Journey's End

Plymouth Hoe - a sight to gladden the heart of any true Westcountryman

The Bay of Biscay entirely lived up to its reputation for the journey home. The Pont Aven is a big ship, with everything that modern maritime design can provide in the way of stabilisation. But by mid-evening, she was rolling and juddering in the swell like the Balmoral on a rough crossing from Ilfracombe to Lundy. A clear majority of passengers took refuge in their en suite facilities. The smug brigade, of which I was happy to be part, had the run of the bars and restaurants. There were some very sorry sights the following morning.

I set the alarm for 4.00, reckoning that that would be about the time that we passed Ushant, so that I could see the great lighthouse of An Creac’h in action. It was a good guess. When I got up on deck, the very first thing I saw was the great white beam piercing the night sky, flanked by the red lights of La Jument to the south and Le Stiff (I kid you not!) on the north end of the island. It was a memorable sight. Sadly, the ship was being tossed around too violently to get much of a photograph, but I did my best. I barely slept a wink after that. The beds on the Pont Aven are excruciatingly uncomfortable, even by ferry standards.

An Creac'h from the Pont Aven

We were an hour or so late arriving at Plymouth, but at least the sun was shining. It had been pouring with rain when we’d left Santander, which made me feel happier about the decision to cut short the trip than has been the case subsequently. Jammed door and dodgy number plate notwithstanding, I should have soldiered on through Galicia.

However, what’s done is done, and it has still been a fascinating trip. All told, I’ve driven just over 5,000 miles through Scotland, Ireland, Wales, Cornwall, Brittany and Asturias, staying at 37 campsites. In an idle moment (and there were plenty of them) at San Vicente, I decided to rank the campsites, according to setting/view, facilities, proximity to beaches/golf courses/good pubs and value for money. The joint winners were Trevedra Farm at Sennen, and Tully Beach Camping and Caravans, on the Renvyle Peninsula in the far west of Ireland, but several others, including Kersigny Plage, Trevignon, Durness, Camusdarach, Gairloch, Tramore Beach and Achill Island were only a point or two behind.

Sunset at Tully Beach

From best campsite, it was but a short step to best days, best meals and best moments.
Among the former, it was a dead heat between my visit to the Isles of Scilly, on a glorious July day, and the day I spent in West Wales, travelling on the Tallylln Railway and golfing at Borth and Ynyslas, also under cloudless skies. Honourable mentions also for St. David’s, golf at Machrihanish, my trip to the pub with no beer at Inverie and a swim from the silver sands of Camusdarach, the visits to Ushant and to Inishmore in the Aran Islands, and the first proper day of the entire trip, when I travelled by ferry and minibus to Cape Wrath and played golf in the evening sunshine looking out across the stunningly beautiful sands of Balnikeel Bay.

Balnikeel Bay

My best meals were probably those I cooked, or prepared, for myself: the fried plaice at Caheerviseen, the oysters and Muscadet at Les Abers and that magnificent veal chop at Le Conquet. My crab at the Turk’s Head on St. Agnes was unquestionably my best meal out.

Best moments? Well, my first sight of “the most beautiful beach in Scotland”, Sandwood Bay, after a four mile hike, has got to be up there, as has a four iron across a wave-lashed chasm to the final green at Durness, walking out onto Tramore beach on a sparklingly blue and silver Sunday afternoon and the warmest of Welsh welcomes that I received from Ann and John Lloyd Jones on arriving at Hendy. But I guess the pick of the bunch has to be that moment, near Kynance Cove, when I realised that the noisy birds I’d happened across weren’t jackdaws, but were choughs: rare, precious, quintessentially Celtic choughs. If I’d encountered the ghost of King Arthur, I could hardly have been more pleased. (And then again, perhaps that’s precisely what I had done?)

And the worst? I suppose that would have to be crunching Carmen against the railway sleeper, precipitating as it did the abandonment of the last stage of the trip. Apart from that, my blackest moment was when I reached my first peage on the A10, just south of Nantes. It was pouring with rain and there were long queues of cars and lorries, all simmering with Gallic impatience. But I’d watched the couple in front carefully, and leant confidently across the cab, to pluck my card from the slot in the machine. Except that when I looked, it wasn’t there! The bloody machine had broken down! With half of France waiting and hooting behind me! In a state of flat panic, I climbed out of the cab, to give the machine a good kicking. It was then that – thank God! – I spotted that there was a second dispensing slot, at lorry driver height, and poking out of it was the ticket I so craved. Rarely in my life have I been quite so relieved!

But what, you may well ask, of the avowed purpose of the journey which was, as I recall, “to explore the links between the peoples of Europe’s western seaboard”?
That there are such links – at least between the “British” Celts – is obvious, in language, religion, culture, climate and geography. But that certainly does not mean that all Celts are the same. The various tribes are as different from one another as they are from other so-called “races”, like the Anglo-Saxons, Franks or Vikings. The most obvious example of this is the North and South Waleians. This came home to me most vividly when I was talking to a short, dark, swarthy Pembrokeshire farmer, who prides himself on his Celtic ancestry. “Celtic Odyssey, is it”, he said, with a note of disbelief in his voice. “I never realised you were a Celt”.

“Oh yes”, I replied. “More than 50 per cent. All my mother’s family were from Anglesey”.

“Ah”, he said, the light dawning. “Anglesey. That explains it.”

Having said that, it is possible to argue that the generality of Celts do share some characteristics, chief among them probably being a fundamentally passionate nature. They are instinctive, rather than necessarily rational, in how they think and act. They are driven by spirit and soul as much as by logic and analysis. They also all have something of a chip on their shoulders: Irish, Welsh and Scots about the English; Bretons in relation to the French; and Asturians when it comes to the Spanish.

One thing they do all share is the glorious Atlantic seaboard, and its rather less than glorious climate. It would be surprising if this had not produced both a deep sense of man’s insignificance in comparison with the immensity of sea, mountains and sky and a certain fatalism in the face of the unrelenting elements. Against that background, it is not to be wondered at that religion, both pagan and Christian, has always played so strong a part in the life of the Celts. If there is one thing more than any other that united the British Celts it was Celtic Christianity.

As for what the trip has taught me about myself – my “voyage of self-discovery”, as my son George called it – I think it is probably that, for all my Welsh ancestry, I’m not really Celtic at all! I’m as much of a typical tight-arsed, list-making, home-loving, beer-drinking Englishman, as I am a passionate, instinctive, soulful Celt. And besides, I really cannot stand that awful Irish/Breton folk music – “all that fidde-de-dee stuff”, as my wife Claire calls it. Not that I don’t have a well-developed emotional side. A Welsh or Cornish male voice choir can move me to tears. But I’d sooner go to the dentist than sit through a concert by the Dubliners.

What I am is a Westcountryman. There is no finer sight in all the world than sighting the tors of Dartmoor as the ferry nears Plymouth. The more I travel, the more I appreciate how deeply fortunate I am to have been born and lived most of my life in the South-West of England.

But it’s been what I’ve experienced, more than what I’ve learned, which has made the trip so wonderful. The mountains, the cliffs, the seascapes, the moors, the beaches, the crosses, the dolmens – and just the occasional pub or golf-course!

Carmen was a reliable and comforting companion, ultimately betrayed by the incompetence of her driver. Once she’s been repaired, she’ll be sent into hibernation for the winter and we’ll be back on the road next summer.

So that’s it for the Celtic Odyssey blog. I am toying with the idea of starting a new one in a couple of weeks’ time, relating my experiences as a newly freelance farming journalist and commentator. In the meantime, thank you for your company. I’m not entirely sure how many readers I’ve had, but however many or few, I can assure you that you’re all hugely appreciated.

September 11: Thus far......

I caught the bus from San Vicente into Oviedo yesterday. For a round trip of 200 miles, the fare was 17 euros. And it was well worth it. Oviedo, the capital of the Principality of Asturias, is a handsome, well-proportioned, if slightly claustrophobic city. The streets are all lined with buildings at least ten storeys high. You can barely see the sky, let alone any landmarks. It took a long time for me to find my bearings. Most of the central shopping area has been pedestrianised, and is paved with marble the colour of a Spanish dawn. Walking on it in my M and S loafers produced the most frightful squeaks and squeals!

