What A Difference A Day Makes

It's funny how two consecutive days can be so contrasting. On Saturday 28 August everything that could go wrong did go wrong. I woke in my Mevagissey B&B feeling lethargic and uninspired. Back on the trail the weather was dull and grey. I slipped at the top of a high stile and crashed down eight steps to the bottom. Battered and bruised, I limped on. There was some tedious road walking. The landscape grew flatter. Approaching St Austell, I hurried past holiday camps, caravan parks, golf courses and an ugly china clay works. Par Sands was a depressingly nondescript seaside resort, and I spent the night there in a supremely awful B&B - hairs in the bath and no breakfast! But the next day, the Sunday, was so, so different...

It was one of those days when you felt you could walk for ever. I was quite fit now and, for the first time, seemed to be taking all the steep slopes in my stride. It was one of those Zen days, those red letter days, those magical days such as I experienced here. I felt mentally as well as physically agile, and kept composing all sorts of bits and pieces in my head. The landscape had improved, becoming more forested. In the woods I admired this open air sculpture...

... on the way to Gribbin Head and its red and white striped day-mark...

This is the beach at Polridmouth. You can still see the day-mark on the hill to the right...

Round the corner lay Fowey, a very pretty little sailing port. I explored it thoroughly. I'd been there before, a long time ago, but had forgotten how charming it was...

Eventually I dragged myself away and caught the ferry to Polruan. I'd booked a room in Polperro, and there were many miles still to go...