Well, it finally arrived – the third and final volume of the ‘Book of Dust’ trilogy. Parts 1 and 2 are reviewed here. I was critical of the third book of the ‘Dark Materials’ trilogy (review here): would Pullman pull it off this time, I wondered? Well …

Story-telling is an important part of Lyra’s character and a pervasive theme in both series, so I assume it’s important to Pullman himself too. And like ‘Dark Materials’, this is a good story. There’s plenty of intrigue, action, fantastic creatures old and new (notably gryphons), a return of the witches, scheming, friendship and betrayal played out by some familiar and some new characters.

But I feel that if ‘The Rose Field’ and its two precursors were ever to be studied as part of an English Literature syllabus there would be many faults found. Some episodes covered in detail disappear like water in the sand and are never followed up; new characters enter the narrative, are described in detail and then dropped; some seemingly important concepts (‘good numbers’ and the disembodied voices who first mention them, for example) are referred to and discussed but never appear again. Of course it’s a story, a fantasy, and not everything has to be explained or resolved; after all, that is part of the world in which it is set. Mysteries are allowed! But I can’t help thinking that Pullman has indulged himself by bringing in some ideas that he finds intriguing, like quantum mechanics, number theory, or the strange ‘wandering lake’ of Lop Nor (a real thing), purely because he wants to write about them. Consequently the story sometimes loses focus, leaving the reader thinking “What was that all about?”, or “Why did we have all that stuff earlier?”

But despite all that, and repeating my views on ‘Dark Materials’, I think most readers will be carried along by the pace and excitement and not worry too much about these problems. It is after all a cracking good tale!

Isherwood’s story set in Berlin at the end of the Weimar Republic is a fictitious account drawing on his own time there and featuring characters based on real people. It is entertaining and amusing, but don’t expect to be shocked either by the decadent society he describes or the violent upsurge of the Nazis. Isherwood treats these matters lightly to make a palatable story – a choice he later renounced:

What repels me now about Mr Norris is its heartlessness. It is a heartless fairy-story about a real city in which human beings were suffering the miseries of political violence and near-starvation. The “wickedness” of Berlin’s night-life was of the most pitiful kind; the kisses and embraces, as always, had price-tags attached to them, but here the prices were drastically reduced in the cut-throat competition of an over-crowded market. … As for the “monsters”, they were quite ordinary human beings prosaically engaged in getting their living through illegal methods. The only genuine monster was the young foreigner who passed gaily through these scenes of desolation, misinterpreting them to suit his childish fantasy.

Source: Wikipedia, downloaded 17/02/2026; quoted from Fryer, Jonathan (1977); “Isherwood: A Biography” pp 146-7; Garden City, NY, Doubleday & Company; ISBN 0-385-12608-5

Having admired and enjoyed Pears’ ‘An Instance of the Fingerpost‘ and ‘Stone’s Fall‘ I came across ‘The Portrait’ by chance when I was looking for his ‘The Dream of Scipio’ in my local library catalogue. But while ‘Fingerpost’ and ‘Stone’ are both multi-layered historical mysteries, ‘Portrait’ is something very different: a continuous, sustained, first-person monologue like nothing else I can remember reading. There are no chapters, just section breaks.

The setting is an artist talking to his sitter – someone he has known well in the past but not been in touch with for some time. The publisher’s blurbs on the cover give away that there’s a crime involved, but even well over halfway through the book I had no idea where the story was going. From the start there is a slowly growing sense of menace as events in the past begin to coalesce into a narrative which comes to a dramatic head in the final few pages of the book.

A classic I should have read long ago. It bounces up and down along the surface – entertaining, amusing. Then with the introduction of Bernhard Landauer you find you’re slithering and bumping down the crumbling cliff until you end up in a bruised heap at the bottom.

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.

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.

It’s just over ten years ago that I first read a full-length novel by Dave Hutchinson. It was the first in his ‘Fractured Europe’ series, and I’ve been a fan ever since: ‘The Essence’ is now the ninth I have read.

