70-year-old walks solo on the South Coast Path in Cornwall, UK

 

 

I have a long history with England. My mother’s side of the family came over to the US on the Queen Mary in 1947 in the aftermath of the second world war. They all had English accents. My mother, who was only 12 when she got here, tried her best to assimilate and she sounded convincingly American except after she’d had a few drinks and the English accent would become slurred and exaggerated. For me, it was embarrassing. My mother referred to herself as “Mum “whereas no one else had a mother who used that term. It was so wierd. My grandmother had a cockney accent. She would pronounce the word water “Waw-ah” and the number 99 “ Noin-ee Noin”.

Few to none of my relatives had gone back across the pond for a visit by the time of my first journey to Old Blighty. In 1984 there was a short-lived, bargain airline called Peoples Express. For $99 You could get a round-trip fare from Boston to London. It was in August, and I knew that in a few months, my wife and I would be having our first child. I took advantage of this time when I was still free to run. I didn’t have much money for expenses and played my fiddle in the streets for spending money. This sounds quixotic, but in my 20s, anything seemed possible, and high adventure was all that mattered. In subsequent years I have visited England often, cultivated some friends there, went to Wimbledon a couple times, went on a walking holiday through the Cotswold’s with my wife, and became a dual US/UK citizen, in 2023.

 

Created originally as a coastguard patrol route to restrict smuggling, The South Coast Path stretches 630 miles long. Starting at Minehead it continues along the coastline of Exmoor, past the coast of North Devon, follows the entire coastline of Cornwall, crosses the mouth of the River Tamar, runs along the south coast of Devon, and traverses the Dorset coastline before finally ending at Poole Harbour. 

The 67 mile stretch I walked went from St. Ives north to Saint Agnes then continued to Newquay, Magwan Porth, Porthcothan and finally Padstow. I’ve been advised that this was some of the most stunning trail.

My first stop Was in Saint Ives. Saint Ives is the kind of place that’s so stuffed with tourists that I am quickly repelled and quickly scurry off to less populated locations. The beaches are lovely. The old town is quaint, but the loud families, sounding like they’re mostly from London, Manchester, and the Midlands quickly destroyed any semblance of peace and quiet along the shore. 

The Route

 

 

The coastal path travels north from St. Ives up and down hills and overlooking cliffs that offer once-in-a-lifetime views of azure, blue ocean and the rocky cliffs. 

St Agnes is a quaint old town with excellent restaurants and a gorgeous cathedral. The carillon (playable bells) was on a constant loop while I was at an outdoor café across the street. It was charming for the first 5 minutes, but it wouldn’t stop. I stayed at a little place on the beach that was loud and friendly with great access to the steep slopes of the path. I walked south the first day and north the second; a pattern that I repeated at every town where I stayed.

Newquay is a trashy little place full of ticky-tacky shops and restaurants. It made me think of Wildwood New Jersey. But the path along the shoreline is a pleasure to walk.

Path along Newquay shoreline

I stayed at a budget hotel that had a breathtaking view of the parking lot. Lodging in this area during the summer is pricey and ,finding something for under $150 a night takes an effort.

By contrast, Magwan Porth, is a posh family resort with a massive beach that stretches out to sea for ½ mile at low tide and completely floods at high tide. The lifeguards sit it fancy SUVs and sound like officious tube announcers when they admonish (“Mind The Gap”) rule breakers. I stayed at an amazing spa there. Yes, it cost a lot, but it had all the New Age accoutrements. I managed to amuse the bartenders at the spa enough that they insisted that I drink for free. In an increasing state of inebriation, I settled in straw chair that was huge and round with cushions inside. A perfect spot to ease my way into oblivion and breath in the nocturnal sea air.

Porthcothan lies within the Cornwall Area of Natural Beauty. Almost a third of Cornwall has AONB designation, with the same status and protection as a National Park.

 

Porthcothan

The place has another massive beach like Magwan Porth but it has a calmer, WASPier vibe.

Padstow is achingly quaint, filled with stone houses and walls. Padstow was important during the Middle Ages as a manor belonging to Bodmin monastery and as the site of a safe haven (one of the few on the north coast). So, it became a busy fishing port and the site of nine chapels in addition to the parish church. 

Padstow

I’ve been on a lot of trails in my life (see other posts in this blog) and I always enjoy the company of fellow hikers, but I don’t remember a place “as friendly and open as the South Coast Path. We think of the English is being a little stuck up (and there may be a few of those left) but England is mostly made up of honest people trying to live their lives, work at their jobs, raise their kids and strive for as much peace and happiness as they can get. Women typically call me “love”, “my darling“ and men will refer to me almost exclusively as “mate“. People are polite, considerate, and in many cases, empathetic, and happy to help in any way. 

