Well yesterday we had climbed up to over 11,000 feet altitude, and it was exhausting. Exhausting I tell you. And this morning we felt the effects of that walk and the Irish Bar. I say ‘I tell you’ because it sounds slightly deranged.

Nir, our leader, had decided on a 7am breakfast and an early yomp up on top of the hill behind Namche to see if we can see Everest and its chums.

First off we walked up to a park on a small hill, dedicated to Sherpa Tenzing Norgay, who scaled Everest with Edmund Hillary. They were the first to get to the top and Tenzing was from the village of Thame, where we may be staying tomorrow night. There was a museum in the park dedicated to Tenzing and Sherpas in general. Fascinating.

We dropped down to the village to start on the higher climb and were rewarded with this panoramic view of Namche.

Looking down the valley that we had walked up the view was great.

However the views of the Everest range were largely obscured by clouds. Thanks Pink. But Lhotse (4th highest in the world) was clear. Everest, over to the left, didn’t show.

We bumped into the woman who supports Leeds and her husband again, Ruth and Paul from Otley. For the benefit of Southerners it’s pronounced Ockley. Turns out that they run a karate school and are both 5th Dan black belts. And they both lived in Melbourne for donkeys years before returning to the UK. I know another Leeds fan who lived in Melbourne who had the audacity to marry my eldest daughter. Later on Paul and Ruth joined us for a pool challenge at the Irish bar and Paul had the audacity to win. A lot of audacity from the Leeds Metropolitan Area.

Earlier, whilst walking back to town, we were treated to a view of Tensing Park, surrounded by trees and sitting on top of the hill.

The two piles of fresh hay with legs, walking down the mountain, are local farmers. No tractors or roads here.

We had lunch in the hotel and spent the afternoon playing pool with Nir and Amit, and the occasional Ockley based hustler. We took it steady and went to bed early, rested and sober.

Night night.

We had a long night’s sleep in Phakding, stoked by an early start yesterday, an exhilarating flight and a five hour walk up the Milk River valley. The weather was still warm this morning and the overnight rain had stopped. Today was going to be a hard day’s walking, particularly as the recent flood, which washed away much of the village of Thame, had also destroyed the riverside path. This meant climbing later up onto old donkey routes higher up the valley side. But the sun was out.

Our party of five started out as a party of four, as Bikram disappeared with Daniel’s rucksack. We passed a house later with exotic smoke drifting from it and Bikram toking on something which he hastily hid from us. Who would have thought that he was given to herbal tobacco?

He looks like a young Shane MacGowan. A bit.

We made good time up the river track, which rollercoasters up and down the valley side. Crossing over a few swinging bridges, which never seem as if they will remain intact when you’re wobbling across them. And the raging waters below pose a scary landing zone.

Droves of loaded donkeys cross these bridges, so they need to be strong. The burst glacial lake which took out Thame also damaged villages on this stretch of the river. Here a complete house and garden disappeared into the flood. Carried away by global warming.

The gorge was getting deeper and more gorgeous!

Waterfalls spring out of the hillside high above.

And manly men pose for photos to advertise the National Park.

Having climbed high we dropped down again towards the tea house where we would eat lunch.

We are in the region where, five hundred years ago, the Sherpas left Tibet and came over the mountain passes to seek sanctuary and a peaceful existence. They brought over their Buddhist religion and there are piles of these ancient tablets by the wayside.

The route along the riverside was blocked by piles of spiky branches, indicating the start of the damaged path.

We headed uphill and joined the donkeys on the high route. With no roads at all in this region the only way to service the villages is by donkeys, people or helicopters carrying goods.

I was foolish enough to take on a challenge from Nir. I ate two extremely hot peppercorns taken from a tree at the side of the path. I made it to a nearby farm where the lady gave me sugar and butter to dim the pain. I thought I was going to faint. Dan caught my pain on camera. Bastard!

After hours of difficult path we came to the parting of the rivers, and a high bridge taking us over the right hand river, which starts high up on the Everest range. This is a test of nerve, but facing a two day walk back to Lukla and three flights home you don’t really have much choice.

Looking downstream the view was great. We had come up the valley high on the hill to the left. Immediately in front of this vantage point the two rivers join and flow down away from where we were standing. In two days we will be following the river that comes in from the right on this photo, the westerly river.

Now the climbing really started. It is a steep route through the forest to Namche Bazar. It took the best part of two hours to climb this remaining 1300 feet. The shortage of oxygen is beginning to hurt. But suddenly this large village, built largely to service trekkers and mountaineers, emerged in front of us, cradled in a bowl in the mountain. The only physical link to the outside world being a small helipad and the footpath that we had walked up on.

