From sea to lane to highway to moor

I am at the end of day 6 and sleeping tonight on the Cornwall/Devon border, in a tightly packed in village called Gunnislake, spilling out of a steep narrow valley and over the Tamar river. I would have written earlier but signal/wifi/weather/energy has all contributed to a small silence. But you have probably not noticed! It's a little more magnified when alone and far away. Today was the first really long day - 20 or so miles in 40/50 mile an hour winds and driving rain, descending from Bodmin Moor into the villages around the edge and high sided lanes, with streams running down every one of them. The thing about rain like that is that you don't hang around, so I managed it in 8 hours, with a wonderful coffee stop. I was almost tempted to thumb a lift off the more exposed moor, but conscience got the better of me, fortunately. And it was only because I was struggling to stay upright. A large rucksack and full waterproofs increases the surface area to get blown about. I also discovered, embarrassingly, although only to myself, that when I wear waterproof over trousers my walking trousers underneath them fall down. It required some as-dignified-as-possible rearranging in a bus shelter in Pensilva. But now I have told you. The wonderful coffee stop was three hours in when I planned to take shelter in a PC (it has come to that) that was marked on the map by some woodland walks and a waterfall. I rounded the corner and there was a little wooden hut with a big sign saying 'Inkies'. They changed the sign from Closed to Open as I approached. And I had two mugs of coffee, for strength. The two women running it were lovely, and normal and unfazed - which is what you need when you walk in the door dripping and dishevelled. I want to write more about today, but it really was a keep on going kind of a day.

On Saturday morning I bid a goodbye to the sea, rough, and crashing on the harbour walls at Porthleven. Up and inland the views were scattered with swathes of daffodil fields. It brought to mind a friend, Miranda, who decided to spend a season in Cornwall and picked daffodils and lived in a caravan. She talked about 'daffodil snot' - the liquid that oozes out of the stalks. All of the entrances to the fields had little rubber bands trodden into the mud. But I only saw pickers a couple of times. That day I started out in full waterproofs and within an hour had stripped them all off and walked the rest of the day in only three layers. The first night of camping that night was cold but easier than I had imagined. My sleeping bag is cosy, which is helped by two layers of thermal leggings, thick socks, a vest, a thermal top, a body warmer, a neck warmer and gloves, and a hat. I am not quite in the rhythm yet though. Being so cosy makes it difficult to get up when outside is so cold. Today I managed to leave before 8, for the first time. 

Sunday was a lovely morning of undulating quiet lanes into Truro. There is evidence of a lot of rain, and more recently snow, everywhere. I have tried some bridleways and they are all churned up mud or submerged under water still. The steep lanes are strewn with debris, as if they had been a torrent. That morning, having already waded through a few floods, I came to the bottom of a lane and it was completely flooded, and deep. I checked the map for detours and they were long, so I waited for a car to appear. One did, with a nervous driver who turned round. The next had a young couple in it and having watched a van come the other way, decided to go for it. So I jumped in the back, next to their sleeping toddler, and they drove me about 20 metres, and then I jumped out again, thanking them profusely. They were on their way to swimming. 

Into Truro, the 3 spires came into view descending down a lane into the back of town. Emerging into the Sunday shoppers, I suddenly felt self conscious, realising I look odd, as a hiker, especially at this time of year. These situations make me feel conscious of my gender too. I am probably the only female hiker walking through the middle of Cornwall with a tent in March. I headed for the cathedral, quiet between Sunday services, and wandered around, finding a Craigie Aitchison quadtych (I am not sure of the term for 4 pictures) of the lonely crucifixion with the stray dog. I lit a candle, for friends far away. Truro was also where I caved, and bought whisky. It really helps in a cold dark campsite! I bought a bottle of coke, then decanted the half bottle of whisky - I am classy, I know. But it's the lightest way of carrying it. I learn from experience. 

Away north out of Truro, the heavens opened. And opened uncompromisingly. Learning point: never wait for the right time to put on waterproof trousers. Now is always the time. I arrived at the deserted campsite completely soaked, and spent the evening dithering around hanging wet things on a rusty clothes rack in the unheated and spider ridden kitchen area, knowing nothing would dry as it was just a wet fridge. In the morning though, as I went to pay at the house, the lovely lady told me to keep my tenner and put it in the charity fund. 

