Crackington Haven to Delabole – A Plan

It was a wet and cold night. I slept fitfully again but not too bad. I just underestimated the weather when I chose my clothing. But I followed my wife’s advice and put my underpants on my head to keep my baldy pate a bit warmer. Sorry, ‘the wife’s advice’.

First destination Boscastle and for the first few miles the weather was fair but very windy. The coast path runs close to the cliff edge and these are the highest cliffs in Cornwall. Having slipped headfirst off one once I decided to follow paths just inland from the cliff edge. With my rucksack even just the wind could blow my rucksack round and loosen my footing.

You could smell a storm a’coming. The wind worsened, the sky darkened and rain was on its way. I found a farm shop near Boscastle and had breakfast in the warmth.

There were no campsites for the night anywhere near the coast path. They were either not open or closed permanently. Covid had saved them but this weather was killing them. It was a long way through to Tintagel on the coast path and then up on to the moors where there were two or three campsites. In this weather I didn’t want to wild camp.

Before I finished my last baked bean the rain started proper. I decided to walk on tracks and minor roads away from the coast, get up on to the top of the moors, whilst I still felt up to it, and walk along a ridge to Delabole, short for Dead-and-alive-bloody-hole. But at least it had a campsite.

By taking this route I could travel faster up a long climb out of Boscastle. The track looked like this before the rain. Once it started I packed everything in the rucksack, donned waterproofs before leaving the sanctuary of the farm shop and waddled purposefully but slowly uphill.

Also by taking this route I could carry on tomorrow to Rock, where there was a campsite just before the ferry to Padstow where I would rejoin the coast path.

I didn’t think of anything but walking. The next step preoccupied my head. By concentrating on the next step everything else was less relevant. My pack became part of my body and I didn’t notice the weight of it. Pack not body. Six hours after I left the farm shop I walked into Delabole. A local Spar was open so I bought a sandwich.

The campsite was just on the edge of the village and it was wet and empty. Tom lived in a caravan on site and suggested that sleeping in one of his goat sheds would be better than under canvas tonight. Even though the floor was covered in goat and hen shit. He was concerned about the weather forecast.

After my sandwich (cheese, red onion and mayo), I got down in my sleeping bag on top of my mattress on top of my groundsheet, on top of the poo on top of the floor. And slept. Dry and sheltered from the strong wind and incessant rain.

Night night.