Rame Head
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Day 5 - East Looe - Cawsand
Author: Jason
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Two mad dogs and four Englishmen
Millendreath. AKA The beach From Hell
Today we were joined at breakfast by a group of four old guys that were also staying in our B&B. Like us they were walking the SWCP, but in a much more leisurely style. This was fair enough as they were all retired and in their sixties or seventies. During the course of the conversation the guys explained that like us they had a very strict rule regarding lunchtime pub visits. Unlike us though their rule was that a lunchtime pub stop was mandatory, as was the consumption of at least three or four pints a piece. A very civilised approach in my view. As we explained our walking “regime” (long days, no lunchtime pubs, walking in all weathers) we could see puzzled expressions begin to appear on their faces. They started to mutter expressions such as “forced marches”, “masochists” and “self flagellation”.
It was good to chat to some fellow walkers, and we discovered that they'd be walking from Freathy (in the East) back to East Looe Today. This meant that we would meet them along our route at some point; unless of course they were in a pub. We said our goodbyes and headed back up to our room to complete our final preparations. I made a remark to the four guys that this involved us putting on our hair-shirts and attaching electrified nipple-clamps.
From East Looe we initially had some fairly easy walking along tarmacked paths and roads. After a few miles we arrived at Millendreath beach where we got into conversation with an old couple. As is usual for us these two were a bit odd, but they seemed friendly enough. The couple explained that from Millendreath to Seaton we had three options as far as routes were concerned. Option one was to use the official SWCP, which sounded eminently sensible and obvious to us. The couple however warned us that this was a particularity arduous section of the path, and that it should be avoided at all costs. The second option was to follow a busy road. This didn't sound great, as not only was it potentially dangerous, but also because it involved more climbing than the official path. The final option was to walk along the beach. This sounded promising as it would be the flattest and the most direct route. The tide was safely out at the time so we decided to go for it. We said our farewells to the couple and headed off to the beach. At this point it's probably worth pointing out that the bloke we'd just spoken to was on crutches, having obviously broken his leg.
The beach walk started off reasonably enough, but soon deteriorated as we encountered some very rocky sections. There's nothing like fields of loose, wet, seaweed covered slippery boulders to slow progress down. Dave generally flies over this type of terrain like a demented rock ape, but I tend to struggle a bit with my more cautious approach.
“It's like watching bloody Bambi walking on ice”, Dave encouraging commented as I negotiated one particularly tricky section.
The rocks appeared to go on forever and progress, for me at least, was painfully slow. Dave had gone on ahead and was out of sight by this time, and I was starting to get very frustrated with the route. I could certainly now see how that bloke had busted his leg if this was the type of walking he advocated. Finally I reached what appeared to be the final rocky obstacle, which turned out to be the toughest one yet. A huge cube of rock measuring a few metres square with no route around. It was either up and over, or retrace my steps all the way back up the beach to where we'd started.
I somehow managed to get to the top of the rock, and once there could see Dave waiting for me below. He started to guide me down when suddenly there was an almighty ripping sound as the crotch of my trousers split open. There I was legs akimbo on the top of a large boulder with ripped trousers. Things could have been worse though; I could have been in Dave's position. Not only had my trousers ripped wide open, but “my boys” had also decided to take the opportunity to leave their barracks. Dave still hasn't got over this image, and continues to have sleepless nights about it to this day.
It was good to chat to some fellow walkers, and we discovered that they'd be walking from Freathy (in the East) back to East Looe Today. This meant that we would meet them along our route at some point; unless of course they were in a pub. We said our goodbyes and headed back up to our room to complete our final preparations. I made a remark to the four guys that this involved us putting on our hair-shirts and attaching electrified nipple-clamps.
From East Looe we initially had some fairly easy walking along tarmacked paths and roads. After a few miles we arrived at Millendreath beach where we got into conversation with an old couple. As is usual for us these two were a bit odd, but they seemed friendly enough. The couple explained that from Millendreath to Seaton we had three options as far as routes were concerned. Option one was to use the official SWCP, which sounded eminently sensible and obvious to us. The couple however warned us that this was a particularity arduous section of the path, and that it should be avoided at all costs. The second option was to follow a busy road. This didn't sound great, as not only was it potentially dangerous, but also because it involved more climbing than the official path. The final option was to walk along the beach. This sounded promising as it would be the flattest and the most direct route. The tide was safely out at the time so we decided to go for it. We said our farewells to the couple and headed off to the beach. At this point it's probably worth pointing out that the bloke we'd just spoken to was on crutches, having obviously broken his leg.