Oviedo Cathedral

Having said all of that, the area around the Cathedral is lovely: ancient, narrow streets, lined with restaurants and sidrerias; leading off into little squares, like the Plaza Trasscorales, with its bronze of La Lechera – the milkmaid – and in which, more to the immediate point, was situated the restaurant where I had set my heart to dine on a veritable feast of Asturian specialities. Only two problems: the restaurant didn’t open until 8.00 and the last bus was due to leave at 8.45. So I contented myself with wistfully jotting down the list of things I would have eaten, had circumstances allowed:

Cream of crab soup
Pote – beans, greens, pork and blood pudding
Fabada – the national dish of Asturias – a quite delicious bean and pork stew
Braised boar with potato croquettes
Rice pudding, crepes and pastries

All this for 32 euros, in one of the smartest restaurants in the city.

There is one consolation: I am several pounds lighter than I would have been if I’d got the other side of that lot!

The bronze of La Lechera in the Plaza Trascoralles

I followed the tourist trail, to the cathedral, with its 9th century chapel , and then roused myself to climb the seemingly endless hill which leads to two of the most ancient churches in Spain: Santa Maria del Naranco and San Miguel de Lillo, both also dating back to the 9th century. They were worth the climb: both beautifully proportioned in their different ways, and built in a style which I’m told was unique to Asturias. I bought a ticket for 3 euros which entitled me to go inside both churches – except that it didn’t. They both remained firmly locked. It turned out that if I wanted to see inside I would have to wait until a sufficient ‘groupo’ had assembled to make it worth the guide’s while to show us around. He, meanwhile, was having a pee in the hedge, and as the commentary would be in Spanish, it frankly didn’t seem worth waiting for.

The 9th century church of San Miguel de Lillo, on the mountain overlooking Oviedo

So down the hill I strode, in search of supper. I decided eventually to try one of the many sidrerias in the Calle Gascona. Cider is the Asturias national drink. The locals appear to consume nothing else. Cider-drinking is a ritual conducted with an almost religious solemnity and attention to detail. First is the ‘escanciar’: in your right hand, you hold the uncorked bottle, stretching your arm as high as it will go. In your left, the broad-brimmed glass-beaker, which you hold as low as you can, slightly tilted, so as to maximise the distance between bottle and glass. Then you pour, and if you’re any good at all at it, you pour with the utmost nonchalance, looking up at the sky and whistling a happy tune, confident that years of practice will direct the golden stream unerringly, not merely into the glass, but onto the side of the glass, just below the brim. The idea is that the long drop will maximise oxygenation of the cider, producing a gentle, almost creamy effervescence in the drink.

But that’s only the half of it. Only about half an inch is poured at any one go. The recipient is required (and I use the word advisedly) to drink most of it, and then hurl the last few drops against the side of the bar, off which it will drain into a gutter. This is called the “culin” and the logic this time is that, cider drinking being a group activity, by swilling out the glass with cider, you have disinfected it for the next recipient of the escanciar.

It is, as you can imagine, a picturesque business, which involves the waste of a prodigious amount of perfectly good cider. I would hazard a guess that more cider is poured away in Asturias each year than is consumed in any of the other Celtic nations, with the possible exception of Brittany. It was when I first visited Asturias in 1994, that, with my late and much lamented brother, Chippy, we discovered this extraordinary business. We took to it with some enthusiasm! He was much better at the escanciar than I was, but I did my best to make up for it with the violence of my culin!

That was in typical rough and ready rural sidrerias, whose floors were literally awash with cider. In the posher parts of Oviedo, they have to strike a careful balance. So the barman pours (expertly, of course) your cider, and only the standers-at-the-bar are encouraged to chuck the remnants in the gutter. The place still stank of cider, but it was smart enough to charge some pretty fancy prices. I accompanied my bottle with anchovies, peppers and cabralles cheese – classic Asturian cuisine. The Olde Cider Bar at Newton Abbot this was not!

And thereby hangs a tale. It was visiting Asturias in 1994 and encountering the fierce pride with which they nurtured and protected their regional specialties, like fabada, that gave me the idea of starting Westcountry Cooking, to encourage chefs and restaurateurs to make a point of using our own wonderful ingredients, in dishes that speak as profoundly of the South West as Asturian cooking does of this beautiful region. I like to think that it had a small influence on everything that has happened since.

Apart from one or two thunderstorms, the weather has been hot and sunny. I have been surfing. Three to four feet and clean, is how I think the professionals would describe it.

The beach at San Vicente in early morning sunshine

On Tuesday morning, I was taken by taxi into Santander to procure Carmen’s temporary number plate. The taxi driver, inevitably, was called Manuel. He had no English and I have no Spanish. We proceeded at a truly frightening speed, Manuel making phone calls to various friends and family, the Spanish definition of 'hands-free' appearing to mean no hands on the steering wheel. He struck me as a sociable soul, who clearly wanted to make conversation with his passenger “Gillsaw”, as he called me. Football came to the rescue. We exchanged the names of Spanish footballers playing for English clubs, accompanied by facial expressions, shakes of the head or thumbs up to indicate approval or otherwise.

Anyway, we secured the number plate and, although it is the wrong colour, I trust it will serve. It is stuck on with parcel tape, which may or may not survive the storm that is blowing in from the Atlantic as I prepare to drive to Santander to catch the ferry for home, with very mixed feelings.

September 8: On giving it best

With a heavy heart, I have decided to return home early, with the Celtic characteristics of Galicia and Portugal still unexplored. The immediate excuse for thus bottling out is the three day (so far) delay in obtaining a replacement number plate for Carmen, plus the damage to her nearside, which makes it impossible to open the door, and means I have to clamber in and out of the driver’s compartment.

However, the truth of the matter is that I am travel-weary after the long slog south and really rather lonely. Being on one’s own is not a problem, when you can drop into the nearest pub or golf club and either pass the time of day with whoever may be there, or simply listen to other people’s conversations. But when you cannot understand a word they’re saying, or vice versa, you do feel a bit out of it, especially if there is no Times or television to help one while away the uneventful hours. So the prospect of driving several hundred miles through remote, inhospitable (so they say) Galicia, in a damaged van, with no company and a distinctly iffy weather forecast was not, I am afraid, one that ultimately appealed.

I knew that the game was up when I woke up this morning, pulled back the curtains to reveal a blameless sky of the brightest blue - and felt my spirits lift not a millimetre.
I am sure that Galicia is fascinating, and I deeply want to visit Porto and the Celtic sites of Northern Portugal, but both will have to wait until I can persuade someone to come with me.

In the meantime, the weather has been ironically blissful. Today has been by far the hottest day both of the trip and of my summer. I spent large parts of it in the sea, trying to cool off. This was pleasant enough at the time, but has left me with a blocked left ear. Although even that has its consolations, as it is helping to muffle the deafeningly loud music that is pounding out across the estuary towards the campsite, on account of the continuing Fiesta. Last night, the disco went on until 2.30! The very helpful man in the campsite reception warned me that I might be woken early tomorrow morning. God knows what that may involve. Probably yet another volley of deafening artillery shells, fired from the battlements of the fortress.

The town clock has a most melodious chime, reminiscent of the hours being struck on a spinet or, yes, a melodion. But at what appear to be random hours of the day, this is the signal for the aforementioned howitzers to open up over the bay, frightening the dogs and shattering the reveries.

However, you must not get the impression that I dislike Northern Spain. Very much to the contrary. The scenery is spectacular, the people are kindly, the food is much better than in Brittany and only two thirds the price, and the sea is wonderfully clear and almost silky smooth to swim in, even when there’s a decent swell running, which there certainly has these past three days. The surf has been by far the best of the entire trip.

Tomorrow, a taxi is due to arrive at the campsite at 9.00 to take me to an unnamed destination, where a new number plate should await me. Assuming that we don’t end up driving to Madrid or San Sebastian, I then intend to catch the bus to Oviedo, the capital city of the Principality of Asturias, to sample what the real Carmen promises me will be a “Pantagruelic” feast of Asturian specialities at El Raitan. (No, I didn’t know what it meant, either. Turns out that it’s from a ‘gigantic prince’ called Pantagruel, in Rabelais. But then Carmen always did have a better grasp of the English language than most of us in the NFU for whom it is our native tongue!)

