Tuesday 07 July - Redruth to Mousehole

Redruth - Camborne - Connor Downs - Hayle - Penzance - Crows an Wra - Land’s End - Trethewey - Mousehole

The morning of our last leg started rather dull, but our host informed us that the forecast was favourable and the sun would soon break through. After breakfast, he produced the Ordnance Survey maps for the area and showed us the various routes we could take to reach Land’s End. He was a splendid old curmudgeon, who grumbled openly after two fellow guests left the breakfast room having decided that they no longer wanted the cooked breakfast they’d ordered the previous evening. With no evidence whatsoever, he suspected them of bacchanalian excesses the night before, but our single remaining fellow diner pointed out, quite rightly, that he was being somewhat unreasonable. As Paul later remarked, he may well have been one of the spliff squad officers who prowled the Derby hippy scene in the early 70s, tempering our youthful hedonism with a dose of character-building paranoia.
When we set off, I was surprised at the extent of the urban area formed by Redruth and Camborne which effectively merge into each other. We had a short one-way section to negotiate in the centre of Camborne, and then an inadvisably sudden attempt at a gear change at an unexpectedly steep hill fetched my chain off for one last time, but otherwise it was plain sailing along the A3047 and the old main road through Connor Downs to Hayle. Here we followed the B3301 through the town and south to the junction with the A30, which, now following its original line through the villages of St Erth and Crowlas, was unimproved and therefore quite pleasant to cycle along. At one point we passed a horse drawn Romani vardo going the other way.
At the junction with the A394, we left the A30 and continued ahead into Long Rock, following the coast into Penzance where we stopped at a café near the railway station for a coffee. Yet again, we managed to get lost in the busy town centre, so we asked a policeman who directed us up the hill out of town to the roundabout where we regained the A30, which soon became a narrow country lane as it twisted its way through the hummocky toe of Cornwall.
Only a few small villages remained, and I savoured the final few miles, taking several breaks to absorb the tranquillity of this Celtic extremity of Britain. At Crows an Wra, I wondered about the origin of the hamlet’s name, which translates into Croes yr Wrach in Welsh and The Witch’s Crossing in English. Possibly witches were thought to have practiced necromancy at the crossroads, or maybe it was where those suspected of such activities were burnt at the stake.
A few hundred metres later, the ocean began to expand on the horizon and the road swung south. Carn Towan…Sennen…and finally the signpost to Land’s End. My customary lugubrious expression broke involuntarily into a broad grin as I sailed down the road to the visitor centre where I soon found Paul waiting for me. We’d made it. It was a few minutes past noon.
It was a glorious sunny day, as it had been at John O’Groats and for most of our journey. We took several photographs of ourselves and the spectacular coastal scenery before heading to the official photo booth and signpost where we were treated like VIPs, taking precedence over the queue of people who had not arrived the hard way. Nobody minded and one woman pressed a £20 donation into my hand. We both signed the end to end book in the hotel, although my handwriting was barely legible, because I shook with emotion and my eyes filled with tears as I recorded my tribute to Dad and Sue. We then called at the café for a coffee and a slice of saffron cake, which had quite unnecessarily been chilled almost to the point of freezing, along with its pat of butter which was consequently totally unspreadable.
With our objective attained, there was little left to do except to make our way to our B&B at Mousehole. As we set off back up the lane from Land’s End, I immediately felt the benefit of the wind behind us, an invisible helping hand which had been absent for most of our trip. We took the B3315, pushing our bikes up several very steep hills, through Trethewey and Boleigh before turning off down Raginnis Hill and the sharp drop to the harbour at Mousehole. The views were enchanting all the way, and with no pressure remaining this section seemed like a pleasant afternoon jaunt, rather than a component part of The Ride.
We felt rather hungry, so we stopped at a bar/café where there appeared to be only one member of staff, a young woman who told us we were welcome to wheel our bikes through the dining area and into the rear garden. We did so, and I ordered coffees at the bar and told her we’d like something to eat.
“The menus are on the tables” she said in a theatrical monotone to the coffee machine before delivering it a hefty blow with the flat of her hand. She looked, spoke and behaved very much like Polly from Fawlty Towers. She continuously bustled about, appearing to be very busy but not actually doing anything productive at all, unless the regular beatings she administered to the unfortunate machine were essential to its effective operation.
After we’d waited for a considerable time with no sign of our coffees, and Polly had disappeared into the garden, I began to wonder whether she’d even heard me ask for them, as she hadn’t particularly acknowledged my order. Suddenly she re-appeared with two coffees on a tray, and set them down before us. There was no sugar in sight anywhere in the room, so I requested some.
“Yes, I’ll get you some” Polly told the tray as she scuttled back to the bar with it, not stopping long enough for us to order food from the rather enticing menu - I think I’d decided on smoked salmon tagliatelle. A few minutes later, she emerged, not with sugar for me, but with a pile of plates which she carried past us into the kitchen, where she remained until my coffee had gone cold. Eventually she brought me the sugar, but still didn’t hang around for our food order, so I went up to the bar with the menu and said we were ready to order our meal.
“We don’t serve food after two o’clock” said Polly, addressing the coffee machine again and giving it another clip around the ear. “We start serving again at six”. It was about 2.30, so we finished our cold coffees and retrieved our bikes from the garden. As we wheeled them back towards the door, Polly warned the tea towel “Mind the sign!”. She was evidently preparing to close for the afternoon, and had moved the café sign from the pavement into the doorway, obliging us to lift our loaded bikes over it as we left. A bewildered family of four, who had sat down in the café and waited for about twenty minutes without succeeding in attracting Polly’s attention, left just before us.
We couldn’t find another eating place with cycle accommodation in Mousehole, so we continued out of the village and along the coast road, locating our B&B on the way, to Newlyn where the only likely looking pub was closed. We decided to wait until the evening for food, and made our way back to the B&B to check in. Our ride was now well and truly over.
In the evening, we walked back into Mousehole and headed to the Ship Inn, the reputed birthplace of Stargazey Pie, which overlooks the harbour and was, as I knew from my previous visit, well known for its excellent seafood. We sat on the rooftop patio and had a memorable meal of crab soup followed by fish pie, under the piercing, baleful glare of a herring gull. We chatted to several friendly folk who donated £40 between them to our cause. Satiated by fine food and splendid ale, and warmed by the still fresh glow of achievement, we strolled back to our final temporary home.