SWCP: Marazion to Porthleven

 

Today's odyssey started at 7.40 am, when I left the flat to walk to a bus stop 20 minutes up the hill. As always, I was mildly astonished that it actually turned up. It was a tiny 15-seater and the whole 20-minute journey was enlivened by a woman having a very loud video call with her mate. There was a variety of topics, including how she liked helping a male friend strap himself up so that he could wear a tight mini-skirt, and her friend having to wash her bum in the sink because there was no toilet roll left - all of life was here.

I chose to walk a leg of the path on the western side of the Lizard peninsula today, because I've done the bits north and south of Falmouth and I needed to go somewhere that had a regular enough bus service. The bus from Falmouth to Marazion took over an hour and a half. I had the top front seat of the double decker, so it was a landscape show. Marazion is a tourist attraction type of town, full of lovely houses like this one, but the jewel in its crown is St Michael's Mount, out at sea. Looks like a fairytale castle, beautiful setting.

It was a parade of turquoise seas, pristine empty beaches, abundant wildflowers and craggy rocks. The weather was perfect for walking - cool but sunny. Unfortunately my right knee hasn't recovered from Wednesday and it hurt every time I took a step. A bit distracting.

Quaint and immaculate house looking out to sea

Flowers galore, including some sort of brassica (the yellow flowers on the right).

Behold, Post with Coins Stuck In It. There were a few of these above Prussia Cove.
They look a bit diseased if you ask me.

A historic building called Porth En Alls, by the gloriously named Prussia Cove.
It's a circular courtyard - this is just one side of it. It houses an international music school.

A memorial stone at Praa Green. It commemorates a battle on 2 June 1943 over the Bay of Biscay when, against overwhelming odds, the crew of an RAF plane defeated eight German planes and crashed on Praa Sands beach. 

Kenneggy Sands: huge and empty

Along the stretch between Praa Sands and Porthleven there were several big, distinctive buildings left over from quarrying and mining times. They look magnificently solid against the sky and sea.

Just before Porthleven was this memorial to the many drowned seamen buried along the cliffs. It was the custom to bury them wherever they washed ashore, with no shroud or coffin and in unconsecrated ground. In 1807 HMS Anson was wrecked in a storm and between 60 and 190 sailors died. Estimates vary because a lot of the crew were press-ganged and might have taken the opportunity to escape! Anyway, the bodies piled up and were left lying around in some cases, because there were too many to bury. This incident led to the passing of Grylls'Act (the Burial of Drowned Persons Act) in 1808, which required that unclaimed bodies of dead persons cast ashore from the sea should be removed by the churchwardens and overseers of the parish, and decently interred in consecrated ground. It also led to the building of Porthleven Harbour.

I made it to Porthleven by about 3.30 and then spent over an hour waiting anxiously with a silver-haired crowd who wanted to get home from the Porthleven Food Festival. Unable to leave the bus stop to go and investigate all the food on offer, as nobody seemed to know when a bus might arrive. Lots of them had already been waiting for two hours because one of the hourly buses had broken down and the next one had thought there was a diversion because of the festival (in fact the diversion starts tomorrow) and had not turned up at their stop. The woman sitting next to me said she’d been sitting there so long that she feared her bum might now be rooted to the wall and she wouldn’t be able to get on the bus anyway. One retirement-age guy was on the phone to the bus company and I can only imagine his job had involved a lot of perseverance, as he was demonstrating a textbook interaction with a jobsworth at the other end of the line. Polite but tenacious for over 40 minutes. We were eventually told to walk up the road a bit and everyone shuffled like galvanised zombies when the bus finally appeared. It was a great relief to me as I didn't really have a plan B for getting all the way back to Falmouth. I made it for my connection with the bus towards Maenporth with about 8 minutes to spare, much of which I spent responding to a drunk middle-aged ex-Royal Marine who was wearing a Help for Heroes sweatshirt and wristband. He kept shaking my hand, said he was very drunk and eventually gave me his wristband as a present. He had a plastic bag full of tinnies and when my bus arrived he tottered off to get in a taxi. He told me his name was Paul Percival, he wrote poetry and the worst thing he ever did was killing people. I felt sorry for him as it looked like he probably had a drink problem and this was a regular routine. 

Got back to the flat more than 10 hours after I left it, about half six. A long day! Annoying about the knee.