In the meantime, I have been drowning my sorrows with some of that Breton bottle-conditioned beer that I mentioned a few days ago. The Duchesse Anne was excellent – beautifully malty, without being sweet, well-hopped, amber-coloured and quite strong. The Belle Ile was a bit of a disappointment. Despite having left it to settle for the whole morning, it was chock full of sediment when I opened it at lunchtime. It settled down eventually, and turned out to be a rather heavy, malty brown ale – the sort of beer that Newcastle Brown doubtless was before it was debased.

And if you’ve deduced from that last paragraph that that one of the reasons for my early return home is that I’m pining for a decent pint of good old Westcountry beer, you’d be spot on!

September 6: It never rains.......

Bloody typical! You drive completely unscathed for 600 miles through flood, tempest, mad Polish lorry drivers, umpteen peages and even an inspection by the Spanish border police; then, as you’re inching towards your selected pitch among the pine trees – crunch! The hem of Carmen’s rather voluminous skirt had become entangled with a low-lying, jutting out railway sleeper, with predictable and doubtless expensive results. I cannot now open the side door, but she is at least still driveable.

Or she would be, if it wasn’t for the other little problem that I detected, when I came to get my bike down from the rack at the back. Where the rear number plate should have been was a blank, grey space. The plate had been there when I left my overnight campsite at Castets, a few miles north of Bayonne, no doubt about it. But somewhere in the ensuing 220 miles it had evidently been shaken, or possibly flushed, from its moorings, by the bumpy Spanish roads or the incessant deluge. I retraced the last few miles between here and Comillas, where the road had been particularly bumpy, but to no avail. So I rang NFU Mutual International Rescue (cue Thunderbirds theme music) and got, not Virgil or Lady Penelope but a rather baffled French woman, to whom I explained my predicament. I am still awaiting her call back.

Still, there could be worse places to be marooned. San Vicente de la Barquera, on the coast about 35 miles west of Santander, isn’t quite in Asturias, but it is a very handsome town, with two fine bridges and a magnificent sixteenth century ducal palace. I am looking across the estuary at it now, with the houses of the town clustered at its feet and the Picos de Europa behind it in the distance (in truth, that last bit is poetic licence, because although I know that the Picos are indeed somewhere out there in the distance behind the Palace, I can’t actually see them on account of the low cloud and heavy rain!)

View from the campsite - San Vicente de la Barquera, with the Picos in the background

However, it has to be said that after my twin misfortunes I wasn’t really in the mood to enjoy the series of explosions, accompanied by air-raid sirens, which emanated from the town’s lofty fortress. It would appear that some sort of fiesta is taking place. Mr Grumpy wishes them joy, although he won't be amused if the amplified striking of the town clock goes on throughout the night!

Asturias and Galicia are the odd ones out in the co-called “League of Celtic Nations” in that their Celtic languages have not survived. As far as I can gather (and I stand to be corrected) their claim to be Celtic rests on the North-West coast being the final refuge of the Celtic Iberians, when the Romans finally conquered the peninsula in about 200 BC. Somehow or another they clung to the coastal fringe of Northern Spain, and there they have remained, cut off from the rest of the country by the Picos and other formidable mountain ranges, with their own very distinctive customs, cultures, cuisines – and climate, which tends to be sunny in the morning and wet in the afternoon.

San Vicente at night - shame you can't hear the music

Legend has it that as the Romans pushed ever further north and west through Spain, some of the native Celts took to the sea, and ended up in Ireland, possibly as the Fir Bolg, or whoever it was who built Dun Aenghus and similar remarkable stone forts, or possibly just as a smattering of settlers, cast ashore on a distant land. I think I tend towards the latter.

Of connections between Celtic Northern Spain and Cornwall, I could find no trace, until my mother (learned lady that she is) recalled some lines from Milton’s Lycidas, in which the poet mourns the death of his friend, drowned in the Irish Sea, and wonders where his bones might have been carried:

“Whether beyond the stormy Hebrides
Where thou perhaps under the whelming tide
Visit’st the bottom of the monstrous world;
Or whether thou to our moist vows denied
Sleep’st by the fable of Bellerus old,
Where the great vision of the guarded Mount
Looks towards Namancos and Bayona’s hold.”

Bellerus is an old word for Cornwall, the Mount is St. Michael’s, between which and the Spanish ports of ‘Namancos and Bayona’s hold’, there is nothing but open sea. Even in the sixteenth century, it would seem to have been accepted that the Celtic nations looked to each other, in every sense.

I bought myself a splendid pork chop in San Vicente this evening, and am feeling slightly more mellow, having consumed it with local beans and carrots. But it has still been a pretty rotten day.

September 4: The road to Hell -or Heaven?!

I was going to conclude the Brittany leg of my journey with a visit to the extraordinary ‘alignments’ at Carnac, and a crossing on the ferry from Quiberon to Belle Ile en Mer. But Carnac is strictly speaking pre-Celtic and Belle-Ile – whilst undoubtedly living up to its name – I have visited before. The clincher was the weather forecast, which is dire.

So I decided to cut short my visit by a day and catch a ferry to Belle-Ile’s little sister, the Ile de Groix, where I’d never yet set foot. The only drawback was that the ferries sail from the deeply unlovely city of Lorient. It was built in the seventeenth century as a jumping off point for the French East India trade – hence the name – and, from what I can gather, its architecture has always been more functional than decorative.

Lorient does, however, have a most magnificent, well-protected, natural harbour, and it was the obvious choice when Hitler was deciding where to base his Atlantic U-boat fleet. In the final stages of the war, the city was bombed unmercifully by the Allies. They flattened everything – except the U-boat base, which was built of concrete several metres thick. It is now a rather sinister tourist attraction: “the strongest fortress of the 20th century” is the boast, and I wouldn’t doubt it for a moment. It is also quite spectacularly ugly and menacing, and is thus entirely in keeping with its surroundings.

The U-Boat base - Lorient's premier tourist attraction

However, there was no avoiding Lorient if I wanted to get to the Ile de Groix, so I sought out the nearest campsite to the city, so that I could cycle to the ferry terminal, rather than having to find an over-sized parking space for Carmen. In this respect I was lucky. I lighted upon Armor Plage, which although now just a suburb of Lorient, does have several good beaches (from one of which I swam in yesterday’s windy sunshine) and an excellent municipal campsite. I cannot image any English campsite-owner choosing the name Camping Seaweed, which is how Camping des Algues translates, but I’ve not been too oppressed with kelp, and in every other respect it is ideal: just behind the beach, on the edge of what is a pleasant little town, and reassuringly protected by German gun emplacements!

The weather was blustery and grey, as I set off shortly after dawn to catch the only ferry of the morning. They say that French traffic systems are much friendlier to cyclists than English ones. Not in Lorient, they aren’t! My route consisted almost entirely of dual carriageways, along the edge of which I was obliged to creep, hoping to God that any mad Frenchman turning right would spot me in time. I’d got to within a mile or so of the Gare Maritime, when I suddenly spotted a road sign consisting of a big red circle with a bicycle symbol inside it. There was no indication of any alternative route, and by this stage it was raining hard. It took me at least another half an hour to reach my destination, with no help whatsoever from signs, road markings or my fellow road users, and by that time I was soaked.

However, all was well in the end. I warmed to the Ile de Groix as soon as I discovered that its patron saint is none other than our own St. Tudy, who travelled with St. Brioc from Wales, founded his church near Wadebridge and then went on to the Ile de Groix. This connection was sufficiently heart-warming even to take the sting out of the Ile de Groix’s chief military claim to fame, which is that the women of the island, led by their priest and in the absence of their menfolk, who were all out fishing, succeeded in frightening off a heavily armed English fleet in 1703 by dressing up as men and using milk churns to simulate cannon. What brave lads those English must have been!