The following day was a day following the line of the A30, although on parallel lanes, and felt more like a transitional day, with not much to see that was pretty, until descending into wooded valleys, towards Ruthernbridge. I passed a Gnome Caravan site, the driveway lined with weathered and paint peeling gnomes. In the most interesting of counties, there will always be gnome lovers. Cornwall is full of tiny places with wonderful names. I stopped at a pub in Indian Queens, passed through Belowda, where the triangular red road warning signs had cats on them (I didn't see any), followed a sign to Demelza, and beyond Inches and Retire, was watched by a goat on a table in Withielgoose Mills as I passed by. 

Yesterday, Tuesday, I began on the Camel Trail, where I had walked four years ago the seaward end of it to Wadebridge. I met a chap out walking his dog, who had more trouble believing I'd come all the way from Leicester than that I was walking to the north coast of Scotland. Bodmin is an interesting place, full of old grand buildings past their prime, juxtaposed with a crammed High Street of tiny shops selling things cheap. Everyone seemed to know everyone, talking in the street to every passer by. I sat with a coffee in the sun - it was the first day of actual intermittent sunshine - by the town hall, where they were offering 'Courtroom Experience - Visitor Attraction'. Rising steeply out of Bodmin, through the idyllic Cardinham with ancient crosses, and eventually up steeply onto Bodmin Moor. Standing at the edge of the military firing range, I could see the sea on both sides of Cornwall. Suddenly, open moor, dotted with military posts warning the walker not to touch military debris, lest it explode in her hands. Ponies dotted the brown landscape, huge and wide, with occasional rocky Tors, strange light sweeping over them. The tracks were clear but boggy, and more than were marked on the map. I'm glad I walked yesterday yesterday, rather than today. Landmarks become essential, however small. And the compass came into use. 

I was heading for Colliford Lake, where there was a tavern and campsite, that I'd booked a camping space online a month ago. I don't normally do this, but for the first month of this walk I decided to, as not everywhere is open in March. At 4pm I arrived to a handwritten sign nailed to the gatepost saying 'Tavern closed '. My dreams of sitting in a warm moorland tavern with a beer were shattered. Still, there were some covered caravans in the field so I ignored the chilling Keep Out signs and found the tavern building and the campsite reception, in darkness, doors locked, no one around, and the sun disappearing behind the clouds. As I was wondering how far to go into the moor to wild camp, a friendly and kind hearted chap appeared - the plumber trying to fix the showers. He said the tavern had been closed all winter due to burst pipes. He said 'camp anyway' for free. So I pitched up in the tall conifer surrounded field, by a covered caravan, and found a stand pipe, covered with polystyrene and duct tape, presumably to prevent freezing. Two curious sheep appeared as I eked out the last of the light. I wrote in my journal that this was 'very Bodmin Moor-ish'. I didn't write that it held the feeling of something more sinister, as I irrationally felt it would be too nightmare-provoking to write that. It turned out the most sinister thing was the impending storm due to begin at 3am, and suddenly the surrounding trees didn't feel so safe. Wind in high trees is consistently loud. But with two layers over my head last night, I did sleep a little more than I expected, although with fascinating dreams. The Beast of Bodmin Moor was alive and well in my head. 

So, now I am in a homely inn by a fire with beer. The inn is run by great people, a couple of brothers, who are in and out to parish council meetings. And the rain lashes against the windows. They said if it's windy in Gunnislake it's windy everywhere else as it's sheltered by the valley here. 

Tomorrow, Devon, and map number 6, up onto Dartmoor. I am still quite amazed that my route planning on my table in Leicester actually worked. 

This does strange things to the body. My hips are swollen from the rucksack belt, I'm sure my calves are swollen, my lips are red raw, and although I have no blisters I am in danger of getting trench foot. I think I may need new boots earlier than I thought. They have done two other long distance walks and a countless number of smaller ones. And they are suffering. 

Two more days and then a rest day. Snow, apparently, is coming.