The beach walk started off reasonably enough, but soon deteriorated as we encountered some very rocky sections. There's nothing like fields of loose, wet, seaweed covered slippery boulders to slow progress down. Dave generally flies over this type of terrain like a demented rock ape, but I tend to struggle a bit with my more cautious approach.
“It's like watching bloody Bambi walking on ice”, Dave encouraging commented as I negotiated one particularly tricky section.
The rocks appeared to go on forever and progress, for me at least, was painfully slow. Dave had gone on ahead and was out of sight by this time, and I was starting to get very frustrated with the route. I could certainly now see how that bloke had busted his leg if this was the type of walking he advocated. Finally I reached what appeared to be the final rocky obstacle, which turned out to be the toughest one yet. A huge cube of rock measuring a few metres square with no route around. It was either up and over, or retrace my steps all the way back up the beach to where we'd started.
I somehow managed to get to the top of the rock, and once there could see Dave waiting for me below. He started to guide me down when suddenly there was an almighty ripping sound as the crotch of my trousers split open. There I was legs akimbo on the top of a large boulder with ripped trousers. Things could have been worse though; I could have been in Dave's position. Not only had my trousers ripped wide open, but “my boys” had also decided to take the opportunity to leave their barracks. Dave still hasn't got over this image, and continues to have sleepless nights about it to this day.
Fine high cliff walking approaching Portwrinkle
After the beach we rejoined the official path and were able to pick the pace up again. The climb out of Seaton was fairly long and steep, but was well worth it as it led to a very impressive section of high cliff walking. The sky was crystal clear and we could see for miles in all directions. Just before reaching Portwrinkle we met the guys from the B&B. They told us that the section they had just walked was very good. We had equally encouraging news for them regarding pubs. We'd passed two very nice looking ones in Seaton. Their eyes lit up at the prospect. We also warned them about accepting route advice from men with broken legs – which is an ancient Greek proverb I believe. As the old guys walked off into the distance I got a peculiar feeling, almost as if I'd caught a brief glimpse of the future. Their easy going style of walking is the sort of thing I can imagine myself and Dave doing in twenty or thirty years time. The transition to lunchtime pub stops certainly wouldn't be a problem for me.
Upon reaching Portwrinkle we took the opportunity to have a spot of lunch and replenish our water supplies, as this would be the last civilisation we'd see for the rest of the day. Shortly after leaving Porwrinkle we climbed back up the cliff and could see the military ranges of Tregantle in the distance. We could also see red flags flying above them, which meant that the ranges were closed and we'd have to divert around them. This proved to be a bit of a pain as the diversion route was mainly along a busy road. It was also considerably longer than the direct route through the ranges.
Near the end of the diversion we came across a lay-by that had been occupied by gypsies. Rather cheekily the residents of this lay-by had erected a large sign stating that it was “private property”. I'm sure the Highways Agency took a different view on the matter. Out of respect though I decided to walk on a grassy bank that skirted around the side of the site, as I certainly didn't want to “trespass”. The site appeared to be empty anyway, as I suspect the residents where out busy filing their tax returns and getting their vehicles MOT'd.
Suddenly, out of the corner of my eye I saw movement. I spun around and could see a large dog on a long chain hurtling towards me. You can probably imagine the type of dog I'm talking about here. I believe that they are now officially recognised by the Kennel Club and have been assigned the breed-name “Pikey Dog”. I decided that the best course of action was to leg it, as although I'm a dog lover, this thing did not look like a Man lover. Fortunately for me the chain that the beast was attached to pulled taut just in time, and I was saved from it's slavering jaws by inches. Had the dog's owner (the “landlord” of the lay-by) been present I would have told him that I definitely did not like his particular variety of “dags”.
Upon reaching Portwrinkle we took the opportunity to have a spot of lunch and replenish our water supplies, as this would be the last civilisation we'd see for the rest of the day. Shortly after leaving Porwrinkle we climbed back up the cliff and could see the military ranges of Tregantle in the distance. We could also see red flags flying above them, which meant that the ranges were closed and we'd have to divert around them. This proved to be a bit of a pain as the diversion route was mainly along a busy road. It was also considerably longer than the direct route through the ranges.
Near the end of the diversion we came across a lay-by that had been occupied by gypsies. Rather cheekily the residents of this lay-by had erected a large sign stating that it was “private property”. I'm sure the Highways Agency took a different view on the matter. Out of respect though I decided to walk on a grassy bank that skirted around the side of the site, as I certainly didn't want to “trespass”. The site appeared to be empty anyway, as I suspect the residents where out busy filing their tax returns and getting their vehicles MOT'd.