I hired a bike and completed a circuit of the entire island, pausing at Locmaria for moules frites and a demi of vin blanc for lunch. I visited the two lighthouses at either end of the island, Pen Men and the Pointe des Chats, I looked hard into Port Saint Nicholas, without making a sound, to see if I could spot “The Quiet Fairy” to whom this is home, and I looked deep into the Trou de l’Enfer, surprised that there should be two Hell Holes (Lorient being the other) in such close proximity. When I reached the sheltered south-west of the island, I even went for a swim off Les Grands Sables, which has the rare distinction for a beach of being convex, rather than concave.

Les Grands Sables on Groix - lovely, and with a touch of pink, even under grey skies

There is an old Breton proverb which avers that “Who sees Groix, sees his joy”, and for all the grey skies, blustery wind and intermittent downpours, I was pretty joyful. It isn’t as smart as Belle-Ile and none of the beaches compares with the magnificent Port Donnant, but it is pretty, has no pretensions, is largely unspoilt and, when the sun is shining, I’ll bet it’s a little heaven on earth.

This is my last night in Brittany. Tomorrow, I start the long trek south to Asturias, where I hope to arrive on Saturday evening. I don’t feel I’ve in any way done Brittany justice. But then you would probably say much the same even if you spent an entire summer here, let alone just ten days. There is just so much coastline to see, so much culture to soak up, so much wonderful food to enjoy and so many beautiful places to visit – Lorient not included. Every August, they hold the “Inter-Celtic Festival” here. If it was anywhere else, I might be tempted to go.

A culinary note on which to finish: French supermarkets having never apparently heard of either mint sauce or redcurrant jelly, I have taken to accompanying my coteaux d’agneau (of which I am inordinately fond) with a large spoonful of my wife’s blackcurrant jam. Like Gibbo and Groix, it is a match made in heaven!

September 2: A la recherche de temps perdu

I am a terrible one for nostalgia. I love nothing better than to wallow in lost but happy times, or what Henry Williamson called ‘ancient sunlight’. So if my exploits of the last couple of days seem to have something of a sentimental journey about them, you will understand why and, I trust, be appropriately forgiving.

I stayed last night at Audierne, about five miles from the Pointe du Raz. It is a pleasant fishing village cum holiday resort, tucked just in behind the coastline, around a little estuary. The last time I was here was on the second part of my second honeymoon. As the storm clouds gathered yesterday evening, I cycled into town from the campsite at Kersiny Plage to revisit old haunts and bring happy, sunlit memories back to life. The town didn’t seem to have changed one bit, and, sure enough, there, out by the breakwater, was the Brasserie de Grand Large, where I had downed my first pression as a newly re-married man, on a gloriously sunny evening back in May 2001. My reverie was rather rudely curtailed when I discovered it was shut!

However, the Hotel du Roi Gradlon (the Breton equivalent of King Arthur), where Claire and I had stayed, overlooking Audierne’s long white beach, was very much open, so I had a drink there instead. It is a rather unprepossessing building, but in a glorious situation. A double room with a balcony and fabulous views out to sea will set you back 79 euros, which strikes me as about as decent value for money as you will find in these parts, especially as the food is excellent as well. I can recommend both Audierne and the Roi Gradlon unreservedly – and that’s nothing to do with rose-tinted spectacles!

Today, I drove through relentless and torrential rain to Trevignon, which is a few miles south west of the handsome fishing port of Concarneau. This is another place which holds the happiest of memories. I used to come here with my three children, Joanna, Becky and George, when we holidayed in Brittany back in the 1990s. There is a whale-shaped rock about a hundred yards offshore to which we used to swim out and then dive off – George, aged about six, included! The poor little lad almost drowned getting there, but once he’d made it, he would hurl himself time and again into the deep blue water, as if it was the greatest thing in the world.

Now, you know what you've got to do!!

I was determined to do it again, for old times’ sake, but although the sun had come out by this stage, the overnight storm had left a tempestuous sea in its wake, and whilst I managed to swim out to the rock, I couldn’t clamber onto it. Weather permitting, I’ll try again tomorrow. But it was still good to be back on what is one of my favourite beaches in all the world. It is a perfect crescent, with granite rocks on either side, and the quartz in the white sand makes it sparkle with a million tiny points of light when the sun shines, as it did eventually this afternoon. Happy days!

However, you will be reassured to learn that I have not entirely been neglecting my Celtic duties in all this self-indulgence. Yesterday, en route from Camaret to Audierene, I visited three of the most famous places on the Brittany tourist trail. First stop was at the Menez Hom, which isn’t quite the highest point in Brittany, but probably is the closest thing they’ve got to a sacred mountain, like Croagh Patrick. At just over 1,000 feet, it is a modest eminence and, the French being the lazy beggars they are, they’ve built a road almost to the top. Still, the views back over the Crozon Peninsula and out across the Bay of Douarnenez are stunning, and the weather was clear enough to be able to appreciate them.

Then it was onto Locronan, which is the Breton equivalent of Castle Combe, or Milton Abbas or Clovelly: a model village, all cobbled streets and old stone houses with hanging baskets and window boxes, grouped around a handsome church. Locronan has featured in dozens of films and television programmes including, most implausibly, Roman Polanski’s ‘Tess of the D’Urbervilles’. It doesn’t look remotely like Dorchester, but it’s charming enough.

My final stop was at the Pointe du Raz, supposedly the most westerly point in mainland France, and the Breton equivalent of Land’s End. It is visited by millions of people every year and although the inevitable shopping village is less tacky and much less further away from the cliffs than at Land’s End, it’s not really the place to go to commune with nature at its wildest and most Celtic. Having said that, the views out to sea, across the truly frightening tidal race that gives the headland its name, to the island of Sein in the distance, are well worth the trek and the 6 euros you have to pay to park. I took a picnic, which included a cheese and tomato baguette into which I bit rather too energetically, squirting tomato all down my shirt and shorts.

The Pointe du Raz, with La Vieille in the foreground

This was a pity, because I was enjoying myself, having actually found a sheltered and reasonably secluded spot, over-looking the Baie de Trepasses (so called for the number of drowned corpses that used to wash up there). Beneath the waves here lies Brittany’s Lyonesse: the lost city of Ys, which was drowned when King Gradlon’s wicked daughter opened all the sluice-gates. The Arthur/Gradlon legends are by no means identical, but they do have many common features, including Merlin. They are, of course, two trees from but a single root, and a root, what is more, that was essentially historical, rather than mythical.

No golf so far, but I have discovered some real Breton beer. I haven’t drunk it yet, so will report in due course.

August 31: A Laver of a crab!

Classic Crozon: looking north from the Pointe de Penhir to the Pointe de Toulinguet - and the beach where you're not supposed to swim!

August 31 A Laver of a crab!

I am at Camaret, on the Crozon peninsula, which juts out from the Brittany coast south of Brest rather like a giant anchor, albeit one with all sorts of odd-shaped prongs at its business end. Crozon appears to be off the main Anglo-German tourist routes. I saw as many English cars en route to the Cap de la Chevre this morning as I would expect to encounter French cars on the way to the Lizard. My appalling linguistic skills are therefore more of a handicap than ever. I can work out in my own mind what I want to say. It is when my interlocutor asks me a question in reply that I go all to pieces. Pathetic, isn’t it?

Yesterday, the shone sun, for the first and – if the weather forecast is to be relied upon – possibly the only day of this leg of the trip. I spent the first part of the afternoon basking, swimming and reading on the almost deserted beach below the campsite. Then, when the incoming tide left nothing more than rocks to perch upon, I took myself off to Camaret-sur-Mer on the bike. It is a pretty little fishing town, with a long line of shops, bars and restaurants along the harbour. Not in the least bit chic, but quite smart. Having chosen a restaurant at which I would sup later, I went to explore the standing stones at Lagatjar, which rather suffer in their impact from the modern housing estate which has been built alongside, and then onto Pointe de Penhir, one of several dramatic headlands that stretch out in all directions from Camaret and Crozon. It was still sunny and warm, so I decided on a final swim before supper, on what looked like an inviting beach. But when I got there, I was confronted by huge notices saying “Baignade Interdit” by order of the Council. However, no-one seemed to be taking the slightest notice of them, so I didn’t either.

