Today was supposed to be a half day. A nice ten mile stroll to Padstow, along the Camel trail up the estuary to Wadebridge. Most of it should be flat with pretty views and a nice town at the end. However my planning let me down. While planning I'd been undecided whether I would catch a ferry across the estuary or walk around to the bridge. I'd therefore settled on a campsite five miles off trail and away from Wadebridge. Since then I'd forgotten my indecision and simply shoved the campsite details under Wadebridge and assumed they were in the town.
The first part of the day was simple enough, except for forgetting my hiking poles in the camp and having to walk ten minutes back to grab them. I crossed another golf course and wondered down a few paths before Padstow. I'd started so early my plans for breakfast in Padstow were soon abandoned, reaching its center at about nine with few places open on a Sunday. I headed straight down the Camel trail encircling the estuary towards Wadebridge. Its a cycling route, perfectly flat and easy if dull walking. I day dreamed to Beethoven and smiled as passing joggers and cyclists. It was only half way through that I realized I'd cycled this path myself on a family holiday six or seven years ago. I'd ridden the entire route in a state of tension, waiting for my brother to ring up with my A level results.
I reached Wadebridge at 9:50 and looked around for somewhere to eat before meandering to my campsite. Still no signal on my phone so I didn't have anyway to know where precisely the campsite was. Once fed I found Internet and had a look. This is when I discovered my error. I could either walk five to ten miles the wrong direction or charge ahead and hope to find somewhere on the way. Tintagel seemed to be the only next stop with camping 17 miles away. If I reached it I would have walked a 27 mile day, the idea was daunting and as I left Wadebridge I hope the fates would show mercy and give me someone to pitch before hand.
Starting to walk again once you've told your body your done for the day is hard, everything aches and feels heavy. It takes another hour to warm it up. That said the walking was simple enough if long winded. I kept to the roads more and more. The paths in this place seem to go through farms which make it their business to confuse and injure walkers.
As I climbed over the final hill and saw the sea again it was a relief. I was tired and getting more and more worried over walking yet another eight miles to Tintagel. On the path down to the coast I slipped and pulled my arm badly as I tried to support my weight on the hiking poles. I sat for quite some time trying to work out how bad it was. Shuffling to my feet I realised I could take very little weight on my arm or raise it but it didn't affect my walking. As far as I could tell it was a pulled muscle not a broken bone. Blinking away tears I shuffled onwards, and saw a caravan site tucked into Port Gaverne below. I decided to go and beg admittance. A sign at the entrance proclaimed 'campers welcome' ending my fears and I dropped my things in relief. Its a wonderful small hippy place I liked instantly, not on google maps, with good showers and facilities. The fields overgrown and steep but the family was away and . For £5 it was a God send.
Once set up, showered, and numbed by painkillers my arm seemed okay if delicate. I popped down to the rather wonderful Port Gaverne Hotel and had dinner chips and a shandy. Four walkers came in, having just started walking, and fanned my ego with shock at my millage. They were a nice bunch but more social walkers after a few days hanging out more than attacking a challenge. Looked fun but I still took myself to bed my nine so if be up and ready for the next day.
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| Camel River |
The first part of the day was simple enough, except for forgetting my hiking poles in the camp and having to walk ten minutes back to grab them. I crossed another golf course and wondered down a few paths before Padstow. I'd started so early my plans for breakfast in Padstow were soon abandoned, reaching its center at about nine with few places open on a Sunday. I headed straight down the Camel trail encircling the estuary towards Wadebridge. Its a cycling route, perfectly flat and easy if dull walking. I day dreamed to Beethoven and smiled as passing joggers and cyclists. It was only half way through that I realized I'd cycled this path myself on a family holiday six or seven years ago. I'd ridden the entire route in a state of tension, waiting for my brother to ring up with my A level results.
 |
| Looking down towards Port Gaverne |
I reached Wadebridge at 9:50 and looked around for somewhere to eat before meandering to my campsite. Still no signal on my phone so I didn't have anyway to know where precisely the campsite was. Once fed I found Internet and had a look. This is when I discovered my error. I could either walk five to ten miles the wrong direction or charge ahead and hope to find somewhere on the way. Tintagel seemed to be the only next stop with camping 17 miles away. If I reached it I would have walked a 27 mile day, the idea was daunting and as I left Wadebridge I hope the fates would show mercy and give me someone to pitch before hand.
Starting to walk again once you've told your body your done for the day is hard, everything aches and feels heavy. It takes another hour to warm it up. That said the walking was simple enough if long winded. I kept to the roads more and more. The paths in this place seem to go through farms which make it their business to confuse and injure walkers.
As I climbed over the final hill and saw the sea again it was a relief. I was tired and getting more and more worried over walking yet another eight miles to Tintagel. On the path down to the coast I slipped and pulled my arm badly as I tried to support my weight on the hiking poles. I sat for quite some time trying to work out how bad it was. Shuffling to my feet I realised I could take very little weight on my arm or raise it but it didn't affect my walking. As far as I could tell it was a pulled muscle not a broken bone. Blinking away tears I shuffled onwards, and saw a caravan site tucked into Port Gaverne below. I decided to go and beg admittance. A sign at the entrance proclaimed 'campers welcome' ending my fears and I dropped my things in relief. Its a wonderful small hippy place I liked instantly, not on google maps, with good showers and facilities. The fields overgrown and steep but the family was away and . For £5 it was a God send.
Once set up, showered, and numbed by painkillers my arm seemed okay if delicate. I popped down to the rather wonderful Port Gaverne Hotel and had dinner chips and a shandy. Four walkers came in, having just started walking, and fanned my ego with shock at my millage. They were a nice bunch but more social walkers after a few days hanging out more than attacking a challenge. Looked fun but I still took myself to bed my nine so if be up and ready for the next day.
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