Words by Marilyn
REFLECTIONS ON THE Cornish Celtic Way
The 125 mile Cornish Celtic Way begins at the church on the Port Eliot Estate in St. Germans and ends at the church on St. Michael’s Mount. It combines existing paths including The Saints Way, which crosses the county from Fowey or St. Blazey to Padstow, and St. Michael’s Way, which crosses back from Lelant on the north coast to Marazion on the south (part of a network of pilgrim’s routes that lead to Santiago de Compostela in Spain). The route also includes stretches of the SW Coast Path. I refer to the author of the book as Nigel rather than Marns in my reflections as, for much of the way, the book was my only companion and it feels too formal to refer to a friend, even a vicarious one, by their surname.
With October rain lashing against the window, it feels like a different season, different climate, even a different country to the one I was in just a couple of weeks ago as I was nearing the end of walking ‘A Cornish Celtic Way’.
I was lucky with the weather. Perhaps some would consider it too hot for climbing steep, rocky coastal paths, but to me it was Cornwall at its best, and probably me at my best. Even a day or two of mizzle couldn’t dampen my spirits as I set off each morning with a strong sense of purpose to make the evening’s destination, whilst simultaneously enjoying the physicality and space of walking.
I had wanted to do it differently, more free spirited, with unlimited time and a tent to sleep in whenever a particular place took my fancy. But life throws at us many constraints, I probably add to those, and rather than wait for the perfect moment or the purchase of a light enough tent, I took off with what I had already – a cheap 45 litre backpack, thin lightweight sleeping bag and liner, travel pillow, half size sleep mat, wet weather gear, and one change of clothes, including my trusted flip flops. The one thing I had invested in was a good pair of walking boots.
With less than a week’s notice and a lot of persistence I had organised most of my accommodation along the route, trying my hardest to follow the list accompanying Nigel Marns’ book, which had inspired the walk in the first place. I ended up with varied sleepovers in a youth hostel dorm, a backpackers attached to a nightclub in Newquay where I shared a room with 9 surfers my daughter’s age, church halls, a vestry and, where there was nothing else in my required budget, a small single room which gave access to a much needed and appreciated bath.
Motivation & the beginning
I had begun following Nigel’s book over the August bank holiday weekend with my partner when we walked from St Germans to Par (near St Blazey), enjoying the luxury of pub, Airbnb and hotel accommodation and hot, end of summer weather. It was stunning and I knew I had to continue, though the rest of the walk would be on a much cheaper budget and also alone, something I felt I wanted to do to mark the beginning of a kind of sabbatical at a transition point in my life. A few weeks after I had finished work and the day after my second child left home for university and I had cleared out and let 2 bedrooms to finance my time off, I was on the train back to Par and walking to begin the next phase of the Celtic Way from St. Blazey.
I felt stressed, exhausted, my head was full of incessant chatter and face head down in Nigel’s book which offered maps and route instructions. I was destination focused. My wish to contemplate why I felt the compulsion to follow a pilgrims route was hijacked by so much other mental noise that I barely noticed my surroundings. I wanted to walk. I wanted to write. I condemned my inability to put pen to paper in recent months, hardly surprising as incoherent sentences jumbled, leapt and became a repetitive mantra in tempo with my uphill march through woods.
But as time went on and gradient increased, the physical challenge and a slower rhythm took over. I was surprised to hear birdsong, cheerful and party-like in the dark of the trees and I stopped to listen, imagining them laughing at me in my army-like quest to beat the walk time in the book. I began to notice leaves rustling and twinges of autumnal russet in the hedgerows. Full, ripe blackberries suddenly looked inviting and I stopped to pick a few, savouring the juice on my tongue. I probably looked like a mad woman speaking to a field of cows, aware of my vulnerability as they walked towards me with inquisitive stares. I tried to convince some sheep that I wasn’t as scary as I might look, and felt sad that they shied away from me, waving their funny little tails as they trotted off to the protection of a far hedge. I nodded to two other walkers who commented I was the first person they’d seen that day and realised that, apart from that first weekend, for much of the time I may be the only human company I had.