A suburban Carnac - the stone rows at Lagatjar, on the outskirts of Camaret

My meal at La Voilerie was OK, but no better than that. The fish soup was exemplary but there was something slightly odd about the crab mayonnaise. There appeared to be the correct number of arms, legs and other bits and pieces, but the pincers in particular were of strikingly different dimensions. I concluded that either my crab had been an assemblage from more than one crab, or, like Rod Laver, it had spent a lot of time playing tennis, leaving one forearm much larger than the other! At any event, whilst, at 10 euros, it might have been cheaper than my crab at the Turk’s Head on St. Agnes, it was certainly no better.

With half a bottle of a modest Muscadet, the bill came to 26 euros, which represented reasonable value. It’s the booze that’s become so expensive here in recent years. A 250 ml ‘pression’ – that’s less than half a pint of fizzy lager – will now set you back 2 euros 40, even in a scruffy tabac, and a glass of wine is the same price. That’s the equivalent of something like £4.20 a pint at the current exchange rate, and it’s frightful stuff as well. Wine in the supermarkets and ‘caves’ is still marginally cheaper than in England, but I’ve yet to find better value over here than the magnums of Chilean cabernet that Tescos were selling for £5 a throw just before I left. I even brought a couple with me; now that’s coals to Newcastle if you like.

The weather hasn’t held. By the time I was making my way back from Camaret the thunderclouds were building, and the most tremendous storm broke over the peninsula at 2.00 this morning. I’ve never heard anything quite like it. It sounded as if God was hurling wardrobes around in the attic, and the lightning was so incessant that the countryside appeared floodlit. And my God, didn’t it rain!

An ominous sky - the night before the great thunderstorm over Camaret

Today has been mostly grey and drizzly, although the sun did break through just after lunch. I cycled via Crozon and Morgat to Cap de la Chevre, which about 12 miles south of here. If there is such a thing as a ‘typical Breton small town’ then Crozon is it: narrow streets of ancient houses leading off from its central ‘Place’ where a market was in full swing right outside the church. It has to be said that the fish and vegetables here are in a completely different class to anything on our side of the channel. One of several fish stalls had the most beautiful turbot on sale for 26 euros a kilo. I was sorely tempted to buy one for my supper, but then it dawned on me that it wouldn’t be improved by several hours in a rucksack on my sweaty back.

The Cap de la Chevre is my third cape of the trip so far. It translates as ‘Cape Goat’, which doesn’t have quite the same ring to it as Cape Wrath or Cape Cornwall. Nor am I entirely sure which are the two seas whose meeting point it is supposed to mark. Presumably the Bay of Biscay and the English Channel, although Point de St. Mathieu (which I can see out of Carmen’s windscreen as I write on the other side of the Rade de Brest) would be a much more obvious choice. But it is a magnificent headland and does command spectacular views on every side, from the Pointe du Raz and the Ile de Sein in the south to Ushant in the north. My distinguished predecessor (in the sense of being a Celtic traveller) R.A.J.Walling was so impressed with the cape that he declared it “the true finis terre – the end of the earth” (The Magic of Brittany – highly recommended).

Now it is raining again and it is time for supper. After moules for lunch at Morgat, I’ve bought myself some steak – local, of course, but with English mustard!

Inspiring lights in the Celtic gloom

August 29. Inspiring lights in the Celtic gloom

Ushant! A name to strike fear into any mariner’s heart: an island of violent storms, savage reefs, treacherous tides, impenetrable fogs and tearing Atlantic gales; rising low but menacingly, like a crocodile in a whirlpool, on the edge of the continental shelf where the Bay of Biscay joins the English Channel; at the very western tip of France. “Ouessant”, they call it here. “The Westernmost” is how I like to translate it. Mind you, the Celts called it Enez-Eussa - the Isle of Terror - and the channel that separates Ushant from Molene is From-Veur - the strait of fear!

Except that, today, when I made the long anticipated sea crossing from Le Conquet, there wasn’t so much as an Atlantic zephyr, let alone an Atlantic gale, either to stir the waters into their customary anger or, more to the point, to shift the low, misty cloud that has enveloped the north-west coast of Brittany like a grey shroud these last four days.

But I made the best of it – hiring a bike which enabled me to see most of what is, without the assistance of the more violent among the elements, a rather flat and dull island. It occurred to me halfway round that Ushant is a bit like Lundy: the sort of place that everyone interested in the western seaboard of Europe ought to visit – but probably only once!

Ushant’s hallmark is its lighthouses. There are five of them in all: three at the outer edges of the reefs that stretch out towards one of the busiest sea-lanes in Europe, and two on the island itself. I paused for a glass of cider and a packet of crisps on the Pointe de Pern – the most Westerly point in France – where two ruinous pylons and a crumbling stone barn provided, respectively, electricity and a gigantic steam-powered fog-horn for the Phare de Nividic, just offshore. With its ceaselessly churning sea and gigantic masses of granite, the peninsula reminded me powerfully of Wingletang Down on St. Agnes.

Gibbo at the most westerly point in France - the Pointe de Pern on Ushant. In the background, the now derelict equipment for powering the lighthouse.

But even more impressive is the Phare du Creac’h, reputedly the most powerful lighthouse in Europe, if not the world. It is black and white and massive. Du Creac’h is to normal lighthouses what the Millennium Eye is to fairground wheels. This is the daddy of them all!

And thereby hangs a theory of mine. The Bretons are big on lighthouses. There are hundreds of them. On the Ile de Vierge – Virgin Island – they’ve built not just one, but two of them, one the tallest in Europe. Now if that’s not making a Gallic, or better still a Celtic point, I don’t know what is! Because this fondness for tall straight things, penetrating the very skies above, goes back a long way in these parts. Around every corner is a standing stone, sometimes made decent with a cross on the top, but by no means always.

Yesterday I stopped off at the tallest menhir still standing in Brittany, at Kerloas near St. Renan. It has two protuberances, about a metre from its base, against which newly married couples were once wont to rub their naked bodies: on one, the man, so as to beget a son; on the other, the woman, so as to be the boss of her household. One of them still looks suspiciously shiny and worn, and I’ll bet I can guess which!

The menhir of Kerloas - with that suspiciously shiny bump!

Be it sacred or profane, lighthouses seem to me to have much the same significance in modern Brittany as menhirs did in the old days. What finally convinced me of that was when, after returning from Ushant, I cycled down to the Pointe de St. Mathieu, at the western end of the Rade de Brest. There I found the still substantial ruins of a Benedictine Abbey – with an enormous lighthouse standing right alongside the entrance to the nave!

Le Phare de St. Mathieu - presumably Cardinal Newman was asked to advise on its siting ("lead kindly light......")!!

I am camping at Les Blancs Sablons, overlooking the estuary (Aber or Rade) which has given Le Conquet its sheltered harbour. It’s a long way round to the town by road, but no distance at all on foot or bicycle, across the long, low passarelle, which I've discovered is French for footbridge. The beach here is superb. Even under murky cloud, swimming yesterday afternoon was a delight, and there’s surf as well. Le Conquet is a pretty, unspoilt little fishing port. There may be pleasanter corners of North West Brittany, but if there are I’ve yet to discover them.

And if you detect a slightly more upbeat tone as these notes reach their conclusion, there’s a very good reason. The sun has a last broken through. I celebrated by roasting myself an enormous veal chop (and drinking a toast to Compassion in World Farming as I ate it), which was quite one of the best things I’ve eaten all year.

A final postscript to Wednesday’s dispatch: St. Paul of Aurelian did not arrive in Brittany at Roscoff, as I suggested. He came ashore on Ushant. I visited the spot today. He was also indirectly responsible for the original chapel at Pointe de St. Mathieu. In fact, one way or another, I seem to be treading in his footsteps much as I did in those of St. Columba in Scotland and Ireland. I wonder if St. Paul built lighthouses as well?!

Celtic to the core - a holy well in the parish close of Lamber near St. Renan

August 27. On the road again

I write at Camping Les Abers, looking out through Carmen’s windscreen to the clitter-clatter of low, rocky, somehow desolate islands that fringe the North-West coast of Brittany. In the distance, a faint pink glow enlivens the otherwise unremitting grey of sky and sea, offering hope of a brighter day tomorrow.