We had beaten the rain. Dinner and the highest Irish bar in the world kept us fed and watered. And bloody Leeds fans had got here first.

Night night.

How lucky were we. Rudely awakened and getting into a taxi to the airport at 4.45am hundred hours we could at least look up to a clear, unclouded sky. Lukla airport would be operational and we were on our way.

Dan’s face bore the effects of late nights and lascivious behaviour.

My face was hidden, aged and gaunt in the first light of day. Lined and baggy. Like my trekking trousers. Smelly and drained, like an open tin of tuna. Pale and hairy, like my bottom. Ey!!! Enough! It’s an embarrassment for your wife, children, grandchild and friends, whose standards couldn’t possibly be as low or lower than those of DG (dirty old devil) Smith.

Avoid this man at all costs! He’s rude.

The flight was on an old twin otter. Full of trekkers, at least 14 of us, including me, Nir and Dan Boy.

It felt like we only just made it over a mountain ridge. I’ve deleted the sound to save you from contempt at my cowardly commentary.

And this one contains my verbal dignity during a bumpy landing. I knew everything was fine. I was just kidding on the previous vid. I’m brave. (In front of the shaving mirror).

And then we were freed into the Himalayas to play. We met up with Bikram and Amit, who will be carrying our rucksacks. I can’t do it anymore. Not at altitude. I’m old and soft.

As soon as we arrived in Lukla; well, shortly after, we bumped into a couple who were on our flight. And guess what? They were from Otley. I travel 4,672 miles to meet people from around the corner who support Dirty Leeds. Will they not leave me alone? Look at the motion on that left hand. Seventy years old next week and the lass was trying to smack me for being a Blade! Disgusting.

The day was early and still sunny, and maybe too sunny. We walked up the valley of the Milk River, and me and Danny Boy were carrying day sacks, smaller rucksacks, with our make up and mobile phones in. And they were making us sweat like sweaty sweaters. When we stopped for breakfast further down the track our backs and sacks were dripping wet.

We’re doing a trek around three passes in the Himalayas, including EBC (that’s what Everest Base Camp is known as for the annoying Cognoscenti) and the impression of Himalaya is of frostbite to any items that stick out away from the body core. Oooer! Well, for the first day or two we’re going to be warm and maybe wet, depending on the monsoon. Now the monsoon has held off so it’s dry, so we’re not wet. Well we are, from the sweaty backpack. But not yet from the monsoon.

The route is set out below, and we’re going clockwise.

So, back to where we stopped for breakfast, there were three Buddhist monks sitting by the opposite wall performing some kind of religious ritual for themselves. The place was otherwise empty.

Spiritually uplifting for five minutes but when it takes an age to cook your scran and these lads are ranting for 45 minutes it does your box in.

We eventually set off after putting on loin cloths, ringing hand bells and thanking the Lord for Siddhartha. Well we didn’t really. I just made that up. We just buggered off after we ate.

Then two hours later we found our tea house. Rest and peace at last.

Night night.

I like it here, but to get here I had to take a 7 hour flight to Dubai, wait for 7 hours and get another flight to Kathmandu. It makes it a drawn out process when a direct flight would take 10 hours max. My nephew Daniel was on the same flights so I had company in Dubai.

And at Kathmandu airport we were met by Nir, the lad who was the guide for me and David two years ago, and his son, who is studying Hotel Management at college in Kathmandu. Great to see them again.

We had only slept for two hours and after a quick visit from Nawaraj, the boss of Trek Around Nepal, we nipped out for an early dinner. Great hot curry and an amazing local band playing traditional Nepali music under a warm and starry sky. Just perfect.

An early night for the Yorkshire lads at the Oasis Kathmandu Hotel, where the staff recognised me from my earlier visit. Kathmandu was a bit quieter and more laid back, as we are here prior to the trekking season and there are less tourists spending fewer money.

We both overslept and were awoken by phone calls from the breakfast bar at 9.30. Breakfast was great and slightly spicy and immediately after Nawaraj came to join us, with maps of the Everest region and of the route we were taking. He also indicated that if we decided to climb one of the lower peaks, around 20,000 feet, he could arrange a mountaineering guide and climbing permits. We’ll see how we get on. No need to run before we’ve walked.

We roamed around town, changed money and looked for trinkets to take home. Daniel rode one.