Suddenly, out of the corner of my eye I saw movement. I spun around and could see a large dog on a long chain hurtling towards me. You can probably imagine the type of dog I'm talking about here. I believe that they are now officially recognised by the Kennel Club and have been assigned the breed-name “Pikey Dog”. I decided that the best course of action was to leg it, as although I'm a dog lover, this thing did not look like a Man lover. Fortunately for me the chain that the beast was attached to pulled taut just in time, and I was saved from it's slavering jaws by inches. Had the dog's owner (the “landlord” of the lay-by) been present I would have told him that I definitely did not like his particular variety of “dags”.
Leaving Rame Head
Cawsand/Kingsand
A few miles on we reached the decidedly odd settlement of Freathy. This was a place that the local planning authority had seemingly turned a blind eye to. It was a kind of shanty town, comprising of a ramshackle assortment of huts, shacks and mobile homes. These ranged in size from small sheds to full-on wooden bungalows. We later found out that it's all in fact above board and sanctioned by the local council. The buildings are basically holiday homes, and are apparently very sought after, and command high prices. They certainly commanded excellent sea views.
After Freathy we had a fairly long section of road walking which was not great for our tiring feet. Eventually the footpath resumed and we descended down a steep grassy bank to beach level. The grassy bank was littered with rabbit holes, thus providing yet another opportunity for us to pick up a busted leg/ankle. From here it was then a pleasant walk out onto Rame Head. Dave decided to walk out to the chapel at the end of the headland, but to be honest my feet were hurting too much so I gave it a miss and waited for him on a convenient bench.
From Rame Head the walking was nice and easy going as we walked down the western flank of Plymouth Sound towards Cawsand. Just before reaching the village I had my second canine encounter of the day.
In the distance I could see a bloke walking up the path towards me with what appeared to be a Springer Spaniel. When it saw me the dog started to run in my direction at full pelt. Upon arrival it immediately jumped up at me and started sniffing around my pockets. I could tell it was a friendly sort though, so wasn't overly concerned about it. The dog then looked up at me and we made eye contact, at which point it gave me a very puzzled look and high-tailed it back to his owner. The owner then walked up to me chuckling.
“He thought you was my mate”, he explained in a strong Cornish accent. “My mates a big lad just like you, and he always has doggy treats in his pockets. You must have given old Dasher 'ere a right old shock when he saw your face!”.
I assume the dog's shock was a result of the mistaken identity, rather than my face specifically, but who knows. At least this particular mutt hadn't tried to chew my knackers off like the hound from Hell earlier. The knackers which incidentally were more than likely still partially exposed.
Dasher and the old fella then headed off to continue their walk, blissfully oblivious to the fact that they'd just provided a mildly amusing anecdote for a tin pot website.
After Freathy we had a fairly long section of road walking which was not great for our tiring feet. Eventually the footpath resumed and we descended down a steep grassy bank to beach level. The grassy bank was littered with rabbit holes, thus providing yet another opportunity for us to pick up a busted leg/ankle. From here it was then a pleasant walk out onto Rame Head. Dave decided to walk out to the chapel at the end of the headland, but to be honest my feet were hurting too much so I gave it a miss and waited for him on a convenient bench.
From Rame Head the walking was nice and easy going as we walked down the western flank of Plymouth Sound towards Cawsand. Just before reaching the village I had my second canine encounter of the day.
In the distance I could see a bloke walking up the path towards me with what appeared to be a Springer Spaniel. When it saw me the dog started to run in my direction at full pelt. Upon arrival it immediately jumped up at me and started sniffing around my pockets. I could tell it was a friendly sort though, so wasn't overly concerned about it. The dog then looked up at me and we made eye contact, at which point it gave me a very puzzled look and high-tailed it back to his owner. The owner then walked up to me chuckling.
“He thought you was my mate”, he explained in a strong Cornish accent. “My mates a big lad just like you, and he always has doggy treats in his pockets. You must have given old Dasher 'ere a right old shock when he saw your face!”.
I assume the dog's shock was a result of the mistaken identity, rather than my face specifically, but who knows. At least this particular mutt hadn't tried to chew my knackers off like the hound from Hell earlier. The knackers which incidentally were more than likely still partially exposed.
Dasher and the old fella then headed off to continue their walk, blissfully oblivious to the fact that they'd just provided a mildly amusing anecdote for a tin pot website.