It’s a pretty easy country for an American to come and visit. This time I had the added baggage of having to talk about the current US president who is a difficult man to like. Generally, folks are too polite or too leery to bring the subject up. When it does come up the English often say that are astonished by the rudeness, incompetence and incoherence of current US president. They are quick to point out, however, that they have had their own political mishaps in recent years, not the least of which was Brexit. 

 

There are places along the path that are filled with well-spaced, impeccably manicured, aristocratic estates that no one seems to spend a lot of time living in. 

The history of mining in both Devon and Cornwall dates back to bronze age. The mining of tin, copper, arsenic, and other minerals continued in the area on a vast scale until the late 20th century. A lot of the humble little houses that surround the villages along the southwest coast path were, no doubt, formally the houses of miners. I’ve read somewhere that they have discovered lithium in the area, and there is an interest in extracting it, which would change a lot of things. 

It cannot be emphasized enough that this is an extraordinarily mind-blowing part of the world which has beautiful hills and cliffs and a pounding surf, and wide, sandy beaches where surfers to come in search of whopping waves from the unbridled Atlantic Ocean. 

 

Beach at Magwan Porth

 

 

The path isn’t well known outside of the UK. There are copious sections of the path that are ancient, magical, and rich with history. There were friendly, open people happy to converse with an unaccompanied, 70-year-old man. I get a certain amount of old guy cred; considered harmless. Pretty young girls in their 20s are cheerful and friendly. I am grandpa. In the London underground people stand up and offer me their seats. The fact that I’m out here at all, walking up and down hills, along jagged coastline for long distances each day is enough to get the thumbs up from other walkers passing by.

There was an elite legion of sturdy walkers who were determined to trek the whole 630 miles from Minehead to Poole Harbour. Most of them were young, attractive and fit. I got the chance to regale them with stories of hiking the Pacific Crest Trail, Appalachian Trail, the Tour du Mont Blanc and the GR10.  Many of them had plans to walk at least one of the above. The best tip that they passed on to me concerned the bakeries at the wildlife refuge centers that pop up at intervals along the path. I met a young lass from Looe who told me that the best part of walking the path is that you got to eat cake.

Even though we were in the UK, the weather held up well, with ample sunshine and short intervals of light rain. When the sun shines the sea becomes a bright, blue that can rival the Mediterranean. When the clouds come up, the sea turns gray. 

The cliffs are often high, jagged and steep in many places. People are forbidden to venture down the cliffs in as much as there have been many deaths due to falls. If you wanted to commit suicide, there are plenty of ledges you can jump off and go out and dramatic style. I didn’t feel the necessity. 

Sometimes the path goes through narrow, thickly vegetated sections where there is no real view and a strong possibility of being attacked by prickers. Sometimes the path goes through rolling downs and farmland, filled the sheep, and brown bales of hay. The English call the hills downs, moors, and heaths. Whereas the valleys are sometimes referred to as dells.

                                                        

 

On the first day in each town, I’d go south for about 10 miles and then on the second day I’d go north for about 10 miles. Having completed that section, I’d board a bus, move up the coast, get a new B&B and repeat the same process. In the end, I covered about 67 miles times two. The path is well marked and there are numerous public footpaths that lead up to it and it’s easy to find lodging that’s within a half a mile of the path, therefore providing easy walking access. 

Sunset in July came come as late as 9:30 PM. And dusk as late as 10:15. Many of my favorite moments took place in the gloaming hours, breathing in the sweet, seafaring air and staring pensively out at the briny deep.

 

 

English food has had bad rap for a long time. There is a proclivity to serve overcooked peas, carrots, and potatoes to the point where they are tasteless. A lot of the food is of the starchy, fried variety. I subsided on a good hefty English breakfast (eggs, toast, baked beans, overcooked tomato, and crispy potatoes) in the morning, supported by copious biscuits in the afternoon, and then fish and chips or veggie burgers that were served in the pub. The pub food is often served with mushy peas, or if preferred, tasteless peas from the freezer.

But this does not negate the quality of a good sausage and mash, shepherd’s pie or the many varieties of Cornish pasty. Seafood is plentiful and of course the fish and chips are lovely. In recent times there’s a much greater sensitivity to people with vegetarian diets. During my first solo visit here in the 1980s there was no such consciousness. 

The people who immigrated from India to the UK brought with them priceless curry dishes, which were quickly adopted by the general English population to the point where many people love to get curry takeout, washed down with large quantities of beer on Friday nights at the end of the work week.