The campsite is at Aber-Wrach (as in Aberystwyth), just west of Landeda (as in Lanivet).The district of Leon (from Caerleon), where I am presently based, was originally divided up into Dumnonee (as in Devon) and Cornouaille (as in it goes without saying). Even the Breton language, now so jealously guarded, was largely imported from Cornwall and Wales, from the fifth century onwards.

But when we talk about ‘Little Britain’, which is what Brittany literally means, we need to remember that the ‘British’ in question was strictly of the ancient, Celtic variety. The Irish, Welsh and Cornish who colonised Brittany in the Dark Ages were looking for somewhere to escape from the Saxons and Vikings, pressing ever westwards. Armorica, as it was then known, was a bleak, infertile, windswept, storm-ravaged, thinly populated peninsula largely cut off from the rest of civilised Europe. It made the Cornish, the Welsh and the Irish feel entirely at home!

Anyway, by reaching Aber-wrach by way of Wales, Cornwall and a sea crossing to Roscoff, I have been travelling in ancient, not to say sacred footsteps. St. Pol-de-Leon, just a few miles from the ferry terminal, is named for the same Paul who gave his name to Paul, near Penzance, and whose chapel here at Aber-wrach I visited earlier today. He was a Welshman, of course!

Unlike Paul, who no doubt made the crossing on a millstone or a cabbage leaf, I travelled in some style, on the Brittany Ferries flagship, the Port Aven. It is a trip I have made many times, and I was looking forward to its rituals, not least the steak-frites in the self-service restaurant as the boat clears the Eddystone lighthouse (and not a moment before!). The food on Brittany Ferries is not exactly world-class, but it is at least French, which is a good start.

I looked up at the board above the servery, just to check that it was on. Sure enough, there it was: “Entrecote grille”. But what was that in the small print underneath?
“Origin S. America”? I looked again, just to check it hadn’t read “S.Armorica”, which is what one might have expected on a boat run by the fanatic gastro-patriots who are the Bretons.

But no, S. America it undoubtedly was, and S. American it undoubtedly tasted – stringy and gristly. I have rarely been more disappointed with a meal in my entire life. My thoughts turned to Alexis Gourvennec, the Breton farmer who founded Brittany Ferries and who sadly died earlier this year. He was arguably the most effective militant farmer who ever lived. He bullied the Government into funding the Roscoff ferry terminal and he dragooned the notoriously cussed small farmers of Brittany into joining his co-operative – the SICA, as it then was – on pain of having their crops burnt.

Alexis Gourvennec - a pocket battleship of a farming leader

The likes of Handley and Haddock are but pigmies to Gourvennec’s colossus. He transformed farming in Brittany. The magnificent crops of cauliflower, onions, leeks, potatoes, lettuce, shallots, broccoli and artichokes – especially artichokes, although he never did manage to persuade Plymothians to love them! – that I drove past on my way here this morning are a tribute to his passion, skill and belligerence.

I don’t know about him spinning in his grave. I’m surprised that he hasn’t burst forth from it: to blockade the ferry company which has so betrayed his legacy and to threaten to burn its boats, one by one, until every last kilo of foreign beef has been tipped into the grey Atlantic.

That apart, the journey across was relatively uneventful. I stayed last night at Mogueriec, not far from Roscoff, on a campsite which, apart from me and Carmen, was eerily deserted. Even the owner made his excuses and left. It was a disturbed, as well as a lonely night. I was just dropping off to sleep when my ears were assailed by the unmistakeable whine of a mosquito, on its final approach towards my neck. Now, if there is one thing in life that I detest even more than split infinitives and the mispronunciation of west country place names it is mosquitos! I had the light on a flash, armed myself with a rolled up Times, and went in search of the little beggars. I got two in the first sweep, two more later on, and one final buzzing menace was nailed to the window frame just before dawn. Conducive to sleep this was not, so I have invested in an electronic device which promises “45 nuits” of mosquito-free bliss. We shall see.

One thing that that Bretons have not, fortunately inherited from their Celtic cousins further north, is their cuisine, which is Frankish to the core, albeit using the magnificent local ingredients. I cycled to Prat-ar-Coum this afternoon to buy some oysters for my supper. A dozen of the freshest, plumpest, most sea-flavoured bivalves as could be imagined set me back just 4 euros 50. On Sunday, at Lyme Regis, the Hix Oyster and Fish Bar had much less fresh oysters on offer at £1.75 each!

Their sacrifice was not in vain!

I was given a leaflet describing the local attractions when I arrived this afternoon. From this, I learned that, near Plougerneau, there is a “Seaweed Museum”. Now that’s got to be up there, alongside Barometer World (near Okehampton, if you’re desperate), as one of the most unlikely tourist attractions in Western Europe!

July 17 Reflections at the halfway stage

I have driven 3,500 miles, stayed at 28 campsites, played 284 holes of golf, chalked up 17 new breweries and visited goodness knows how many new pubs. Yet, despite the fact that my route has taken me down virtually the entire western seaboard of the British Isles, and included scores of beautiful beaches, I have been swimming only seven times, and surfed (feebly) but thrice. From that you will gather that, whilst the weather has been fine, it has only occasionally been what you might call “beach weather” and not once baking hot.

Which, of course, is precisely what one should expect on the Celtic coast. If I’d wanted unbroken sunshine, and a warm sea that laps rather pathetically at one’s feet, then I would have gone to the Mediterranean. If there’s been a disappointment, it’s not been the weather conditions, so much as the sea conditions. In Scotland and Ireland, the wind was mostly from the East. There was no Atlantic swell to speak of. Wales provided one spectacular storm, but then there was no subsequent offshore breeze to smooth the churning waters into slick-backed, lace-crested rollers. The Cornish waves offered the most promise, but conditions never really progressed beyond what the serious surfers call “messy”.

So, have I enjoyed it? For the most part, undoubtedly. I have to confess that there were one or two days, when the rain beat down remorselessly, and the forecast offered little prospect of an improvement, and I was being bitten to death by midges, that I wished myself back at my cottage in Langport. But the weather was only seriously bad for a handful of days, and never for more than a day at a time. To be able to see the Scottish Highlands in bright sunshine was a particular joy.

What it has been is an experience. Even at this halfway stage, I have been to so many beautiful places, travelled through so much magnificently wild and wonderful countryside, explored the physical remains of so much real or imagined history, as to leave me with memories to last a lifetime.

What have I learnt? That Carmen is longer than she appears, especially when you’re reversing into a parking space! That I really can’t putt! That camper-vanners wave to each other when passing on the roads. That Irish roads are the worst in Europe. That, for all the gloss of re-invented cuisines, the food of the western seaboard of the British Isles is mostly pretty dire. And that the Celtic communities of western Britain really do have a lot in common. One thinks immediately of their spirituality; a fondness for religion and the supernatural; a tendency to excess; an inexhaustible sense of humour; and something of a chip on their shoulder when it comes to the English! To what extent these shared characteristics are the result of a shared racial background, or a shared harsh and elemental physical environment is a matter for debate. My money would be on the latter.

In these terms, the Irish are the most “Celtic” and the Scots the least. Cornwall’s genuinely Celtic characteristics – as distinct from heritage – are now largely confined to the far West. The Welsh are almost a race apart: the senior Celtic nation, particularly in the context of Celtic Christianity. It was from Wales that the missionaries travelled – led by St. Patrick – to convert the heathen Irish. And it was then the Irish, having embraced the new religion with a quite astonishing fervour, who invaded the West of Cornwall, bringing their missionaries with them, many of whom subsequently moved on to Brittany. That seems to have been the rough sequence of events and it does give credence to the theory that the last stand of the old “British” people against the Saxons – which produced the legends of Arthur – took place in Wales, rather than Cornwall.

Anyway, that’s quite enough idle theorising and cod history to be going on with. I have, as I said, hugely enjoyed the trip so far, and am looking forward enormously to the start of the next stage, in Brittany at the end of August.

The best day? Well, that would have to be the Isles of Scilly.

The never before visited place to which I would most like to return? That would be a toss up between remote Durness and the silver sands of Camusdarach. The Isle of Arran was beautiful as well, as indeed were the Aran Islands.

