Practising resilience

Day one began with the lighthouse foghorn sounding out over the top of the hostel and into the misty drizzle hiding the sea. All the waterproofs came out of the rucksack, and after bidding a silent nod of a goodbye to my fellow taciturn hosteller, descended to the point of the Point. The sea was foaming and crashing on the rocks below. I found an unsuspecting delivery van driver, and stopped him in the middle of his unloading into the empty, tiny cafe teetering on the Point, to apologetically ask him if he might take a picture of me beside the very small sign. He was happy to do so, although seemed a bit at sea with an iPhone. He only just managed to keep my head in the picture, and I profusely thanked him. He clearly thought I was mad, but wished me well anyway. With no one else about and just the seabirds to call me to leave, I did so.
Immediately it felt wild and lonely. I met a dog walker on the path just beyond Lizard Point, and she turned out to be the only walker I saw all day. The drizzle turned to heavy, persistent rain, and high above the cliffs the path was often churned up mud puddles and streams, or just grass under water. Suddenly, about two miles in, against a strange backdrop of a huge crowd of figures in orange hi vis, desperately trying to cover vast swathes of a seaward field in plastic, a small group of ponies appeared. They are wild, but have big ungainly collars on their necks, known as 'invisible fences'. If they try to go beyond their designated grazing area they get a nasty shock. This is all so that unsightly electric fences can be taken away. I wondered if a conversation about priorities needed to take place. They galloped, chasing one another up and down, and for a while I thought they were chasing me. 
The rain became heavier and the mist thicker, and me wetter. I caved and put my camera and my phone in a safely dry place in my rucksack, so there are a limited number of pictures from today. I began to repeat a 'you are not alone' mantra, whilst feeling very alone ... I decided to aim for Mullion, only 8 miles in, and find a pub, just to dry off a little and drink coffee. The strange shapes of the broken off giant rocks, rising out of the misty sea, were almost dizzying, but signalled that Mullion was close. It's amazing what somewhere warm with coffee can do for the mojo. I found the energy and desire to keep going again. The last few miles I opted for a mix of very minor road and coast path. It didn't make it any shorter, just less muddy underfoot but still wet and still lonely. At Church cove, I found the Church of the Storms, dedicated to Saint Wynwaloe. There was a strange figure outside the door with only one and a half arms, stone and sand in structure and probably pretty ancient, that gave me a shock as I rounded the corner of the church path. There was a definite life about this place, even if it was only the howling of the wind around and through the walls. 
Eventually Loe Bar came into view. A man in the pub in Mullion had led me to believe that the sand bar was horrendous - a case of 'one step forward and two steps back'. It's about 500 metres wide anyway and my fears about a narrow structure made of sand only that might collapse underneath me were allayed even from afar. Still, the exposed feel of being on sand only between rough sea and windswept lake was a little unnerving. 
Much of today was about finding a different perspective. This part of the world has so many tiny places with obscure names, but the coast, particularly in mist, plays with your sense of distance. Everything against the sea looks far and huge, and yet, even if it feels slow, and even if it is slow, like today, looking back the view quickly changes. 
After the Loe Bar, and a huge detour due to a cliff fall, I found myself in Porthleven, in very thick sea mist. The town induced a sudden sense of 'civilisation' complete with 4G. It's stylish, bijou, and quirky but middle class enough for a Rick Stein restaurant. I found a pub - a pint of good Cornish lager works wonders. 
My host tonight lent me her clothes airer/ drying rack. I have run out of room on it. I had a feeling in my bones whilst planning that I might need four walls tonight. From tomorrow night it's mostly camping. Meanwhile the ancient greyhound downstairs is barking at nothing in particular and the rain continues to hammer on the skylights. I like it here. But it will feel far away in a few days time. 
Today was a test of resilience - weather and fitness and remoteness setting out the terms. Now that I have survived it the rest feels a bit more possible. 







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