Then we got slightly lost and wandered the back streets for an hour or two. Crossing our own path several times but not recognising where we were. Somewhere with a shrine.

I can’t remember who this bloke was but Daniel appeared taken with him.

And the significance of motorbikes and marionettes mysteriously dematerialised in the warm, Nepali lager fuelled afternoon.

We returned to base to pack our rucksacks for the trek tomorrow, leaving as much as we could in suitcases in the hotel awaiting our return. Less weight more speed, although in fairness the bigger rucksacks were to be carried by local porters. Small men capable of carrying huge amounts at high altitude. They need the cash, living in a poor country which relies on folk like us. During covid the suicide rate grew enormously and it makes you so sad to think of the difficulties these lovely people face.

But we’re here to spend dollar and joy. Like we did for this rickshaw driver after another night of curry and music.

I slept deeply for a few minutes and then the alarm clock went off.

I wish I could say, night night.

Why are you pushing yourself so hard? You did 4 kms the other day. Wow! I didn’t know that! What is that in miles? 2.485 precisely. The Speaking Clock! At the third stroke it will be 5.34 precisely. Pip, pip,pip.

Deborah drove me down to a cafe and bought me a bacon and egg sandwich before letting me loose.

I strode like a champion of cliff walking. Fast and…. well fast, that’s all. I mean I shouldn’t have to apologise for just being fast, surely. My name’s not Shirley.

In no time….well it did take some time but it’s just a saying….in no time I was at Swanpool Beach, watching the elderly, but determined, bathers. Respect.

Straight off again like a greyhound after a tin hare. 10 to 1 on. Over to Gyllyngvase Beach.

Close to the end and cruising along.

Then over the hill to Falmouth. Industrial and rural.

The St Helena used to come into Avonmouth docks in Bristol when I was a young man working there. A real blast from the past.

Then round the bay into the town.

I’ve completed 378 miles, well officially, but quite a few more in reality due to diversions and inland campsites. It’s been great.

Now I’m taking a break. I’m going to complete Fowey to Poole, the remaining 223 miles, next April/May 2025.

This year I’m going to focus completely on getting fit for Everest Base Camp and the three passes in the Himalayas in September. My final trek into the Himalayas. Before then there is a lot I need to do at home, and look after my missus, who is my biggest consideration. We’ve also got a family holiday in June. It’s not sensible to finish the coast path in July. Prostate Cancer UK agree and will extend the fundraising until next May. They are very supportive.

Thank you to Sparvie, Killer, Lyons, Colin and Deborah for joining me on the path. Thank you particularly to Lyons for encouraging her friends to donate and thanks to everyone who donated to Prostate Cancer UK. You’ve raised £2,380 so far. Thank you. That makes a difference.

Last word to the idiot who is me.

Night night.

The red line below is the ground that I’ve already covered. The thick green line is still to be done. It’s a gap and it vill be closed. SCHWEIN!!!

How odd. David’s pretending to be some kind of 1930s German officer. Whatever next?

I vont to see Herr Nichols.

At de crack of de dawn dis morning Deborah drove down de coast an dropped me off at Porthallow.

Oh Christ! He’s doing some kind of dated Afro-Caribbean mimicry, of an accent which only ever existed in the vocabulary of white 1960s Calypso singers like Lance Percival. Wouldn’t get away with it now. Didn’t even black himself up. Not like the Black and White Minstrels. They were good. Sunday night on BBC TV.

The forecast was for thunderstorms later so I legged it quickly.

I had checked the time of the tides as my first challenge was to get round to Gillan Creek, three and a half miles away, whilst the tide was low. At the point of low tide you can wade the Creek, but if you miss it then you have to add on another two and a half miles walking upstream to the nearest bridge.

The honeysuckle was flowering in the more sheltered south facing cliff sides.

And although I’d missed breakfast I managed to keep up a reyt good pace. Gillan Creek seemed quite full of water when I got there, this should be low tide!

Walking upriver I saw St Anthony in Meneage on the far bank. That is the village that one can wade across to at low tide. Oh heck!

I certainly wasn’t going to walk over two miles more than I needed to so I ignored the coast path and walked up the shore. And an opportunity to get wet was revealed to mine eyes, which had seen the glory of the coming of the Lord, in the beauty of the land, sea and sky.

I took off my boots and socks and began to paddle, then swish, then wade. I was hoping that it wouldn’t extend to,”then swim”, but I had too much electrical equipment to submerge myself. By carefully plotting my path I was able to keep the water at thigh level. Weaving up and downstream it took ten minutes to find a route that didn’t wet my bollocks.