The best golf? Unquestionably, Machrihanish, a truly glorious golf course, although for value for money, you probably couldn’t beat the 15 euros it cost to play at Achill.

The best pub? The Porterhouse Brewery in Dublin, which brewed its own good beer, and stood out from the ocean of keg porter and bitter that surrounds it like a good deed in a naughty world.

The worst day? Aberdaron in the storm was pretty bad, and so was St. Ives in the downpour. But undoubtedly the greatest disappointment was the foul weather that stopped the boats going to the Skelligs on the one day when I could have made the trip.

And Carmen? She was as Rosinante to Don Quixote – faithful, dependable; a constant companion. She’ll now be taking a well-earned rest, before we set off for Plymouth and the Roscoff ferry on August 24. Further reports from then on.

July 15 Choughed!

I was walking back from Kynance Cove to Lizard village on Sunday evening when my attention was caught by a group of particularly noisy black birds in a grassy clearing in the Cornish heath. “You jackdaws have got a lot to say for yourself”, I said to them. Except that, no sooner were the words out of my mouth, than I realised they weren’t jackdaws at all. Jackdaws don’t have red beaks, or red legs. These birds – praise all the saints of Cornwall – could only be choughs.

The spirit of King Arthur?

Fortunately, I had my little digital camera with me and took a handful of rushed shots. At this they flew off, alighting again about 100 yards away, so I followed them, and took a couple more photographs, before the five of them took wing and headed off towards the cliff top. Given that this is one of the rarest birds in Britain – extinct here from the early 1970s until their reintroduction in 2001 – I still couldn’t quite believe my luck. As soon as I got back to Carmen, I transferred the pictures from camera to computer, to study them more closely. There was no mistake: the downward curving red beaks, the glossy black plumage, the red legs. These were choughs: the emblem of Cornwall; the bird in which the soul of King Arthur himself is supposed to reside.

They probably chat to each other in a strong Spanish accent (Asturian, I suspect!), as that is the country from which they were reintroduced. But as far as I am concerned, these were the genuine, legendary, Cornish article. If I’d seen a Phoenix on the wing, I couldn’t have been more surprised or pleased.

That was the highlight of a glorious Sunday, in which I clocked two new breweries (Penzance and Lizard), swam at Gwynver in the morning and Kynance Cove in the afternoon, and basked in the well-nigh unbroken sunshine. The sea at Kynance was crowded with children, most of them wearing wet-suits. It struck me that we are in danger of breeding a generation of wimps, who won’t go into the sea without a wetsuit because “it’s too cold”. Besides which they’re denying themselves one of the supreme sensory pleasures, of cool water on warm skin. I’ve got nothing against wet-suits for surfing, but swimming in them is (one must assume) like making love using an old sock as a condom.

Kynance Cove

“Henry’s Campsite”, in Lizard village, is very different from the wide open spaces of Trevedra, but just as delightful. It feels almost as if I’m camping in a garden; a garden in the Isles of Scilly, at that. We are surrounded by palms, echiums, agapanthus and big white daisies. Chickens poke around between the tents. The pitches are marked out by massive granite gateposts. And, best of all, the little campsite/farm shop sells Spingo, from the Blue Anchor in Helston, which has the oldest working brewery in Britain.

It was gloomy and overcast on Monday morning as I walked first to the Lizard Point, and then onto the Most Southerly point itself, complete with the Most Southerly cafe, Most Southerly gift shop, Most Southerly car park and Most Southerly public toilets. This isn’t a place which hides its location under a bushel. The sea was flat calm, and when the fog rolled in, each blast from the lighthouse station’s foghorn reverberated mournfully for fully ten seconds off rocks and cliffs and glassy ocean.

I lunched on a pasty from “Ann’s Famous Pasty Shop” and I have to say that Warrens of St. Just has a serious rival. The pastry is a sort of cross between short and puff – just as with the incomparable (in my humble opinion) Ivor Dewdney’s pasties in Plymouth (the Exeter ones are a deeply inferior imitation).

This afternoon, I cycled to Coverack, via Cadgwith and Kennack Sands. The sun emerged briefly from behind the scudding mist, but then disappeared again. Goonhilly Downs, across which I cycled, is as bleak a heath as you could meet, but in the little valleys that run down to the sea, I saw something almost as rare as a Cornish chough – half grown elm trees. Presumably, being cut off by the heathland, they’re far enough away from other elms to escape the wretched beetle. But it was a bittersweet moment, because it struck me that my three children are both too young to have seen a fully-grown English elm in all its glory in the past, but not young enough to have any realistic hope of seeing one in the future.

So that is the end of what I think I can safely call the British Isles leg of the trip. I plan to leave for Brittany in late August, and in the meantime, when I get home, will post some photographs, and offer some halfway stage reflections.

Blogging away

Wingletang Down, with lighthouse left of centre. The rather rude rock is, with considerable delicacy, known as the Devil's Punchbowl!



July 12 On Wingletang Down

I rather think that the Isles of Scilly is my favourite place in all the world. I love my home in Somerset, of course; the Blackdown Hills has a very special place in my heart; Dartmoor moves me as nowhere else; and I have a great fondness for the blue sea and golden beaches of the south west corner of Portugal. But I guess that if you were to invite me to choose a place in which to spend a final holiday before the great umpire in the sky draws stumps, the Isles of Scilly it would have to be.

For islands so beautiful, it is quite remarkable how unspoilt they have remained. The air is pure and clean, the sea is clearer than a mountain stream, the sky on a clear night is a wonder to behold. And within every island, there are the most remarkable contrasts between the sub-tropical calm of the lagoon-facing coasts, and the wildness of the cliffs and heaths battered by the open sea.

I would visit all of the inhabited islands in the course of my final holiday (and Samson as well), for they are all beautiful in their different ways: cosmopolitan St. Mary’s; the slightly rough diamond that is Bryher; the white sands and crystal waters of St. Martins; even time-share Tresco has its charms, quite apart from the Abbey Gardens. But the island on which I would base myself would be St. Agnes. It is the smallest of the main islands, the most southerly, the most Celtic and, to my mind, the most characteristically Scillonian..

You can walk its coastline in a morning, as I did yesterday. Starting at the smart new quay, with its formal gardens, I walked anti-clockwise, to the cricket ground, on which I would so love to play, and on to Periglis, with its perfect crescent of white sand, little church, lifeboat station and whitewashed cottages. Troytown Farm is next, with its campsite, its farm shop and the new house for the coming generation of Hicks’ (almost everyone who lives on St. Agnes is a Hicks), as featured on “An Island Parish” on the BBC during the winter.

Then it is out onto Wingletang Down, with its fantastical rock formations, springy turf, ancient sites and the ever-restless sea. I paused at the 400 year old Troytown Maze and threw a coin into St. Warna’s well, into which – according to what I’m sure is as baseless a story as it is scurrilous – the locals used to throw pins and pray for shipwrecks. There is a little beach in the south west corner of Wingletang called Porth Askin.

Porth Askin


The last time we were there, Claire found herself pursued by an amorous seal (well, it was an easy mistake for him to make!). This time, I swam on my own, and there were no seals. The water was cold, but not breathtakingly so.

I made a point of visiting Horse Point, which I’m pretty sure is the most southerly point in the British Isles, before turning north past Beady Pool, to the sandbar which joins St. Agnes to Gugh (off which most of the sand has been washed by last winter’s storms) and finally, the Turk’s Head, which is Claire’s favourite pub, and where I ate a whole Scilly crab, so fresh that it was still warm from the boiler. The sun was out by now, and I dozed the afternoon away on Gugh. It was a day made in heaven.

From the Turk's Head, looking past the new quay towards Tresco

After all of that, my visit to Land’s End this morning was a bit of a come-down. It is by no means the most spectacular headland in Cornwall and any sense of being at the end of the world has been entirely destroyed, not just by the hotel, but by the spectacularly tacky “shopping village” and sundry other “amusements”, which have been allowed to grow up alongside. The contrast with the smart and sophisticated visitor centre at the Cliffs of Moher, or the way in which the French have sought to protect the wildness of the Pointe du Raz by keeping the tourist facilities at a discreet distance is by no means to Cornwall’s advantage.

