Sunday was "Head-Orf" day. We had had a good look around St Ives on Saturday afternoon, wandering around the cursor town and taking in the Tate St Ives Gallery. Old Groombles was poozled that the gallery was named the Tate, but DJ pointed out that it WAS one of three Tates in the UK: The Tate Modern, The Tate Something Else and The Tate St Ives. So THERE YOU DO GO! Now I know and now YOU know.
Now when one begins a long walk, as we were now doing, one forgets how grueling walking can be. I'm not sure what I was anticipating, but THIS walk was a doozey! At 24 km it was not the longest we have done, but it was probably the most rugged. Along the coastal cliff-tops yes, but often plunging down to almost sea-level , then back up to cliff-tops again. This day evoked feelings of running into smugglers with Enid Blyton's Secret Seven in hot pursuit. Tiny bays could well be known as "Smuggler's Cove" and the occasional overgrown cave could well have been the secret entrance to a den of thieves bent on getting kegs of gunpowder off to London to help with some parliamentary overthrow or some similar dastardly deed.
DJ and I took the trip in our stride mostly and we soon came in sight of your Pendeen, our first destination town. A desolate town it turned out to be. Rows of miners' cottages in terrace formation, all grey in colour and dismal in appearance. We had a mile to walk into town to find our digs for the night. We found these at the bottom of the main (only?) street, but only arrived after a huge slog up the hill into a fierce, freezing headwind. This last 30 minutes or so was the toughest-going slog one could imagine.
However, on arrival at our destination - St John's House - wherein we found Moira. Gorgeous Moira, who showed us to our room and the bathroom. Here I drew a bath and soaked for quite some time. DJ also had a relaxing wallow to get our Basel temperatures vaguely back to where they ought to be.
At this point I am reminded of a mishap I experienced on this day. Not to put TOO fine a point on it, I must disclose that I fell into the mud. Only to my knees, but it COULD have been to my neck, or even beyond! DJ laughed! The track WAS black and soggy in parts and the bit I thought to tread on did have a 'dusting' of white granite-y bits that looked sturdy. However, to my astonishment, when I, with enormous (as it turned out) overconfidence stepped onto these deceptive white grains, DOWN I KEPT GOING! Moira was very helpful, it has to be said, and by next morning the socks and boots were dry and ready for the next day's jaunt. Good old Moira!