A faint electrical buzzing hums above me. A drone, with its black eye camera lens, assesses me from overhead. I wonder whether the Cornish have set up their own version of MI5 to keep an eye on unsuspecting tourists. As it disappears towards a nearby dairy farm, the horizon opens up. The wild Atlantic pulls the breath from my lungs.
I ramble along a stony path, bordered by bramble-laced hedgerows. The early Sunday morning mist is clearing. The breeze blowing across my ears is easing and the October sunshine is starting to warm my cheeks. To my left, a grey metal gate separates the trail from a field of mini-Hereford cattle. To my surprise, a podgy jackdaw perches on a heifer’s head as it plods along, enjoying its brunch. I chuckle at the convenient arrangement – pest control for the cow, a meal for the bird.
The route continues westward until it reaches the well-kept Southwest Coast Path, my favourite walking route in England. Mist still blurs the horizon, so I cannot see where the ocean ends, and the sky begins. The turquoise water looks more Mediterranean than Atlantic. Ahead of me is the unmistakable sight of Tintagel Island, its layers of black, grey, and white making it look like a prehistoric cake. A handful of herring gulls circle close to shore, specks of white against the clear water. I sit on a bench made of old railway sleepers and savour a rare moment of silence.
Following the acorn-marked trail, I reach the remains of the thirteenth-century Tintagel castle. Its pointed entrance arch, constructed of local slate, blends seamlessly into the contours of the rock. It feels cool and moist beneath my fingertips. Ahead, a modern pedestrian bridge links the mainland to the main castle ruins, its stark red colour jarring against the natural coastline. Begrudgingly, I walk across the twenty-first-century bridge and back, thankfully, into the thirteenth, entering the main dining hall. The slate walls, though decorated with a thin film of green moss, are still standing against time and weather. I imagine the grand royal banquets that must have taken place here.
I continue around the island, resting periodically. Jagged granite juts from the cliffs like incisors and the coastline is covered in a carpet of brown ferns that shimmer like rust. I am met by a six-foot statue of King Arthur at the far end of the Island, who legend has it was born here. The bronze figure is partly hollow, as if it were corroded by centuries of westerly gales. I can see his sword-carrying hand has been touched by pilgrims, giving it a golden glow.
I descend a weathered stairway down to the beach. The smell of ozone and seaweed fills my lungs. As I look for sea glass, a man emerges from the water. He is wearing a black wetsuit with red trousers and carrying a yellow marker board. This is Simon, a free-diving fisherman from the village, not a member of the Cornish secret service. I watch him inspect his catch of three healthy-looking bass. “I hold my breath for roughly ninety seconds,” he says confidently. “That gets me diving down around twelve metres or so.” He points to the waves, adding, “With bad weather coming, this is probably my last dive this year.”
The golden hour sunlight breaks through as Simon strides off for a fish supper. With my hunger growing, I finish with a local cream tea in the beach café. The scone, dense as a small planet, arrives with strawberry jam and clotted cream. I prepare it the proper way (in my opinion), the Devonian way, a layer of sumptuous cream first, followed by the sweet jam. Delicious!
The café owner, clearly unimpressed I did not put the jam on first (the Cornish way), gives me a suspicious look as I exit. I glance upwards, half-expecting the familiar buzzing sound of that drone to re-appear.