“My wish to contemplate why I felt the compulsion to follow a pilgrims route was hijacked by so much other mental noise that I barely noticed my surroundings.”
Getting started
My elation soon disintegrated. I’d faltered at an official Saints Way marker but had favoured this above Nigel’s instructions and found myself on a long country lane not mentioned in my trusted book. I panicked, chastised myself for being so stupid on my first day and lost all the confidence I had just gained until I remembered the maps.me phone app that a travelling friend had recommended and had little option but to put it to the test. What a saviour it was, both then and on many occasions since. It works offline and locates you exactly, even showing with a small arrow the direction you’re walking. You can zoom in to lanes, footpaths or zoom out to get a better sense of where you are. I was way off the intended route, but regained confidence in where I was heading and decided that enjoying the deviation was perhaps a more open and positive way to continue my mini pilgrimage than self criticism.
As I sat on Helman Tor later that day looking over the surrounding countryside, a butterfly caught my attention as it flitted and settled beside me. Intermittently it would flutter in and out of the shadows of the evening sun before resting again, its small furry head and antennae appearing to point towards me. I liked to think it had come to say hello, though perhaps it was just warming itself on the heat of the lichen-kissed granite boulder, its wings spread so that I could clearly observe the delicate patterns of pastel orange either side of its velvet blue spine. Perhaps it represented a metaphor for the spreading of my own wings that only a few hours earlier that day had felt tight and closed. I mocked myself for the cliche, but thanked the butterfly for encouraging me to sit for a while, for its inquisition, its gentleness, and also bravery to sit so close beside me.
The lengthening shadows and cooling air reminded me that evening was drawing in, so I laced my brown leather boots and walked on with renewed energy, accepting the magic of the moment as transitory. I thought of my own fears earlier and how different I felt now and wondered how my children were coping in their new and independent journeys. I hoped that they too would be able to stop sometimes and take pleasure and peace from something as simple as a butterfly outside on a rock in the sun.
Company vs Solitary
My solitary walking was interrupted for the weekend as my partner joined me for a couple of nights in his van. We cycled the Camel Trail in both directions, he enjoyed a shellfish lunch in Padstow, I enjoyed an ice cream, but did not enjoy the effects of the bike ride that evening or the next day, or the effects of red wine. He walked with me for a short distance the following afternoon then left me just outside Padstow with a full backpack, daypack hooked to my front, water bottle and aching limbs. I was alone. And despite the pleasure of this a couple of days earlier, it felt strange and lonely that evening. I was tired, wanted a shower but felt apprehensive at staying in a youth hostel dorm for the first time in nearly 30 years. I nearly didn’t stop at Constantine Bay, worried that I may get lost or walk too slowly. But the bench above the beach offered a welcome break from the weight of my pack, and when I read ‘The Bright Field’ by RS Thomas in Nigel’s book, a poem that has resonated with me before and certainly did so again in that moment, it offered another reminder not to race forward but to treasure the present. If I hadn’t stopped I would have missed the instruction to choose a shell from the beach. I wanted to choose a domed-shaped protective shell as Nigel described in his own reflection, but instead picked out a tiny broken fragment of purple mussel. It was how I felt, I realised, as my partner was driving away from me after the warmth and love and company of the weekend. From now, I was on my own and it felt a little scary.
Treyarnon Bay YHA was right on the coast path and appeared sooner than expected. The dorm was small and en suite and my fears dissipated with my first shower for a few days. I enjoyed the time alone writing on my bed and talked a while to another girl who was also walking. I wasn’t an alien and I wasn’t so old. In fact, I think there was more age that youth that evening and I was just one of a crowd of walkers and campers, and enjoyed a good night’s sleep, waking early to a big breakfast and my first long day of walking with full pack.
I noted with trepidation that the path veered away from the coast inland along a road adding a fair distance to my Newquay destination. Two girls who I had passed that morning caught up with me as I rested on a bench looking longingly at the path beside the sea. I envied them their coastal route and was tempted to follow, but began the bleak walk towards St Eval church. I lost confidence in my pace and my ability to walk for a full day and strode past the turning to the candle company recommended as a stop in the book. The grey road and grey sky reflected my mood as I felt the tug back towards the sea. Was it just that I felt at home and relaxed beside water or was it the simplicity of walking on a path that needed little signposting?
