Day 13. Port Isaac to Padstow

First I had to get to Port Isaac from the campsite by a bus to Wadebridge and another bus back to where I finished yesterday.
The big green rucksack was a constant topic of conversation with the other passengers and that helped the journey go quickly.
It was nearly lunch time when I got down to the old part of Port Isaac and thought it would have been foolish to pass the Golden Lion and not load up with the required carbs.
The little streets and harbour area were packed on this bright sunny day.
Well, it was bright and sunny until the sun was eclipsed behind Martin Clunes' ears.
The slope up by the Doc's house was almost impassible with all the American tourists gaping at the house.

Port Isaac

But yet again, five minutes from town I had the cliffs and path to myself and it was a wonderful few miles over to Port Quin and a handy water tap.
Then up to the cliffs again populated by skylarks, kites and kestrels that seemed to be having a competition for who could hover for the longest without moving.

I took this picture of one when a proper twitcher came along with a proper camera.
She said she was photographing every species native to Cornwall.
I moved on sharpish when she asked if I would like to see her chough.

This coast has the remains of lots of iron age forts and settlements.
They're usually out on the headlands and usually are a disappointing collection of grassy bumps and scattered granite blocks.
The Rumps and Pentire Point were a prime example but it was a fine day and a beautiful walk out there.

The Rumps and Pentire Point

From the headland it was a gentle walk down to Polzeath where a clamber down some rocks got me on to the beach.

After two weeks of walking next to the sea I finally got to have a paddle.
I swear there was steam hissing from my weary feet and after a few steps my Compeed plasters drifted off like little jellyfish.
But it was bliss.

Polzeath beach was heavily populated with surf schools on this fine day.

I took a detour at Daymer Bay to the lovely little St Enodoc Church, the burial place of the poet laureate Sir John Betjeman, 1906-1984.

The church was frequently buried in sand in the old days and parishioners had to dig it out for services.
The church is surrounded by the golf course now and these days is frequently buried by wayward golf balls.

Also near here is the Jesus Well that the leaflet said may have been visited by Jesus in his teens.
I was speculating how this may have happened.
Perhaps he was bored at home and took a gap year to help dig a well for a village in a third world country.

Had a swift walk through the dunes as time was getting on and had to catch the ferry from Rock to Padstow.
Found a handy campsite just outside Padstow on the Camel river.

This was pretty much the perfect days walking with the whole spectrum of terrain, culture and towns.