The West Country Way. Day 6: Bloody Cornhill

As the storm raged outside we were hunkered down in our squishy room with tea and reading materials.

The forecast was for rain and winds gusting up to 30mph today. Which I was really pleased about. We decided to follow the 3 until it turns North into Bude and break off onto the inland route (the 304) to follow it South paralleling our route. Following the coastal route in the wind (later to be refered to as f*&+#ing wind) and rain was not an acceptable honeymoon day.

We said goodbye to the Tigger the pubcat, not actually owned by the pub but, who himself owns the pub and went in search of breakfast.

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Cornwalland is only ever up or down, and in driving South Westerly winds, downhill is uphill.

Attempting to freewheel down the steepest gradient was near impossible. But even if it was possible, the 90 degree bends Cornwall insists on putting half way down every single hill robs you of any momentum up the inevitable ascent ahead.

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After a massive never ending ascent, we arrived in Week St. Mary who have the most perfectly stocked Community run village shop. Run by, the most cheerful ladies. All the things I wanted and some of the things I didn’t know I needed were purchased here. Who knew a giant cinnamon bun was exactly what I required for breakfast.

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We left as it began to rain and warmed ourselves up on a giant hill leaving the village.

Rain and sun and wind ensued.

After crossing an A road I stormed ahead up the next hill, only to see my phone ringing once I arrived at the summit. Shelley had found a pub at the bottom of the hill and was calling to tell me she was going there. Back down the hill I went.

No county has more hanging ‘Live, Love, Laugh’ wall hearts than Cornwall. Or instructions to ‘Dance like no one is watching’. You know the ones.

We ate lunch in the delightfully positive livelovelaugh pub on the A-road and tried to decipher the muted Olympics on a giant screen while ‘Pink’ was blaring out over the the top.

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We left in the rain, up onto Bodmin Moor, pushed our way down hill against the continuous blasting winds. Bodmin was beautiful.

We managed a small shortcut through the woods which, surprisingly, offered no shelter at all.

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A few more miles over the top, and we plummeted down into Camelford, which I could only remember as Cameltoe, (because I’m 12 years old) so that’s what It was called.

We pedalled out the other side of town and into a small family run campsite. It was very, very neat and very cute. We set the tent up and lay down for a good couple of hours. Reading, drinking Chardonnay and eating Wotsits. Bliss.

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After a much needed break from the outside, we packed a small grim little dry bag of essentials and walked along the fields back into town in search of fortification.

We passed by some interesting Cameltoe town sights, including a bench, in memory of Phillip Lessles which was erected in a less than desirable spot.

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We slept to a massive rainstorm, cosy and dry in our little tiny home, 7 miles left on the journey.

06.08.21

Miles: Whatever we did should be doubled due to f**#ing wind.