“Reflections on dictated routes continued as a big theme on my journey, especially with my resentment at turning away from the coast to walking along some busy roads towards inland churches.”
I had often chosen my own paths in life and wondered what compelled me on this trip to follow someone else’s route. How often in life we do choose prescribed paths, often to the detriment of our own wellbeing, blind to the potential of any deviation and sometimes wracked with guilt if we stray. I contemplated my partner’s compulsion to continue working long hours, partly because he didn’t have the time to permit his thoughts to wander towards alternatives, though when out walking it somehow freed us to dream. There is something about walking which helps to unravel and offload some of the complicated baggage with which we burden ourselves and, as a consequence, create space for new possibilities. Is there something about physical forward movement that allows for a psychological equivalent? Walking certainly seems to free an ability to talk. Is it the embodied movement, rhythm, the decreased threat of being side by side rather than face to face? In my work, I have a keen interest in eco-therapy, and know that, certainly on a personal level, being outside offers a very different space to the more traditional, contained therapy room. Part of my aim for taking time out is to review my professional practice, looking more at how to incorporate the potential healing power of nature. My own experience on this walking pilgrimage seemed a good place to begin contemplating further a different way of working.
St. Eval church was in the middle of nowhere – no cosy pub or village shop for welcome or refreshment and no human life anywhere nearby, but it felt quiet and safe inside and I sat for a while resting my back from the weight of my pack admiring the beautiful wood and stone work in the cool. I wondered how my children were feeling away from home in their new environments. I wondered who attended this church and how sad it was that such beautiful buildings were no longer the hub of the local community. I reflected on my own feelings of connection with the natural world compared to human made tokens of worship and why people strive to make permanent marks on the world, perhaps not liking the sense of our own relative insignificance in the greater universe.
Perserverance
I collected the passport stamp and continued my inland journey beside a busy road along a fence punctuated with Military of Defence signs warning ‘Danger of Death’. My grumpiness and resentment grew and I decided then that from now I would stick to the coast and choose my own route. I hated the road. I hated the ugly fence and the barrenness of the area. It began to drizzle, but I felt too warm to put on rain gear, compelled to walk quickly and get away from the bleakness. I almost missed the tiny robin hopping beside me, it’s puffed red chest a contrast to the broken tarmac grey of what must have been an old road which was at least keeping me safe from the speeding traffic on the adjacent highway. I felt suddenly comforted that there was another sign of life and softened at the little bird’s persistence to get my attention whilst making sure I didn’t get too close. Tiny flickers of lilacs and yellows began to emerge amongst the straggling weeds and my mood began to lift despite the seemingly endless trudge. It’s interesting how beauty can reveal itself in the drabbest of places if only we are open to see.
Just beyond a green and manicured golf course, out of place in the desolate gloom, I rounded a corner to a bounteous light bouncing up from what could only have been the sea, and there it was again, that infinite stretch of azure melting into the more pallid blues of the sky. My spirits lifted further, happy that I would soon return to the coast. Then I remembered to consult the book and couldn’t believe that yet again the green dots on the map veered away from the water. This time I would definitely have ignored the instructions, but my phone suddenly picked up a signal and I turned off the road to check the multiple pings of texts while resting beside a small pen of goats. We had once looked after a goat when I lived in New Zealand for a short time as a child, and our much loved but probably misnamed male goat called Belinda had shown me how affectionate and intelligent they could be. He would start bleating ages before my mother could see my sister and me emerge from the steep ‘zig zag path’ from our village school a few miles south of Canterbury. These goats seemed equally communicative with their bleating and jostling beside their fence in their enthusiasm to interact. I had an urge to hug one like I used to hug Belinda, sat on the roof of his hut in the evening sun overlooking the valley towards Sumner beach.