Q. How can David be so crude in a blog that anyone in the entire world can read? A. Because he’s got no filter, he’s out of control, he’s an elderly bigot and he thinks he’s important.

The significance of St Anthony on this pilgrimage is that I’ve been listening to the Sensational Alex Harvey Band for the last 200 miles and St Anthony is one of his most eclectic tracks. It’s about the temptation of St Anthony, a 4th century celibate, who took off into the desert in Egypt and was tormented by devils and temptresses. Harvey screams out his name. ST ANTHONY!! It is remarkable.

His temptation was captured by Hieronymous Bosch.……

and Salvador Dali.

And here I’d landed in St Anthony in Meneage. And here was its church.

And a list of Vicars going back to the 13th century. Before which the role was provided by monks from a nearby abbey.

I had to drag myself away. I knelt in front of the altar and thought that I felt the presence of Christ warm my chest and calm my mind. I’m not remotely religious but I’ve felt spirituality in the past and this was a further blast.

I had to go. Outside was a container for dog shit. Usually he’s full of bull shit. A tyrant.

Then another three and a half miles dash to Helford on the south bank of the Helford River estuary. I dashed it, really quickly. I was hungry.

The thunderstorms didn’t manifest themselves and I made it to the ferry. To attract it over from Helford Passage, I had to open up the red circle.

Hey presto.

Looking back Helford looked nice.

A crab sandwich in the Ferry Boat Inn and then off again like a whippet.

Until I met Debs and Flo on Durgan Beach. Looking back up the Helford estuary was stunning.

Debs took some of my gear, as it was clearly not going to thunder. Which enabled me to get further speed on to make it round another 4 miles to Maenporth beach, where she picked me up.

Dinner at the campsite and an early night. Great day! Hooray!

Night night.

One can walk from Par to Fowey in half a day round the coast path, one can. I was feeling the pinch a bit physically and was way behind on my blogs, which I like to write. Self-indulgence city Arizona. But people read it and some like it and it makes me happy. Yes I’m boastful. “Did I tell you about my treks?” Nowt wrong with that. Boring, baldy, butthead.

Sharing the path with David (aka Killer) was great because it worked before in Nepal (did I tell you about my treks) and we know each other well enough to be comfortable.

I must admit I did wonder about how it would be with Colin, who I’d never met before, and Lyons, who I knew but who was still a bit of an unknown factor. But it was great and we had a good, hard walk.

The four of us, Colin, Lyons, Deborah and myself had breakfast in Par, five if you include Flo – Deborah’s dog. Then Colin and Lyons headed back to their homes, Deborah went off to put my washing in the launderette and I strolled from where we left off yesterday over to Polkerris.

It was another beautiful, sunny day and I felt a bit drained when it came to clambering up the cliffs. It was only an hour’s walk to Polkerris, and the beach was packed and shrinking as the tide was coming in.

I was perched on the terrace of the Rashleigh Inn, logged on to the Wi-Fi and blogging away. Deborah joined me and we had late afternoon lunch/dinner and went back to the campsite to prepare for an early start.

Night night.

And all of a sudden it is tomorrow! Great sleep again in Deb’s tent and up at 7am for an early walk. But before I did we had to dismantle the tents and pack for a move back to Falmouth. No problem, whip the tarp down and Deb will do the rest!

I cut across the fields to the Saints Way, an ancient route from Padstow to Fowey for early Christian travellers from Ireland travelling to mainland Europe. This saved them sailing round the difficult waters of Lands End.

And luckily it leads on to the Coast Path, where I dropped down to the Rashleigh, had a cup of tea and a bacon bap and climbed back up the cliff. Mevagissey showed up bright white in the morning light. Top left of the photo.

This was a longer walk than yesterday, but not by too much. The only noise was from the birds, particularly the Skylarks. There was an air of unreality in the……in the…. air! Silence save the sound of Skylarks, a morning haze embracing the day and no-one on the path. A clear distance from the real world. Stepping back into the thirties.

In the distance St Austell sprawled along the hillside dividing the north and south coasts of Cornwall.

Built in 1832 this tower on Gribbin Head was to aid the navigation of mariners and save lives at sea. Talking of Saving Lives at Sea, Killer says we collected over £60 for the RNLI plus over £300 sponsorship. Pretty good going.

