the road; it shone bright silver.

Back on the low cliffs at the far end of the Sands the deep thrum of the dryers at the docks carried across the bay. Only a few people were about, mostly dogwalkers on the sands. A quarter of an hour later I was surprised to drop down into a tiny village I had hardly noticed on the map – Polkerris – which has a pub and a food shack, both still closed this early in the day.

The daymark on Gribbin Head

The west-facing coast was still frequently in shade as I headed towards Gribbin Head, the next significant feature on today’s route. It’s dominated by a brightly-painted red and white tower built as a ‘daymark’ for shipping. I heard voices before I could see the people at the tower. It was a family from Birmingham, Alabama – Mum, Dad and three children whose ages I guessed to be about 7,5 and a few months – who had walked up from a carpark at the end of a road a little further along the coast.

From the tower I took a last look back at St Austell bay, and forwards to “Rame Head off Plymouth” (‘Spanish Ladies’ again). Turning the corner, the Path, now in bright sunshine under a clear sky, sloped easily downhill across fields. I had just reached the gate at the foot of the second field when I heard running footsteps behind. The two older children, boy and girl, came to a halt and announced laughing breathlessly, “We’ve left Mum and Dad behind!”

On the far side of the small bay just ahead the mica in the slabs of the low cliffs reflected the sun like a mirror. I took a photo but it doesn’t capture the effect well. I stopped on Polridmouth beach for a short break.

Looking towards Fowey from below Gribbin Head

Gribbin Head and tower from Polridmouth beach

On the Fowey – Polruan ferry

The whole of the stretch from Gribbin Head to Fowey was splendidly lazy – easy going, mostly open, in clear bright sunshine and a pleasant temperature. I didn’t see much of Fowey as I needed to take the ferry which crosses the River Fowey to Polruan on the opposite bank. I followed the road through the town to the upper ferry landing; the boat was at the quay and passengers were boarding. I joined them and we set off, docking five minutes later at Polruan.

Polruan was much quieter and less commercial than Fowey, with steep streets leading away from the river. I bought a flapjack in a convenience store but didn’t find a café open so I had coffee in The Russell Inn on West Street where although the time was getting near 1 o’clock, for most of the time I was the only customer.

The afternoon’s walk from Polruan to Polperro was much tougher than the morning had been, with the path twisting up and down steep cliffs and thicker vegetation for much of the way. Twice I opted for an ‘haute route’ variant, following a back road for a while which kept to more level higher ground, and again taking the higher ground approaching Polperro. When I could see the sea it was almost flat calm and there was hardly any wind.

Along the way I met two people who paused to chat. The first was a fit-looking young man, possibly in his late twenties, resting by a gate with a large rucksack on the ground. He was heading west. I asked if he was walking the Coast Path. “Yes, and no”, he said. He explained he was walking from Dover to Land’s End – he said he lived in London but just felt he needed to get away and be by the sea. I asked what he would do when he reached Land’s End. He said he didn’t know – he hadn’t decided – and thought he might just keep going along the coast. He didn’t think he could cope with going back to London. I wished him well.

Not long after, another young man, this time I thought in his late teens or early twenties, came towards me wearing a bright yellow top. I smiled and said hello but he walked by without speaking. He was followed a short distance behind by a woman also wearing a yellow top. She did return my greeting and told me the young man was her son who is autistic and non-verbal. He most of all likes to be outside walking so the two of them had come for a holiday. They were staying locally and doing different stretches of the Coast Path each day. Her son was now some way ahead so she hurried after him while I walked on, feeling grateful not to have to cope with the complications of their lives.

Polperro harbour

I reached Polperro around 4.00pm. It’s a small fishing village with narrow streets and a harbour – an attractive place which although popular didn’t seem overwhelmed. I had a brief look around before heading up the only road out of the centre to get to my overnight stay at The Crumplehorn Inn, and old mill and farmhouse converted into a pub and hotel on the edge of the village.

27 September 2025

Distance on Coast Path: 16.5km; ascent: 489m

Total distance: 17.6km; ascent: 489m

Walking time: 5h 12′

Total time: 4h 46′

Overnight: AirBnB, Par

Sunrise

When I pulled back the bedroom curtains at about 7.15 I was delighted with a view of the sunrise, bright orange behind the fronds of a large palm tree. Sadly it didn’t last long (red sky in the morning?) and the rest of the day was dull and grey.