The goats had placated my resistance to the inland route, so I persevered. This time it was off road at least, and I enjoyed the soft, pine-needled path through woodland towards St. Mawgan. I wished my dog was with me. He loves the smells of rabbits and other wildlife and I knew his tail would be wagging as he investigated his powerful olfactory world. I felt sad that he was now too old to join me, reminding me that I too was getting older, as are my parents and others I love, another warning of how transient everything is in life. The path too was short-lived and I soon emerged back on a road beside a campsite which took me up to a sign welcoming me to the ‘Off the Path’ cafe. Not quite believing this could exist in such a remote area, I was amazed to see a cosy rustic shelter, outdoor tables, candles, fairy lights, plants and a small enclosure of geese. All of this and the aroma of fresh coffee lured me to sit down and enjoy a large piece of carrot cake and warming drink. The couple running it were enthusiastic about my walk and wanted their own celtic way stamp for passing pilgrims. They were also enthusiastic about the St Eval candles which they had for sale, reminding me of my earlier decision to walk by, something I now regretted and hoped would teach me a lesson about being more open to the journey itself rather than just the direction I was heading.
The welcome and warmth I felt with human contact and nurturing food was a stark contrast to how I’d felt at the church that morning and I pondered how it seemed to be pubs and cafes that had become the focal point of communities.
“Images I’d seen of still, silent Tibetan monks sitting on hillsides with minimal food or water made me consider whether it was necessary to withdraw physical nourishment in order to feed the spiritual.”
The cynical side of me mocked that maybe their heightened visions were mere hallucinations from starvation. Though I decided that perhaps for the rest of the journey I should try to focus less on physical comfort. I continued to St Mawgan, a beautiful church and bustling little village with a couple of tea shops and a pub and I wondered how much the church featured here as a focus for the local people. The walk continued through fields and a wood and it was a very different feeling to the barren environment that morning. Despite the re-emergence onto road and the build up of rain clouds, I knew I was heading back towards the coast. Perhaps it was the contrast to the traffic, buildings and other human constructs, but my emergence onto the cliff edge above a huge expanse of golden sand forced me to draw breath and stop, in awe that I lived in a place that offered so much untouched and natural beauty. Not even the wind or drizzle could detract from the wonder and pleasure of that moment, and I felt as if I’d returned to my spiritual home. The sea always uplifts me, whether calm or wild, and is my ‘go to’ place for replenishment. From now, it was sea all the way to my destination that evening. And this time I slowed and enjoyed every moment of the walk, stopping for ages to read the fascinating history of Porth on the printed boards beside the beach.
“Nothing could quash my high until I rounded the coast path and saw the massive urban sprawl of Newquay.”
I was cross that I’d been forced to find accommodation here. And felt like running away when I learnt that my Backpackers was part of a night club. But the young lad at reception handed granny here a pair of ear plugs and sent me to my top bunk on a top floor in a dorm of 9 bikini clad girls with surf boards. I can only guess how they felt about my presence in the room, but they were welcoming and gave me a discount drink token for the bar. I survived a hot night with closed windows and was relieved to get up and get going, pleasantly surprised at the plentiful breakfast and unlimited coffee which I consumed on the outside terrace overlooking the sea.
And so my walk continued, across the Gannel estuary to Crantock where I loved the story of the dove influencing the location of the church dropping kindling from the beach just beyond the dunes, a sign for St Carantoc to build a little inland. The churchyard of grass and granite appealed to my sense of simplicity and calm, though the words on a gravestone Age 8 hours overwhelmed me with a huge sense of sadness, and I felt grateful for the health of my own children. It put in perspective my fears for them, again reminding me how important it is to make the most of life.
The next day invoked a mix of emotions from disappointment at not finding the holy well having instead been directed to the place with the same name; solace from a rejuvenating coffee and spinach pie from a lovely bakery in Cubert; then a relaxing walk through open land turning to a distressing meeting with two girls who were carrying a dead badger in a black bin bag, probably shot by a farmer taking the badger cull into their own hands in their belief it prevented bovine TB. I was still feeling upset when I arrived at the ruins of St. Piran’s Oratory.There was something about the exposure of this religious space to the sky and the elements that made me consider the power of the outdoors and how much more I felt spiritually connected to this than the inside of any building.