Folk started to appear walking in the opposite direction to me. Most coast path walkers are women of varying ages, most are on their own. There are not many men walking on their own, or in groups. Any men are usually walking with their wives/partners.

Most people walk in the same direction round the path as I am, but part way through the day you do meet people coming round from your end point to your start point.

From Gribbin Head I got my first view of Polruan and the entrance to the Fowey estuary.

Looking back the most beautiful of beaches were almost empty.

Approaching Fowey estuary entrance the view across several headlands was inspiring.

Then, just after noon the path rounded a corner and I saw Debs and Flo walking down the road to Readymoney Cove, not far from Fowey.

And caught up with them at the beach.

She’d parked the van at the top car park in Fowey, so we climbed up the hill, took a photo…..or two or three……….

and then drove down to Falmouth. Tent up and an early night. Tomorrow is an early start to catch the low tide. I’ll explain tomorrow.

Night night.

We’ve had several sacraments on these three days. Cleansing of the soul through hard physical exertion. An outpouring of Holy Spirit – cyder. Anointing of the Sick – or at least applying plasters and medication in required areas. Eucharist – we had a bit of bread but certainly some wine.

And now, the end is near. Thanks Frank. But a fair way to go today. Probably the longest walk. And tonight the last supper for Colin and Lyons will be cooked by my sister, Deborah. Hooray!

We, Colin and me, had a crappy nighty sleepy. There was a party 20 yards up the campsite from our tents and it was noisy, lengthy and totally inconsiderate. Until 2.30am. We were camped in a coppice, and the rooks started to scream before 4am. ST ANTHONY!!!!!!!!

We got up at 7am and walked past the place of the party people, who had left their bottles, food and detritus lying around. I called out to them the name of St Anthony, who had resisted greater temptations than them in the Egyptian desert. Without making a racket. Not even Brahms third racket.

Lyons’ B&B let me and Colin in for breakfast. And it was great. Then we were off.

And as you can see from the photo below: the coastal path follows the coast; the coast falls and rises. That means, we’re in for more pain. Hooray!

However. Which is a great word, and even better in a Northern Irish accent. Highever. Neat. However, Lyons was able to leave her ruckie and I was able to leave mine at her B&B for my sister Deborah to collect later this morning.

I’m beginning to feel the strain and may have struggled to make it to Par with my ruckie. These were mega drops and climbs. In very warm and still weather. Sweat city Arizona.

Colin chose to carry his rucksack. I salute you.

It was slow, hard work but we ground on and on. Lyons even managed a smile. Sat down, rehydrating, in the sun with beautiful views. What’s not to smile about?

This is hard but well worth it. You really feel, at the end of the day, that you’ve achieved something. And you have. It’s a fabulous experience. But so is playing air guitar. Strum it Colin!

There were the occasional woodland glades that provided shade from the hot sun.

But the coast was always there to remind us that this is a coastal path.

We arrived at Charlestown, and enjoyed a long cold drink on the quayside.

We were umming and arring as to whether to finish here, as we had more than fulfilled Colin and Lyons’ challenge. But they couldn’t let it go. They had to make it to Par, the finish line.

And we ended up together at the Par Inn. If you can’t make it out, the blue writing on the bottom of the number 16 shirt in the frame reads “Prostate Cancer UK”. What a coincidence.

Deborah picked us up, took us to her tent, fed us on fabulous Iberian scran and we drank nice wine. Lyons got a taxi back to some decent digs and we carried on drinking wine until sleep overtook us.

A great night.

Night night.

Pals are people who are comfortable with each other as they are, and generally wouldn’t want to change their pal. Pals enjoy each other’s company. Chip was my pal. Still is.

If you haven’t done so yet then please donate to Prostate Cancer UK.

https://www.justgiving.com/fundraising/blade-goes-west-again-60145?utm_campaign=lc_frp_share_transaction_fundraiser_page_donation_received_-_nth_donation&utm_content=1fefe79d-7dc0-4340-b3ff-ea7cb46c5828&utm_medium=email&utm_source=postoffice&utm_term=1716093332804

We woke at 7am, well, at least I did. Colin is an early riser and woke me up at seven. By 7.55am we had disassembled our accommodation, packed our ruckies, washed, cleaned our teeth and were on the road. Colin’s keen on frequent showers and I think he slipped another one in whilst I was snoring. I like showers when I’m in but don’t like getting in. Or getting out. It’s like getting in the sea. Then once you’re in and used to it you don’t really want to get out. So my showers are less frequent than Colin’s. And less frequent than most folk on the coast path. Not that I follow them and log how many times they go to the shower. That would be stalking.