After breakfast I set off steeply downhill on the road into Mevagissey, a large village with a harbour, art galleries and craft shops. It was still early and I wanted to get going so I didn’t explore beyond the centre, though I did buy a flapjack for later.

The morning was a typical Coast Path morning – regular ups and downs, a mixture of cliffs, woods and fields, beaches and coves. I confess I took a shortcut to avoid the headland of Black Head with its rifle range and iron age fort, and pressed on to Porthpean where an inviting bench on a grassy knoll overlooking the beach gave me somewhere to sit and have an early lunch.

The Coast Path continues along a scruffy low sea wall (the SWCP guidebook calls it “the promenade”) at the top of Porthpean beach before taking a recently-built staircase with an ugly handrail of steel tubing to the top of the cliff.

The next place along the coast was Charlestown, which I was keen to reach for several reasons. I’d never heard of it; it had a very different name from the other Cornish harbour villages I’d passed through; I hoped to find somewhere for a coffee; I’d read it was a location for the Poldark TV series (which I’d never watched), and there were sometimes tall ships in the harbour. Descending past an old gun battery I came down to the village to find a row of shops and houses; an empty dock behind closed lock gates; stalls on both sides of the dock quay selling tourist stuff, food and drink; a derelict hulk resting on the mud at the bottom of the dock, and some large brick buildings on the opposite side. But no tall ships.

Derelict hulk in Charlestown dock.

I found a coffee place called “Short & Strong” where I sat inside and read the Wikipedia article about the village. Originally a tiny port where pilchards were processed, a man called Charles Rashleigh (yes, that Charles) developed the port and the village behind for the onward shipping of copper from nearby mines. The Wikipedia article has much more, including the gun battery and tales of embezzlement and bankruptcy.

Once back on the cliffs I came to a recent development of large houses where the path ran on the seaward side of a very expensive-looking fence high enough to stop passers-by seeing into the properties. The fence ran for the best part of a kilometre before the path opened up into a field which in turn led to the start of what might well be the longest and narrowest golf course in the country, Carlyon Bay Golf Club. Only a few hundred metres at its widest, and often much less, the course extends more than 2 kilometres along the coast. The Path follows the seaward edge of the course, sometimes on the course itself, otherwise on the outside of a low hedge. Each return to the course came with a warning sign about the danger from golf balls.

The golf course came to an abrupt end at a small beach called Spit Point. Ahead, large and bulky old buildings marked the entrance to the town of Par; the Path turned sharp left into a narrow tarmac footpath between high mesh fences. The land between the path and the buildings was overgrown; the whole place seemed run-down and semi-derelict although there was also the sound of heavy engines and machinery. Following the enclosed path through several sharp turns, alongside railway tracks and under bridges I eventually emerged onto a road close to the entrance to Par Docks. Although obviously still in use the dock entrance was both forbidding and forlorn: it didn’t need a sign to say “Keep Out! Go away!”

No longer true to its name the Coast Path headed along the road, under another railway bridge and past a pub, then turned right under yet another railway bridge and onto a residential road with houses on both sides. My AirBnB was in a self-contained and comfortable small annexe to one of these houses, so right on the Path.

Rest Day in Par

28 September 2025

Par is a strange place. It doesn’t seem to have a town centre as such, only occasional shops and services dotted intermittently along the residential streets. But there was a Co-op at the end of my street, and a pub – The Welcome Home Inn – almost opposite my AirBnB where I had a good meal the first night (for my second night I microwaved a takeaway from the Co-op).

Par is also a stop on the main Great Western Railway line to Penzance. Why is it there, especially when it’s only a couple of miles further to St Austell? One reason is that it’s where the branch line to Newquay on the north coast begins. But the other reason lies in Par’s history. Those unwelcoming and forbidding great buildings, and the docks themselves, were at one time the centre of the china clay processing and shipping industry and before that, in the early 19th century, copper was big business. The great buildings were where the raw china clay from the mines inland was dried before being shipped out.