Location wise Perranporth YHA must be one of the best if you like the wilds of the north coast, boasting a view across the incredible plain of beach and rugged shoreline. I felt disappointed I hadn’t booked for the night, but it was still early and the 5pm opening time reminded me why. I reached St Agnes after a long, hot sweaty climb with a tight time constraint for church access, which meant me arriving thirsty, puce-faced and a little embarrassed at the small welcome party at the vestry, but how I appreciated their friendliness, additional touches like biscuits and cake and especially the blow-up mattress! What a difference a night’s sleep can make. I barely had time to reflect on the fairly tough hike that day before I was lost in the land of slumber and awake early the next morning, revitalised to begin the lengthy stretch to Gwithian.
I am not usually an early riser, but began to enjoy this time of quiet and cool morning sun. I was also motivated by the anticipation of what had become my favourite meal – coffee and breakfast, well deserved after a couple of hours walking. A good sense of progress also permitted a decent rest and today I sat in the sun at Porthtowan chatting to a couple who had noticed my pack and were interested in my route and the fact that I was walking alone.
Inspiration from the landscape
Nigel’s experience of this stretch of coastline as ‘a slog along lonely paths’ was very different to mine. I relished the peace and found far more richness in this type of environment than buildings and villages despite their Celtic history. Striking cliffs, textured heathers, gulls, ocean and sky were to me an inspiration. I felt open and expansive as the wild windswept sands, full of hope and possibility, but also humbled by my small and insignificant place within this landscape. Just like the remains of St. Piran’s, which had been taken over by vegetation, the powerful forces of this other than human world were a reminder of my transience within it and put in perspective the triviality of some of my own worries. I had wondered if I should stay at the church hall with a shower in Portreath but was pleased not to interrupt the mindful rhythm I seemed to have adopted and, despite the heat that day, was happy to continue towards Godrevy. I stopped only to chat to a retired police officer who enjoyed recounting his SW Coast Path walk many years ago as part of his recovery from a bypass operation whilst also raising money for charity, and also with the offer of binoculars to view the plump-fluffy white seals on the rocks below a busy section of the path that neared the road.
I was disappointed St. Gothian’s Church was not at Gwithian sands but yet again a walk inland away from the wondrous stretch of coast and quirky little beach cottages that I had loved when I first arrived in Cornwall. Sadly, I missed out on the cream tea I had promised myself at the Honey Pot as my realisation of the extra distance came a little too late. The pub was closed for renovation, there was no shop and I was grateful I had bought some basic supplies such as a cuppa soup and nuts. But in my search for a pound coin to feed the electricity meter in the church hall to make some tea, I discovered the campsite shop and pizza van and also learnt that there was a bar and restaurant further along by the nature reserve. It was the first time that night I treated myself to a proper evening meal, though began to regret my indulgence with the dark, cold walk back along the road to the village. I was too tired to make a fire, which had seemed so attractive earlier on and soon fell asleep on the futon kindly provided, motivated to rise early the next day to begin my walk to a much desired shower or perhaps even a bath.
Following the suggestion in Nigel’s book I ventured along the vast stretch of beach instead of the dunes, enjoying being the first to make marks in the sand. Though the steep ascent back up the slope to the path was a challenge with the extra weight of my pack and I laughed at myself sinking deep into my footprints making progress slow and frustrating. This area of housing, similar to Gwithian sands was quirky and hippy and I fantasised about living there in a tumbledown cottage above the beach. I had planned on Hayle for breakfast but the traffic and large commercial Asda complex put me off after the quiet of the coast so, after a recommendation, I persevered along the fume-filled road towards Birdie’s Bistro. I was certainly ready for breakfast and enjoyed the outdoor seating overlooking the estuary full of birdlife. A highlight of the morning was my partner stopping briefly to visit me there, serendipitous that his work had brought him to the area. The clean pair of socks was almost as welcome as his hug. Spirits uplifted, I savoured the stroll through Lelant to St. Uny, possibly the best located church in the world with its sea and estuary views.
