In England's foot, all paths lead to peace

Justine Hardy forces herself out of her own backyard and encounters laid-back seals, abundant nature, magical history and 'blisterspeak'

Arriving in these parts, it takes time to shake off big city anxieties. All I could think about, after the first three hours of pounding the Cornish coastal path between Polzeath and Portquin, was whether the old ice-cream stand that I remembered had survived the recession. At this point, I came across an old man by Sevensouls Rock who asked me if I had seen the seals.

Seals? I had bankrupt ice-cream stands on my mind. The old man pointed to the bay below us and settled back on his bench to resume his gentle observations. I lay down in the grass, as close to the cliff edge as I dared with primroses and violets to the left and right of me. And there they were. A pair, one on its back, flopping its flippers in camp theatrical fashion, the other lazily circling and diving. I lost track of how long I was there. The seals lost interest before I did, flipping off towards the great rock. I set off along the path again.

It made me realise that I was moving too fast. Perhaps not physically, as the coastal path would test most of us in places.

From Sevensouls Rock I was much more aware of the almost crazy paraphernalia of flora and fauna that run riot along the Cornish cliff tops. Bumble bees and butterflies doing their thing among wildflowers and bushes, a profusion of seabirds and the rock'n'roll of the cliffs that sculpt the extremities of this coastline.

The Polzeath to Port Isaac beat is not the only bijou stretch of the coast path. There are 200 miles from which to choose. Obviously you have to pick your time. Taking to the path at a quieter time of year avoids the madding crowds, but does require a bit a of weather forecast planning. So in late spring and early autumn, when children are back at school, the entire Cornish coastline is on offer, much of it shaped and rotor- trimmed by the National Trust.

The South-west coast path runs around the ankle and foot of England from Bude in north Cornwall to the easternmost corner at Sharrow Point. Cornwall suffers a great deal from clotted cream packaging, which is not the kind of labelling that the Cornish are happy about. It may be the land of tea pots on doilies, Kenco coffee signs poking from net curtains and old ladies who make their small dogs wear strange coats, but Cornwall is leaner and tougher than that with windswept moorlands and exposed cliff faces.

Most of the local saints' names echo the Celtic influence: St Minver, St Mawgan, St Just. Even the cadences of the Cornish language could still be heard across the county until the First World War shattered its rural peace. Cornwall is a separate place though Cornishmen frown when you suggest that they might have more in common with the natives of Normandy and Brittany than with their countrymen in Surrey and Essex.

If you divide the county into north and south, the north is more rugged and raw, the south softer, marking the contrast with palm trees, sheltered bays and a slicker trade in ice-creams and suntan lotions than the resorts of north Cornwall.

As if to make up for the loss of spoken Cornish the coastal path has devised a language of its own, "blisterspeak". I met a man at St Anthony- in-Roseland who looked upon my mighty boots and asked about my blister count. I was embarrassed that I had none to show, particularly when he took me on an intimate tour of his plump and oozing collection that only a toughened chiropodist should be made to observe. Obviously when you meet fellow walkers on the same path then blisters, corns and all types of "in boot" horror become the common language. There was the woman with wild hair and a billowing batik shirt who had been moved to run barefoot through the daisies on the slope down to Totty's Steps near St Anthony. We sat in the hot sun of early June and picked the thorns out of her feet for what seemed like hours. Of course, we bonded. She gave me a hot tip about a hotel in St Just and I told her about the incomparable smoke house on the Grampound Road. Then there was the family with two-point-two children, the point-two being confined to a kidpack on Daddy's back. Between the other eight boots they had clocked 29 blisters on the steep paths to and from Tintagel Island to see where King Arthur probably never went. This had not stopped them from having a merry time amid the 12th- and 13th- century ruins before retiring for a large cream tea near the encouragingly named King Arthur's Castle Hotel. Even though genuine Arthurian legend may be a bit thin on the ground at Tintagel, the hotel has a tale of its own. By the end of the 19th century so many of the Cornish mining population had migrated overseas that the population was dwindling. A sharp architect, Silvanus Trevail, who was president of the Society of Architects from 1901 to 1903, took a leaf out of Egypt's book and decided to bring tourism to Cornwall. He built two great hotels, the Headland in Newquay and King Arthur's Castle at Tintagel. The latter became so popular that it was painted by Sir Edward Poynter, president of the Royal Academy at the time. The picture was shown at the summer show in 1903 and Cornish cream teas taken in situ became all the rage.

Back down in the south on the east flank of St Austell Bay is a beautiful beach at Polridmouth Cove. Above is a house called Menabilly, the former home of Daphne du Maurier and the inspiration for Manderley in Rebecca. It is long, low Cornish and lovely rather than the Gothic monster that it became in the films of the book. Nearby Fowey (pronounced Foy) has a curvaceous Marilyn Monroe of a castle, a match for those other castellated tubbies at Pendennis and St Mawes, built as part of Henry VIII's coastal defences. As a Cornish harbour town it is exemplary, suckled on pilchards, smuggling and the Napoleonic wars. Every turn in the path seems to have its own literary hero or murky legend and, as for the storytellers... well, there are taller tales for another time.

The National Trust owns or protects about 123 miles of the 200-mile path and there is constant expansion and improvement. The attention to detail is careful and controlled by the elegant taste of the Trust. Perhaps because it has been at work since 1894 we now take so much of what it does for granted.

A little time spent walking along the path is enough proof for anyone that the Trust's work of preservation and maintenance on this ancient part of our coastline is absolutely vital. A long time spent along the enchanting route reminds us that we all need to leave our own backyards sometimes to get oozy, romantic cliff top sunsets, live and flipping sealife, enchanting locals and dreamy ice-cream.

FACT FILE

Basics

Atlantis Smoked Fish, Grampound, Nr Truro, Tel: 01726 883201

The hot smoked sausage sandwiches cause lunchtime queues in the middle of nowhere.

Boscean Country Hotel, Bosweddon Road, St Just, Nr Penzance, TR19 7QP (tel: 01736 788748), B&B from pounds 40.

This is a good place to stay as a walking base. The food is plentiful and perfect for apres cliff yomping.

Weather

Weather forecasts via a weather faxback service: 0336 416334 for the West Country. It costs 50p per minute.

Further information

For more information on the Cornish coastal path contact: The National Trust in Cornwall, Lanhydrock, Bodmin, Cornwall, PL30 4DE (tel: 01208 74281, fax: 01208 77887).