Unlike nearby Fowey, [Par] cannot accommodate large ocean-going ships. The harbour is operated by the French mineral extraction company Imerys. Today china clay is piped to the harbour in slurry form; most is dried in large sheds before exporting either from Par or Fowey, the two being linked by a private road. One berth at Par can also load clay slurry into coasting vessels. The harbour also has a rail link that is used to carry away dried clay loaded in rail vans. A major reduction in china clay operations, announced on 4 July 2006, included proposals to close Par to commercial shipping and to close some of the clay dryers. The closures took effect in 2007.

Source: Wikipedia https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Par,_Cornwall

I spent my rest day – Sunday – wandering around Par and failing to catch a bus into St Austell. Par Sands turned out to be one of the less attractive beaches in Cornwall; a beach backed by a flat area of dune grass and scrub with a large holiday development of mobile homes behind. But I did find the small bridge half hidden in the undergrowth at the side of the car park at the far end of the Sands where the Coast Path continues on the next leg eastwards.

26 September 2025

Distance on Coast Path: 18.1km; ascent: 529m

Total distance: 19.0km; ascent: 535m

Walking time: 5h 12′

Total time: 7h 23′

Overnight: Tremarne Hotel

How is it, I wondered, that I’ve known a verse and chorus from the sea shanty “Spanish Ladies” since I was a child? Was it reading all the Arthur Ransome books? But then how would I know the tune? Was it a theme or a signature tune in a radio programme I listened to? I just don’t know. But the verse I know lists the landmarks a sailor would see sailing up the English Channel: “The first land we sighted was called The Dodman | Next Rame Head off Plymouth, Start, Portland and Wight” (it goes on from there). And today — today I would finally visit The Dodman, a name I’ve known all those years!

With the song in my head I left Jen’s B&B and walked back down the hill into Portloe, picking up the Coast Path and climbing steeply onto the cliffs. The SWCP Guide Book isn’t exaggerating when it classes this section as “strenuous”: I certainly found it tough as far as The Dodman. But that was still some way off.

Caerhays Castle

Following the Path as it went in and out, up and down along the cliffs the theme for the day became evident: butterflies, particularly white butterflies. For most of the day one or more would be fluttering along or across the path keeping me company.

The first inhabited place I came to was West Portholland, separated from its sibling East Portholland by half a kilometre’s road walking along a low cliff. Another couple of kilometres brought me to Porthlune Cove, where there’s a car park and a café. The car park is at the entrance to Caerhays Castle, an incongruous battlemented country house built in 1808 on the site of a much earlier manor house. Wikipedia has more about it. The house and gardens were closed for the season but the café was open and doing a fair amount of business with people in cars, one other walker and me. The sun was shining and I sat lazily sipping my coffee.

But Dodman Point was still the best part of an hour away so I eventually got myself going again – through the estate fields away from the castle, a small wood, then more ups and downs along the cliffs before finally approaching the headland on a path across windswept gorse-covered heath.

The cross at Dodman Point

I hadn’t expected anything particularly different about this headland; I didn’t even know at the time that it is the highest headland on the south coast of Cornwall. So the giant granite cross took me by surprise as it came into view. Several people were sitting on the steps of the plinth but they didn’t seem particularly chatty.

Earlier maps show the headland as ‘The Deadman’ or ‘Deadman Point’, and it has been the site of many shipwrecks over the centuries. The cross was erected by the vicar of Caerhays parish and serves both as a Christian monument (there are pious words on a plaque at the base) and a landmark for shipping. This article has what seems to be a fairly authoritative discussion about the name and the cross.

I set off again a little tentatively, but the bleeding didn’t return and I soon forgot about it. Chapel Point came and went, and then there were dog-walkers on the Path as it crossed the final fields towards Portmellon and Mevagissey. The late afternoon drinkers outside The Rising Sun at Portmellon Cove stared in silence as I walked by.

My hotel was on the high ground before Mevagissey so I didn’t see the village this day. The hotel did supply me with a comfortable room, a whole box of complimentary Toffifee, a not complimentary G&T in a comfortable lounge and a good evening meal. I was relieved the next morning to see I hadn’t left any blood on the pillow.