“The clean pair of socks was almost as welcome as his hug”
I relaxed and enjoyed the sunshine and expanse of beach at Porthkidney Sands, forced to stop and wait at the end for the tide to go out before I could climb the rocks to the coast path. But the weather warnings became real as I rounded the corner and hit 50 mile an hour winds, almost knocking me back down the cliff. Luckily Carbis Bay was a lot more sheltered, but the wild white horses were out in full force on the ocean and my fantasy of a sea swim and afternoon on the beach withered. Instead I indulged myself in a long soak in the bath at my accommodation and enjoyed an afternoon reading and writing on a proper bed in a room all to myself, before I finally braved the wind again and wandered into St. Ives, clean and refreshed.
The final stretch
The final stretch of walk joined St. Michael’s Way, which I had done before, though got ridiculously lost around Trencrom Hill. This time the markers seem to have been updated and it was easier to find the route with the additional help of Nigel’s clear instructions, and I arrived in Ludgvan a lot earlier than expected. I was meant to stay the night here and was tempted by the generous box of food left for me in the church hall. However, I was also lured by my partner willing me back that evening, the ominous weather forecast for the next day and the time of low tide at St. Michael’s Mount permitting me to make the final leg of my journey on foot rather than by boat if I continued that afternoon. So I decided to end a day early, but not before visiting the church again and listening to the organist practising ‘we plough the fields and scatter’. I thanked her for playing as I’d now be missing the harvest festival the next morning, and we began chatting about the walk. I soon discovered that she was Nigel’s wife, and her enthusiasm for the book and my accomplishment infused my energy for the final stretch. I almost flew to Marazion alongside the birds in the marshes, a different route to my previous one (there are two endings to St. Michael’s
Way). And if my boots had permitted I would have run along the causeway to the mount. I arrived elated on the island, proud to claim my free entrance to the church after being one of only a few people to complete the full walk more or less in one go.
But the church was closed! I hadn’t realised it didn’t open on Saturdays. I felt completely deflated and at a sudden loss what to do. It didn’t feel right not to properly conclude my first pilgrimage. I was told I could collect my stamp at the office, which I did half-heartedly.
What have I faced up to about myself and what burdens have I lifted on this walk?
I also learned that I have a lot of determination and drive and, given deadlines such as access to my accommodation, am able to push myself, despite heat, exhaustion and some tough ascents and descents. It reignited faith in my ability to walk for a long duration with a pack, despite not having done so for many years, but also reminded me that my body has limits; creaky knees, for example, can not be rushed and I was only too aware of how easy it would have been to fall, and how the lack of mobile phone signal in many areas could have meant a long and lonely wait for help. Getting lost and feeling scared is inevitable. It does not mean failure; it is how I deal with the situation that makes the difference. Pushing my comfort zones and overcoming some of the challenges, whilst difficult at the time, ultimately helped to boost my confidence. I also learnt the importance of trust.
I was lucky to meet Nigel Marns a few days later when I joined a group for the 20 mile walk to open the Bodmin Way. This was yet another area of Cornwall I hadn’t yet fully discovered and it felt a privilege to be a part of something new. I had put so much faith in the words of Nigel guiding me on the Celtic Way that it was a surprise to discover that he too was lost when our small group had lagged behind the others, engrossed in conversation in response to my question about what had inspired the book. I know I was not alone this time, but I had also learnt to trust that whatever happened would be okay. And perhaps this particular journey was more about our discussion and interaction than the physical challenge. His interest in the more ecological, open and community focused Celtic traditions as opposed to the often hierarchical structures of many religions and organisations resonated with some of my own beliefs, and it was heartening to hear his views.
“I had been asked earlier that morning if I was there for the walk or the spiritual journey and, though I initially responded the former, had added that for me the two usually went together. Though I confess I’m still unsure what the concept of spiritual means for me. Perhaps this is part of my quest.”
I have lived in many parts of the world, but Cornwall is the longest I have been based anywhere, and walking through the landscape and learning more of its human history I now feel a lot more connected to the place that I very much now consider home. And that sense of connection, both with place and people and an openness to whatever exists beyond has made me feel a lot more connected to myself and what may be important for the next stage of my journey.