As someone who lives just 30 miles or so from the Tamar, you’d be amazed at how infrequently I visit Cornwall. We go to Dorset multiple times a year, but a trip out west is as rare as hen’s teeth. Aside from a cricket tour, a bike ride and the obligatory geology field trip or two, I haven’t been to Cornwall since 2013, when I only had half as many sons as I do now.

The nice thing about working with mature students is that we do get to go on the odd adventure and so, under the guise of a day of Duke of Edinburgh expedition practice, I found myself making the two-hour drive down to Constantine Bay for a day’s walking. The weather was not entirely promising as heavy rainstorms drenched the van on the way down, while high winds tried to dry it off again. We arrived at the youth hostel at Treyarnon Bay in the middle of a fairly serious patch of both.

The hostel is lovely, giving the appearance of being a rough and ready old school lodge-type hostel while actually being quite modern and comfortable inside. After a friendly welcome we dropped bags, checked messages on the YHA wifi and headed out into the autumn.

What a day it was. Trevose Head is the lump that sticks out from the north coast of Cornwall and on a clear day you can apparently see almost all of the north Cornwall coast. It is always exposed to whatever the prevailing weather might be and today we got the worst and the best of it, often simultaneously. We walked north from the hostel across Constantine Bay beach. Under the cloud it was darker than twilight, even as sunbeams lit up the distant ocean, and when the sun did come through it was like a summer’s day. Only the raging sea gave the game away. The wind cut through from the north and was strong enough to make us lean into it as we walked, while grains of sand whipped along the beach towards us.

We crossed the beach and carried on up the hill, at last in the lee of the headland. We were soon looking back along the line of the waves, watching the light catch the spray as it blew off the top of the breakers. Ahead, the waves smashed against Dinas Head and left waterfalls cascading as they retreated. Atop the headland was a burial mound; a stunning place for an eternity’s rest. We carried on up and back into the wind, and as we approached the lighthouse it really blew hard at us. Walking into it was difficult and when we turned to the was the northerlies blew us off balance. It was a reminder that however much we think we have some kind of control of our environment, there really is wild all around us.

We passed more tumuli as we walked. They are common on high points on the coast around here, as they are in high places all over the westcountry and beyond. As I reflected on the effort it must have taken to build them and the symbolism that must have accompanied their placement, we passed a headland that had a prominent bench on it:

What a timeless way to remember someone, to give them the view in death that they enjoyed the most in life and too place them somewhere we can remember them fondly. Perhaps the ancients are not as distant and mysterious as we think.

A little further, at Mother Ivey’s Bay, we passed a section of wall where people had fixed little memorial slates to remember their pets, mostly dogs who had apparently spent wonderful summers on the beach below. A disproportionate number of them appeared to be border terriers. I wondered if perhaps the dogs themselves were less important than the summers; remembering the dogs was perhaps a surrogate for remembering childhood, days in the sand, paddling in the sea, all with good old Benjy by your side. Things were getting deep and I needed a beer.

Fortunately Harlyn Bay Beach Box is, apparently, open every single day of the year, even Christmas Day. It’s a friendly, welcoming beach bar that must be absolutely heaving in the summer, so fair play to them for not closing up for what must be a trickle of autumn trade. They served us local beer and amazing fresh pizza, and I was quickly feeling less melancholy and more energised.

The walk back to the hostel took us through the lanes across the headland, though villages full of holiday homes deserted for the winter. These was barely a light on. I preferred it this way around. My anxieties manifest themselves in odd ways, because I hate not being able to find a parking space or a seat in a pub, and I almost actively seek out conditions other people hate so that I get places to myself. This is perhaps why I enjoy Cornwall less than I should; it’s full of amazing places that are far too busy in the summer and empty in the winter.

Today was perfect; a great walk out with good company in wonderfully wild conditions. Hardly a soul around. If it was like this every time, Cornwall, I’d never want to leave.

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