July 5, 2006

And then there was the day after ponies. 

When you start off and your first major landmark is a quarry where you're warned about possible blasting, things are not necessarily kicking off to a bright beginning. That straight ahead is Dean Quarry, which does in fact feature signs saying blasting may take place anytime between 10 am and 6:30pm, with warnings from flags or sirens. I was in luck -- the place was ugly and nothing like Fred Flintstone's workplace, but it seemed everyone had the day off. (This could explain why.) Seeing 20 foot high piles of gravel was educational in its own way.

Prior to that I'd had to divert. There was a field of cows and I just got nervous walking through them, wondering if they were going to wander over and make trouble. I have no idea where this came from, frankly! But I turned into some trees and underbrush, trying to find a way to just curve around them and ended up in prickers and bushes up to my waist. Finally made it through, though it was weird for a while there. I could see where I wanted to go, but it was damned hard finding the best way through. My kingdom for a lawnmower!

 
The primary problem with today is that you had to cross Gillian Creek at low tide. And low tide was somewhere around 1:30pm (according to Anne at Fernleigh), which meant you had about an hour on either side to make the crossing. Then, you had to get a ferry to Helford, which only would run if the tide was high enough. If you don't get over the creek before high tide swoops in, you have to go around it, which adds another 2.5 miles. I would have 7 miles to cover before getting to the creek, which (given my general speed of about 2.5 miles an hour) meant I'd have about 3 hours of walking. But given that I'd found my distance timetable didn't always sync up with the book's or the directions, and given that I might get a bit lost (as had happened) and all sorts of other possible issues (like, my pedometer was no longer working), I felt like I was really pressured to get there on time. Which is not really the mindset you want to be in. I mean, we're having fun here, right?

I was doing just fine, hurrying along, jogging where I could, doing everything I could to cut off a little time here and there. I did pause at Porthallow and gave myself a brief respite. The store next to the Inn in the picture was an art gallery of local work and I purchased some nice collage/sculptures of window scenes, and got an ice cream. (Consistency, consistency.) And I snapped a picture of the coast path sign: Living in Queens, NY I never thought there could be another Flushing in the world. Shows me.) I got there at 11:30 and guesstimated I'd make it where I needed to be by 2, without any mishaps. It was tight. I hurried. And then, I zigged where I should have zagged and though it seemed like I was going a logical way through a field there seemed no obvious way out -- until I just vaulted over a gate. Not until I was on the other side of that did I see the overgrown stile. Down a tarmac road I hoped to make up a little time, and ended up walking through a field of cows (again!) and into a mostly empty field, staying on a worn path that ... suddenly ... just ... ended. Mid-field. Like 100 other people including me had made this same mistake, paused and doubled back.

The only way out of this field was a gate topped with barbed wire, so that wasn't an option. No acorns in sight. I even found it on the Ordinance Survey Map, but there was no sense of how to get out of it, or at least to get to the Coastal path. I could see two people walking it, but once again -- trapped. It is a weird sensation to be completely exposed in the middle of the field and yet feel claustrophobic. Part of that may have been due to the fact that I'd heard on the news of some bad storms that might come through the area (hail, for example) and I could see dark thunderheads down the road. So, to sum up: I'm alone in the middle of a big field with cows (possibly bulls) behind me, carrying a titanium walking stick, as thunderstorms approach. And, I needed to rush to get across a stupid creek at low tide.
So, after a good old hissy fit at the predicament, I threw in the towel. The point is to enjoy yourself. I'd decided that wasn't happening any more. I made my way out to the farm that owned the cows and hit the pavement. Along the way I passed the creek, further up than the crossing would have been, at low tide (see picture with white house), but further on where I would have crossed it wouldn't have been passable. 

The Ordinance Survey map led me to the tiny town of Manaccan, where I found one red phone booth. If I'd gone the proper route, I'd have ended up in Helford and was instructed to call Landrivick Farm, where I was staying, to have someone pick me up. I figured it didn't matter if they came to Manaccan (which was closer), so I rang up. No answer. I stopped in a pub, had lunch, called again. Got the man of the house -- Mr. Chris Jenkin -- and told him where I was. "So you're at the call box?" he asked, and I had to laugh: The town's so small, there's just the one. (Though apparently it has some interesting connections, if you beleive Wikipedia.) So he came out and picked me up in his Land Rover, circa 1980-something. Really nice guy, clearly a lifelong farm man -- hands all scarred from the work, tanned and weatherworn. Later on, I met Mrs. Jenkin: The two of them don't live in the farmhouse, but in another house 30 seconds away. The house I stayed in was where her mother lived! Also, a very nice lady. They left me largely alone with some dinner, and I plotted how I'd spend my final coastal walking day.