Just reverting to the Scillies for a moment, it is a mistake to think of them as offering Cornishness in its purest, most distilled form, in the way that the Aran Islands do with Irishness. They do have a strongly Celtic core, of course, but it has been seasoned and enriched over the centuries by the myriad of people who have washed up on Scilly’s shores – often quite literally – and have chosen to remain. They do say that one of the reasons why the islands are so different from each other is the influence of shipwreck. The inhabitants of St. Agnes tend to be short and dark, on account, so the theory goes, of the Spanish ship that was wrecked there in the sixteenth century. The people of St. Martins, by contrast, are tall and blue-eyed, by courtesy of the men who made it to shore when a Norwegian ship went down, many moons ago.

While I was waiting at Lands End airport to board the little aeroplane that would carry me to Scilly, a Cornish lady came up to me and said “you must be a Scillonian”. I had to confess that I wasn’t. But given that Scillonians have a well-deserved reputation for being handsome, unfailingly courteous and well-spoken, I took it as a considerable compliment.

A final word about the campsite – Trevedra Farm. It is the best of the 25 I’ve stayed at so far, bar none. The fields are level, the views are superb ( I can actually see the Scillies in the distance out of Carmen’s windows as I write), the farm shop sells all sorts of local goodies, including excellent pasties, the showers and loos are clean and smart and there is a lovely sandy surfing beach just half a mile away down the cliff.

It’s also only a couple of miles from the little town which really does offer the essence of Cornwall, and that is St. Just. It has two really good pubs (the Star and the King’s Head), the best pasty shop in the Duchy (Warrens) and an excellent fish and chip restaurant, which is where I’m headed on my bicycle to buy my supper. I might just have a pint as well, while I’m there!


St. Martin's

July 10. Wet, wet, wet

It goes without saying that it rained all day yesterday, although ‘rain’ seems a singularly inadequate word to describe what we endured. This wasn’t soft summer rain; it was cold, hard, slanting winter rain, driven in on a chill westerly gale.

Fortunately, a bus runs every hour from the Trevalgan Farm campsite (which I strongly recommend) into St. Ives, so I decided to console myself with a good lunch, at the Blue Fish, behind the Sloop. I went for calamari, followed by sea bass with noodles, samphire and chilli jam, off the fixed price £14.95 menu, washed down with a bottle of house Sauvignon. The calamari were exemplary; the sea bass was rather overwhelmed by its accompaniments. The waitress’ black thong added considerable further enchantment to the view.

The Sloop from the Blue Fish - too wet even for the seagulls

It was still tipping down when I left at 3.00, so I decided to while away an hour or so with a pint and The Times crossword at the Golden Lion (a Good Beer Guide entry whose doors I have never previously darkened). The all-day drinkers were going strong in the back bar. The focus of conversation was a gentleman who suffers from a speech impediment I have not previously encountered. He was incapable of saying anything just once; it had to be repeated at least three times.

“What was it Pericles did? What was it Pericles did? What was it Pericles did?”

We never did discover.

The conversation became progressively more surreal, as the subject of spinach somehow intruded into a debate on Che Guevara.

“Can Che Guevara save the world? Can Che Guevara save the world? Can Che Guevara save the world? With spinach. With spinach. With spinach.”

To which his equally pie-eyed friend replied, with commendable logic under the circumstances:

“Not any more he can’t. He’s dead. The CIA done ‘im in. And bugger your spinach!”

I decided against a £4.75 visit to the Tate St. Ives. Having been left distinctly cold by the contents of the Guggenheim in Bilbao, I didn’t hold out much hope of getting my money’s worth of cultural inspiration at what is a distinctly poor relation.

Sunshine at last

It stopped raining at 6.00 precisely. I squelched my way down to the coastal footpath and sat on a bench, to watch the sun move across the waters, and listen to the larks and the sea.

Today, the weather has been much better. So much so that I fell fast asleep in the afternoon sunshine on Gwynver beach, just down the cliff from what is another excellent campsite (Trevedra Farm near Sennen), and was two hours late for my round of golf at Cape Cornwall. I got round by 9.30.

Cape Cornwall

It isn’t the greatest golf course in the world (some of the holes are deeply silly), but it does have glorious views. Having played at mainland Britain’s most northerly course, just a few miles from one of its two Capes, I felt I was completing the circle by playing at its most westerly, just a few hundred yards from the other Cape. And I bettered my handicap by a shot.

Tomorrow, the Scillies.

July 8 Celtic connections

Trevose Head

St. Piran, the patron saint of tin miners, if not of Cornwall itself, was an Irishman: a follower of St. Patrick, the patron saint of Ireland. He, of course, was a Welshman. The father of the Celtic church in Scotland was St. Columba, from Donegal. Did these differences mean much at the time? I suspect not. They were all just Celts, speaking more or less the same language, united in opposition to the Norsemen and Saxons advancing ever further from North and East. Many of the Breton saints have strong links with both Cornwall and Ireland, although the flow does seem to have been predominantly north to south. On the spur of the moment, I can think of no originally Cornish saint who made any sort of mark elsewhere, although that may simply be because the Irish and the Bretons were very much more assiduous in preserving their historical records than the Cornish.

Anyway, in common with virtually all the myriad of Cornish “saints”, Piran was essentially a missionary, who set up his ‘llan’ – a religious settlement – alongside a little stream a mile or so inland from what is now Penhale Bay. In around 550, he built an Oratory, which was overwhelmed by the shifting sands maybe a thousand years ago. By a curious coincidence, it was rediscovered at around the same time – the turn of the 19th century - that the church that was built to replace it was similarly having to be abandoned.

St. Piran's Oratory, re-buried in the sands

This being Cornwall, with its fine disregard for antiquity and beauty, the Oratory had no sooner been disinterred than it was ransacked. Eventually, in the early years of the 20th century, they encased it in concrete, giving it the appearance of a particularly ugly roadside garage. So ugly, in fact, that – this being Cornwall – they decided thirty years later it would be better off buried again!

Despite all of that, St. Piran’s Oratory remains a place of pilgrimage, not to be missed by any self-respecting Celtic Odysseus. So yesterday, I cycled the six miles from St. Agnes Beacon to Perranporth, and slogged the last three miles along the beach and up through the mighty towans, to pay my respects. It was a grey, windy, gloomy afternoon, which would have been a disappointment in mid-November, let alone in early July, and my left knee was killing me. But I was glad I made the effort. It is an atmospheric spot. In Ireland, it would be crawling with tourists. In Cornwall, I had it all to myself.

I made another pilgrimage this morning – to Knill’s Monument, over-looking St. Ives, where we scattered my father’s ashes in 1997. I don’t know what the old boy would have made of his eldest son touring Cornwall in what he would no doubt have described dismissively as “a motorised caravan”; although come to think of it, I do - it would have been “Tcha!” But St. Ives was just about his favourite place in all the world, and all of his four children – myself, Chippy, Adam and Felicity – were taught the rituals to be followed when visiting Knill’s Monument. I may have got this wrong – in which case, father, forgive me – but I think the drill is to walk three times around the pediment of the granite steeple, pausing after each circuit to intone: “Old John Knill pray work my will” and make a wish. Or then again, it could be that you have to walk around it three times and then call upon the old boy to grant a single wish. I opted for the former, but kept the wishes modest, just in case I’d got it wrong!

Knill's Monument

I am installed now not far from Knill’s steeple, at Trevalgan Holiday Park, about two miles west of St. Ives. Looking north from the earthwork (modern, I fear) in front of Carmen’s bonnet, I can see the top of Godrevy lighthouse and even make out (with binoculars) the campsite where I stayed last night on St. Agnes Beacon, 15 miles north up the stupendous North Cornwall coast.

And you’ll never guess what happened this afternoon…. The sun came out! So I tucked my plancha di agua under my arm, packed my wetsuit and swimming trunks into my rucksack, and set off across the fields to Porthmeor Beach and my first surf of the entire trip. It wasn’t exactly historic. The waves were as messy and unsatisfactory as a Gordon Brown compromise (and that’s the polite simile!), but it was unquestionably a surf.

As I write, we are being engulfed by yet another storm from the West. I am comforted by John Knill’s splendid motto, which appears on his monument:

NIL DESPERANDUM!