The Cornish cliffs are kept at bay by the Atlantic ocean crashing and falling at their feet. The cliffs have been crumbling ever since the ocean turned wild and foamed at the mouth, and the wind realised what a place it was to blow full force. 

We’ve been hiking for half a day now. We’ve covered many kilometres. Twenty-five the first day, crossing rivers and following the cliffs as they rose and fell away, like it was the edge of the earth. We stumbled through MOD property with danger signs of mines and explosive military equipment, but stumbled our way out again and onto the beach leading to Perranporth that was as vast as an ocean. That was Newquay to Perranporth.

Today it is the opposite of that; we are heading to Porthcothan. A total of twenty kilometres. We’ve just stopped for our cream-tea lunch with scones and jam and cornish clotted cream from a bakery in St. Ives. Our unseasoned walking legs are suffering because of our ambition, but we pay no mind to that, the wind pushes us further and further along our path. So we follow the Bedruthan steps along the coast (they remind me of the 12 apostles in Australia). Then finish at Porthcothan with not a step left in us, to wait in the one-shop town for a bus that is slow in coming. 

Cornwall is now a favourite of mine. It reminds me of home, and half a life spent by the sea at Phillip Island, but it’s also distinctively English – with its small villages of houses built on top of one another and streets that let one car squeeze past only. The coast is wild, rugged, treacherous but beautiful. How a coast should be in a cold winter. 

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