Wearytravellers in the UK

We peer into the narrow lane between our cottage and the dozen seemingly built on the same piece of land. Sunshine – a perfect reason to test the South-West Coastal Path that runs across our harbour and every other part of the Cornish coast.

From the small fishing village of Port Isaac – an even busier tourist trap thanks to the highly popular Doc Martin TV series - the path climbs steeply to the rocky cliff tops towards Port Quin, which the sign so temptingly describes as just 3 miles away.

With the naïve thought that this will be a nice afternoon stroll along the stunning Atlantic coastline we are soon brought back to reality with the first of many steps – all 180 of them in this set alone. Still, once we reach the top the views across the coast are worth the climb.

The path snakes its way around the cliffs, inviting you to hike just that little bit further to see what is hidden in the next cove, only to discover another set of steps – why do they make cliffs so high? Just when you think that if you climb any higher you’ll reach heaven the path starts to descend, a welcome relief on this hot autumn day.

Every once in a while the path comes perilously close to the edge of the sheer cliffs. One wrong step and you could plummet into the sea below, the waves crashing against the rocks ready to swallow up those that take one step too many. Still this doesn’t deter the dozens of walkers who take the narrow rocky track on this perfect blue sky day.

Across the cove the fearless young men voluntarily strip off and take the 10 storey plunge into the crystal clear but freezing waters below.

On the grassy cliff tops couples picnic, some walk their dog, hikers complete with backpack and walking poles race along, while others sit on the rocky outcrops watching the small sailing boats fight their way into the head wind.

What better way is there to spend a sunny September day?

Sheer cliffs, tiny sheltered harbours with secret caves, and wild seas with hidden reefs - the perfect home for those pirates of Penzance.

We are on the search for pirates in the deep darkest reaches of Cornwall, searching every fishing village and smuggler’s inlet from Cadgwith, to Mousehole to Port Isaac. Searching every fish and chip shop and Cornish pasty franchise.

Up and down the coast we go, under the salt-spray drenched blue skies, walking the high cliffs bombarded by the Atlantic. Screeching seagulls circle overhead waiting impatiently for a tasty chip or sandwich crust.

The fishing boats rest quietly waiting for their turn to catch a quota from the remnants of a once fish-filled sea. The fishermen debate EU regulations over a pint of warm ale in the local inn.

Once in a while golden sands stretch across a cove, overlooked by thousands of holiday lets and B&Bs. Small family groups huddle behind temporary windbreaks trying to capture the last rays of sunshine before their nine month hibernation.

The once rugged home for crusty old sea salts and smugglers is now a holiday haven for the multitude from London and beyond. Every shop filled with souvenir t-shirts, plastic bucket and spade sets, and the dream of a hot summer’s day.

And for those pirates – well the only pirates we found were those that set the car parking fees. Officials only too ready to fleece tourists of their last pennies, night and day. The local car parking monopoly is such a wonderful thing.

The sweat pours down my face, dripping onto the muddy track.

My breathless huffing and puffing scares the bird life.

Still only half way up the Lustleigh Cleave (read cliff) and another hours’ climb to reach the top.

Rambling in the Dartmoor takes various forms – climbs through thickly wooded cliff faces, navigating across mossy boulder filled rivers, crossing clapper bridges or walking heather covered plateaus punctuated by large tors and stone circles 4000 years old - each hour a new adventure.

Public footpath signs are everywhere. The right of way concept rules in this country and everywhere you go another car load of ramblers is putting on their wet weather gear and following the Public Footpath sign.

Public footpath is a very loose description – there is not always a defined path, and when there is it is covered with cow, sheep or horse #$%&*. Sometimes what looks like a stream or mud bath is really the path. Often the best thing to do is press ahead and hope to come across the next footpath.

But no matter how high the climb or how muddy the track or how lost you get, the one thing that always holds true – the next pub is just a mile or two down the path.

The church bell rings eleven and a few of the players wander out to the field, still a bit worse for wear after a big Friday night in The Cleave – our local.

Its Lustleigh verses the Lustleigh President’s Eleven and the old boys are dragging on the creams for the once a year 40 over a side bash.

And when I say old boys the President himself is wicket keeper at 76, a spritely 76 considering he is coming back from a broken leg. Others are more recently retired and out to rekindle a bit of the old magic.

Some of the juniors have been called in to help out, and what a sight it is with a thirteen year old bowling offspin loops to a veteran keeper who it must be said has lost a pace or two.

Sue is out walking her dog past the field and the two of them almost double the crowd. Others are expected to wander by when the match is expected to reach its climax.

The game is surprisingly well matched as the younger, fitter, more coordinated but cocky current players fall one by one trying to hit the worldly vets into the next paddock.

The old boys have seen it all before; and probably did it when they were that young. Slowly but surely they outsmart the kids and start the chase for a getable 160.

The young turk off his Brett Lee 20 metre run-up hurls hand grenades at the patient, or is that asleep, vet, who nudges it down to fine leg running the first one slowly. Sorry,that was full speed.

At one end each vet marches quickly to the crease and then slowly back to the pavilion, just hanging around long enough to support the lone innings by the much retired champion. Sneaking up to 140 runs for 7 wickets, the vets are in with a chance.

Drinks are called and the proud son races on to tell dad that he has scored 95 and is only one shot away from the magical ton. Dad stares back in panic, the pressure showing on his face. Blissful ignorance was working just fine.

Next over he nudges the first one through the vacant slip region but calls off the run, trying to protect the tail-ender. Not a smart thing to do, as he plays all over the next one that skids a bit low and walks back to the pavilion a bit embarrassed but to a friendly “well-done” from many of the battle weary old boys.

That signals the collapse and after a few lusty but rusty swings it’s all over and time to retire to the local for a few celebratory pints of recovery fluids.

Maybe next season?

“When I hear the Iron Horse make the hills echo with his snort like thunder, shaking the earth with his feet, and breathing fire and smoke from his nostrils it seems as if the earth has sent a race now worthy to inhabit it” Henry Thoreau

The whistle screams and the coach lurches forward.

We start to shake and rattle as the bursts of steam gush rhythmically from every nook and cranny of the great black beast.

The Great Western 2-6-2 pulls out of Buckfastleigh, a small procession of coaches follow.

On board the ensemble of prams signal the large number of young families mesmerized by the taste of steam in the air, and the pulsating sound of the engine fighting against Newton’s laws.

Heads of much older kids, many in their fifties, sixties and seventies, poke from the carriage windows, hoping to feel soot in the face one more time.

The scenery begins to fly past as we gather speed, a speed that scared its audience over a hundred and fifty years ago.

The birds scatter ahead and squirrels run for cover as we hug the banks and follow the twists and turns of the River Dart.

Then in the blink of an eye it’s over, the whistle blows once more, the puffs of steam slow to a crawl and we hear the seagull cries of the fishing port Totnes.

That trip is over, but like all boys young and old we walk away dreaming of the day the Iron Horse can breathe fire and smoke from his nostrils and snort like thunder once again.