We marched quickly down to Meva and met Lyons on the quay. Nowhere was open for breakfast. However a local bakery had some pasties and did coffee, so we bought some and sat on a bench on the quayside eating our scran.

Another lovely morning. We finished breakfast and caught one of the rare buses that ventured from Meva down to Gorran Haven. Almost immediately the roller coaster of yomping began.

We shared a bit of Lyons’ kit in mine and Colin’s rucksacks, although she is such a proud and stubborn bugger that she wouldn’t consider sending on her own rucksack by taxi to the next destination. Having rested her legs, plastered her blisters and got an early night she was good to go.

There are so many coves and some are inaccessible at high and low tides. The walk today was difficult. Soon eclipsing the difficulty of yesterday. It was sweaty and steep. Q. How cool is this scene? A. Very.

Arriving back in Mevagissey gave us the opportunity to buy provisions for a barbecue on the beach tonight.

Colin and Sandra have been more than generous. They’ve paid for meals and drinks and Colin picked up the bill for the Wet Fish Shop. Hooray!

Setting off again after shopping we had more weight to carry but we were not too far from Pentewan Sands.

However as soon as we passed beyond this headland the path started to undulate wildly again. It was a killer when we thought that it would be a smooth run in to Pentewan.

At long last, our tribulations were over and we rocked in to Pentewan Sands campsite, pitched our canvas and escorted La Lyons to her B&B.

Safely checked in, and feeling the lightness of being without rucksacks, we headed to the far corner of the beach by some rocks.

Stranger on the shore. Thanks Acker. Lyons reflecting on life.

Disposables and driftwood make super BBQs. And so did we.

A modest repast of green beans, corn on the cob, jacket potatoes, asparagus, baby tomatoes, 9 scallops, 3 dressed crabs and a big chunk of hake. We ate like kings and queens. We cleared up our barbie, dumped the rubbish and me and Colin went to the clubhouse for an early nightcap. Lyons went to find her bed in her B&B to lie on. Boom boom.

An early night for us, 9.30pm, applauded by the sky.

Night night.

After a vegetarian breakfast, which included eggs, we shouldered our respective ruckies and set off down a country lane and permissive path to Portloe. Our arrival over a stile excited a field of bullocks, who chased us back to where we’d come from. We looked for an alternative bullfree path, couldn’t find one so I rather bravely climbed back over the stile and shooed the cattle away. Nearly cacked meself.

Portloe wasn’t far beyond, and almost immediately the path started to climb and fall.

Colin seemed fit and comfortably managed the path with his rucksack but Sandra, who wasn’t so fit, began to struggle with the unusual intensity of yomping up hill and down dale. The effort involved jellied her legs and she lost balance a couple of times, falling safely on the grassy inland side of the path, rather than the rocky drop to certain death.

I’ll claim you next time Lyons.

Nevertheless, either through stubbornness or inner strength, she got up and carried on. I thought this would end in us reaching a road and trying to find a phone signal to hail a cab, but I was wrong. She might have gone down but she wasn’t out.

The views were lovelier at each turn.

We tried to reduce the severity of the inclines and declines of the coast path by walking higher up the cliffs, but this just resulted in us taking a much longer route. So we dropped back down to the sea, and back up, then down. Then up.

We were heading for Gorran Haven today, where we would get a bus to Mevagissey. Progress was slow and painful, past East Portholland, up over the cliffs again and down to Caerhays Castle.

We were in danger of missing the last bus to Mevagissey. The last train to Clarkesville etc etc. When the opportunity presented itself we cut through a farm on a public footpath, taking a chance that we might be grabbed by the bullocks again. Smutty innuendo is the nature of my game.

How fantastic are the views?

At last Gorran Haven crept upon us and we found the bus stop in time to grab a lager in the local. The bus took us within a couple of miles of Meva, where we alighted and found a local campsite.

Tent up sir! Tarp up sir! Quick march down the long lane to Meva, Mevagissey, King of the Wild Frontier! Well, flower of the Cornish coast at least.

We enviously offloaded Lyons’ gear in her Airbnb bijou apartment next to the quayside. Not for me and Col these airs and graces. We’re kids under canvas. But it did look nice.

So did the scallops and fish pies that we had for dinner before leaving Lyons to the magnificence of Meva, and making our way a mile and a half uphill back to camp.

We’d covered over 12 miles, plus the trek back to camp for me and Col. Good effort over difficult paths.

Night night.