Having left Tintagel on a hot summer’s day in June, in my mind Cornwall has been waiting for us with the sun permanently glinting off the Atlantic Coast.

We motor down on a grey Saturday in November. Arriving at the Camelot Castle hotel, perched on its own headland beyond the castle, as the sun sets. It feels like we have stepped back in time (or a murder is about to be solved by a moustached detective!) as our waitress, dressed in black and white, serves our meal in the high-ceilinged dining room. Afterwards I warm myself by the roaring fire in the hallway and admire the tinsel adorning the window sills and fireplace.

Thankfully we sleep well, oblivious to the storm brewing outside, protected by the thick walls of the Victorian building. Before breakfast we pay up, peruse more of the pictures of the hotel owners with various celebrities and escape out of the revolving door.  The wind is making an eerie whistling sound through the telegraph wires. We attempt a walk around the building, just to see if it really is gale force as predicted, then make the sad decision to postpone our walk for today and check in early to our holiday cottage.

Our second attempt is more successful. We leave our cottage in Crackington Haven before the sun rises and catch the bus back to Tintagel.  By eight in the morning, we are walking down the lane from the village to Tintagel Haven beach, below the cantilevered bridge to the castle remains. The sound of water, gushing down the hill, alongside the path, roars against the waves crashing over the sand onto the rocks.

The path weaves around the base of the cliff.  It’s not until we are round the other side that we can look back to see the Camelot Castle perched upon its hilltop.  A landmark we will see for many miles to come.

The view ahead is stunning, grass topped dark craggy cliffs, rimmed by an ever-changing necklace of crashing waves and the occasional rocky island.  The thin grey clouds, tinged with pink, set to transparent, allow us a tantalising peek of the blue sky above.

The grassy path weaves downhill to cross the bridge at Bossiney Haven where we stop for our breakfast on a bench and enjoy the view.  Seabirds are perched on the edge of the cliff; we can just hear their squawking over the sound of the waterfall gushing out to sea and the never-ending crash of the waves against the cliffs.

We lose the path in Rocky Valley and end up walking all the way up the valley, me tantalised by a wind bent pine tree, Nigel just following.  It’s tough to turn back, knowing that todays walk is twice the length we originally planned after yesterday’s postponement. Back on track and the path once again weaves down between the two cliffs, the water gushing loudly through the appropriately named rocky valley to the sea.

Once up the other side the going is easy for a while around Trevalga Cliff, the sun peeping through the clouds creating a mini rainbow over the sea.

There are very few walkers out today but we are met on the next pathway by a set of eyes.. and ears.. but not a wagging a tail. A brown cow and his fairly friendly family glare at us as we pass.

We cross another bridge over a smaller stream at Grower Gut and some fabulous stone steps over a curzyway wall.

By the time we arrive at the Willapark Lookout, above Boscastle, we have been walking for nearly three hours. Now owned by the National Trust and manned as a Lookout Station this cute white rendered building was originally built as a summerhouse in the early 1800’s. Looking back the fields are curiously shaped into long strips.  A sign tells us this is an old farming system whereby the fields were divided into 1-acre stitches where individuals have planted crops such as turnips, red clover, barley or beans. There are forty Forrabury Stitches remaining which are still actively farmed today.

Not far from the lookout we can see the village of Boscastle nestled in the valley.  It’s been nearly twenty years since the devastating flood of the summer of 2004 which washed cars and buildings into the sea.  A sign above the door of the Witches of Boscastle Museum simply states ‘FLOOD LEVEL 16/8/2004’.

We are heading for the Boscastle Farm Shop on the clifftop beyond the village, but stop for a while in the bus stop to shelter from the rain.  A passing local, walking his dog, stops for a friendly chat about the weather and makes a joke about his solar panels on his head not working!

We find the coast path a short way along the road out of the village and with our heads down to shelter from the rain we walk the short distance around Penally Hill to the Farm Shop.  We’ve only been in Cornwall a couple of days and this is our second delicious meal in this warm, friendly and well stocked farm shop and café.  Although we don’t linger today as we’ve made the decision to carry on to our holiday cottage beyond Crackington Haven and we only have three hours of daylight remaining.

Not far from the farm shop steps take us down into the valley and across a bridge. Then we follow the single file path which skirts the edge of the grassy cliffs, the grass, bracken and gorse blowing in the wind around our feet.  Looking back, we can see the white lookout tower and in the hazy distance the Camelot Hotel.

Round stepping stones, the flood waters lapping at their rim, guide us over the next bridge.  The landscape is barren and windswept and we see few other walkers. But we do meet another group of brown cows, who stare us out, so we decide to skirt round the field where his friends stop and glare until we re-join the path and through the gate. It feels like the path has been recently upgraded as we descend a well-defined zig-zag path down and up the other side.  We meet our only other walkers of the day and chat about their walk and the cows!

It’s now four o clock and the daylight is running out. We weave through a small woodland, then can see the small village of Crackington Haven. It’s funny, when we were booking our holiday cottage it didn’t seem to matter where in the village we could stay, but now we wish we weren’t the half hour walk on the far side! It’s tempting to stop at the pub or take a walk on the sandy beach, now that the tide is out, but we carry on out the other side of the village towards Black Rock.

Thankfully we checked out the route from the tiny hamlet of St. Gennys to the coast path so we know where to turn off the path.  Arriving back at Raddon’s Cottage, near the church. the sun has gone down and we are pleased to have stocked up with provisions from our new favourite farm shop, we can shut the curtains and rest our weary bodies after today’s 16 mile walk!