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.

While Pears’ ‘An Instance of the Fingerpost’ (published 1997) tells its story through the voices of four people and is set in one time period, ‘The Dream of Scipio’ (published 2002) and his ‘Stone’s Fall’ (published 2009) combine multiple protagonists over different time periods.

All three periods in ‘Scipio’ are set mainly in Provence, in and around the towns of Vaison and Avignon. In the 5th century the Roman Empire was coming to an end, its power and influence waning rapidly without the resources to maintain control over its territories. The Christian Church was building its own power.

In the 14th century, Avignon was the seat of the Catholic Pope Clement VI. Bishops and cardinals contended for personal power; heresies challenged the Church’s teachings.

The 20th century saw the rise of fascism, the outbreak of war and the German occupation.

These periods are linked in the book by three characters, each with an interest in Cicero’s ‘Somnium Scipionis’ (‘Dream of Scipio’). In the 5th century Manlius, a Roman nobleman who is appointed Bishop of Vaison, writes a commentary on Cicero’s text. In 14th century Avignon a young scholar, Olivier de Noyen, is obsessed by Manlius’s work and other old manuscripts, and in the 20th century a student, Julien Barneuve, is in turn researching the life of the 14th century scholar.

Other threads link the three periods. In the Roman period Sophia, a female philosopher originally from Alexandria, has a strong influence on Manlius. Her Neo-Platonic ideas challenge the conventional teachings of the early Christian church. By the middle ages she has become Saint Sophia with a chapel outside Vaison dedicated to her. Olivier de Noyen knows the chapel well: a close friend paints a fresco in the chapel. Olivier himself is obsessed with Rebecca, the servant of Gersonides, a Jewish Neo-Platonist who challenges his thinking. Julien Barneuve has an enduring relationship with a strong and independent Jewish female artist (painter) who similarly challenges his view of the world and who for a time lives as a semi-recluse in St Sophia’s chapel.

And in each period the characters’ world faces a challenge – attacks on the rule of Rome by the Burgundians and the Goths; the Black Death; the rise of Fascism, the second world war and the German occupation of France.

Several of the characters are genuinely historic: the Jewish philosopher Gersonides, Pope Clement VI and the Burgundian King Gundobad for example. Others have close historical parallels – Pears’ Manlius is a close match to the 5th century Neo-Platonist Macrobius. The Wikipedia article about the book has more information on this aspect.

What of the book itself? For me it was a tough one to read, at least to start with. The first and easily the longest of its three parts I found particularly dense. Pears skips rapidly from one period to another in a succession of short episodes, demanding a lot from the reader to follow each thread and understand what’s going on. By half-way through (and still in Part 1) I wasn’t sure I would be able to finish. But when I finally reached Part 2 the episodes lengthened, the pace quickened: it became clear that there was a story to be told about each of the characters. And in Part 3 events in each period come to a climax. Some of the action is violent.

So this is a book that is gruelling, fascinating and astonishing. You could say it’s about Neo-Platonism and the battle of ideas. It’s about antisemitism. It’s about what it means to be a ‘civilised society’. But I ultimately see it as about power; how it is sought and wielded by the powerful and how it affects those who suffer under it. It implies that the actions of individuals, sometimes powerful, sometimes close to power but not themselves powerful, can lead to events that determine the course of history.

In summary, if you decide to read the book be prepared to settle in for the long haul. I wouldn’t say I enjoyed it at the time but I felt it was a challenge, and in retrospect I’m glad to have read it. It’s an impressive achievement by the author, and I’ve learned some history along the way.

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.

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.

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.