If I were to choose one word to describe to all these novels it would be ‘weird’. In some the weirdness is dialled up high with time-shifts, alternate realities and sci-fi technology. In others, including ‘The Essence’ , the weirdness creeps into the narrative almost by stealth. The story opens with its protagonist, Michael Brookes, in a hospital which

was not, strictly speaking, a hospital. It was more of a rest home for fuddled gentlefolk. It occupied a big house in several acres of grounds tucked away at the end of a leafy cul-de-sac on the edge of Mill Hill. (p7)

It turns out that the not-hospital is run by the security services: Michael, who worked as an economist in a fairly insignificant part of MI6, is there because he had some kind of extreme breakdown at work which seems to have ended with an office room being trashed, but Michael has no memory of what happened. The nice people in the hospital are doing their best to look after him, rehabilitate him and bring back his lost memory. So far so normal. The plot seems fairly familiar.

Michael makes steady progress. His medication is down to two different pills once a day. He’s allowed – encouraged – to make independent excursions first to the local shops, then further afield. At last he’s allowed to go home. He still feels mentally fragile, but they have given him a friendly social worker who visits every few days and he seems to be coping. He’s not back to work yet, but HR want to see him to discuss his work situation. He goes in, and surprisingly finds they want him to go to the Netherlands to find out why there’s been a problem between the British and Dutch intelligence services. He doesn’t feel he’s ready but it seems he’s the only person who can do this. Just a quick visit, out and back, one day. Two days at most.

And so the weirdness begins to build. An attempt to kidnap him is foiled, and he finds himself mixed up with a group of people – they call themselves ‘essenceheads’ – who believe there is some mysterious phenomenon which they call ‘The Essence’ which manifests seemingly at random and interferes with the known laws of physics.

No more spoilers; you must read the book for how this plays out. The action happens in the Netherlands and Poland, both of which Hutchinson knows well. As in his other novels there’s a good cast of characters to keep track of as the story unfolds, and it all moves at a good pace with plenty of action. While the final plot reveal may not come as a complete surprise, the ending itself is completely consistent with Hutchinson’s practice of leaving some things unexplained for the reader to puzzle over and imagine what might happen next.

And in case you’re wondering if it really is weird – does The Essence exist? – you’ll have to make up your own mind. All I’ll say is that there’s a teleporting dog in the story.

I came rather late to this party. Anna Hughes cycled 4000 miles around the coast of Great Britain in 2011 and this book – her account of that epic journey – was published in 2015. I only discovered it late in 2025, but the time gap doesn’t matter because the things she focuses on – the landscapes, the weather, her personal highs and lows, are as valid now as they were then.

Each day of the 72 days of her journey is a separate chapter, but far from being a repetitive turn-of-the-pedals account Hughes’ fluent and easy (I suspect deceptively easy) style ensures the reader looks forward to each new day, eager to discover what the next miles bring.

What appealed to me most was the number of times I found myself nodding vigorously in agreement with her descriptions of places and experiences I know myself. Although I’ve hardly cycled any of the coastline I’ve visited a lot of it on foot or by car, and my times spent in the hills and mountains means I can share Hughes’ exhilaration – and exhaustion – with making progress through the landscapes and the weather, good or bad. There are days which just flow by and you feel you could go on for ever, and then there are days when you just don’t want to set off and your morale stays at rock bottom all day.

I was amused reading the five days she took to ride from Minehead to Plymouth, a journey which walking the South-West Coast Path has taken me forty! And I sympathised with the twelve consistently unpleasant days as she cycled round the coast of Wales: that country has been like that for me too. I have a strong feeling that if Anna Hughes and I were to sit down to fish and chips in a pub somewhere with her book in front of us we would still be comparing notes and sharing experiences at closing time.

So belated congratulations on your achievement, Anna. I enjoyed the ride!

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.