 

 

After about 10 days on the path, I took the train from Newquay to Bristol. This is a journey that takes you back through the great nautical past of Great Britain. Riding the train through Plymouth, you can see that the entire town was set up as an ancient seaport. Although many of the boats are now leisure boats (sailboats tied together in neat rows of moorings), a little farther up the coast you can see the shipyards where work is done on gray naval vessels. 

Next you go past Exeter, which has the same nautical flavor with the added attraction of the university on the hill. Soon you are traveling north along the Avon River. And finally, to Bristol. 

The rivers Avon and Frome cut through Bristol’s limestone basin to the underlying clay, creating Bristol's characteristically hilly landscape. To the west the Avon cuts through the limestone to form the Avon Gorge, where the Avon goes from being mostly tidal inlet to being an actual estuary.

 

I arrived there on a Sunday afternoon and walked about 7 miles. The waterfront, which was one big “piss up” for young people mostly in their 20s. Every street is filled with pubs and restaurants with tables that sometimes take up the entire street filled with animated, Uni students with pints of lager. 

Most small businesses in Bristol are service enterprises, principally hotels and restaurants. Retail has gone the direction of online shopping and so it’s no longer profitable for someone to have a shoe store or even a hardware store. People buy all this stuff online. 

What I love about Europe is the ancient structures, the cathedrals and houses of government or of ancient businesses. The contrast in the architecture of the 16th century in the architecture of the 21st century is stark. In the earlier centuries buildings were constructed with an aesthetic in mind: fine workmanship, masonry, grand arches, colorful windows and massive wooden doors. The architecture had feeling. By the mid 20th century, the architecture became bland, brutal, and made with cheapest materials. 

In the old market section of the city, there are still some shops filled with unusual items and vintage oddities. These shops look like they’re on shoestring budgets and perhaps operated as laborers of love rather than motivated by financial gain. I saw items like ancient 35 mm cameras, wristwatches and clothing of all sorts as well as stemware, dishware, candle holders, and tools. Another shop had all manner of ancient music productions equipment. Old recording, studio boards, microphones, guitars, and all manner of musical items. None of these places seem to open before 11 in the morning. I saw a sign in one window that just said “I don’t do mornings”

Canal in Bristol

 

 

I spent the last two days of this adventure in London where I did another 15 – 20 miles of walking. I stayed at the Grand Concerto Hotel, which was boutiquey, spotless, filled with chandeliers, and antique furniture. The windows were adorned with lace curtains and went all the way from ceiling to floor, looking out onto Sussex Gardens and a long tasteful row of boutique hotels.

Speakers Corner in Hyde Park has turned into nothing more than a fast-food shop. I was hoping to hear some entertaining orators but, alas there were none. 

Barkley Square gave me an earworm. I kept singing “The Nightingale Sang in Barkley Square” to myself over and over. Sadly, there were no angels dining at the Ritz but there was a Bently dealership.

 

 

I walked through Mayfair and past Grosvenor Square, Bond Street, Marylebone, around the outer circle of Regents Park, down Tottenham Court Road, then Charring Cross past the National Gallery, and the mermaids in Trafalgar square. 

Mermaids in Trafalgar Square

 

Exhausted, I hopped onto the Bakerloo line from Charring cross to Paddington where the trip home was the only thing left on the agenda. 

Morocco in Late Winter

 

 

Since my 20s, in times of wistful despair I have fantasized of escaping to Morocco, longing for its exoticism and anonymity. Now that I’m 70 years old, I finally got it together to go there. 

 

Morocco is a country of desert white sands, snowcapped mountains, shimmering seas, and hectic cities filled with Medinas. It’s a majority Muslim country but still a modern one. Most of the waiters in restaurants are men. Not sure what that means. It’s a country to walk in. There are endless streets, markets, beaches, paths and alleyways to walk along. You will have to keep alert to avoid the constant buzzing presence of daredevils on motorbikes that seem to be coming around every corner at speeds that are capricious and cavalier. The hotels are usually called Dars or Riads and they all have a look of a harem. A traditional Moroccan Riad is a home with multiple stories centered around an open-air courtyard with a fountain. Riads were once the estates of the wealthiest, colonialists, merchants, and courtiers. The building is shaped like a rectangle with different rooms on each side. Riads are a part of traveling to Morocco, and no visit to the country is complete without staying in one. Intricate tilework abounds. Arched porticoes made from stucco and adorned with gracefully draping fabrics, and curtains. The rooms are long and narrow, with windows that go up from the floor to 20-foot-high ceilings. The staff at the hotel desk, in the restaurants and elsewhere, have a welcoming, energetic, eager-to-please nervousness that makes you want to hug them, but don’t do it right away. They work diligence and dedication. 

 

 

Morocco is close to the Earth. The bricks, tile, the stucco all come from the ground. You can tell by the color. Many buildings are constructed from the red dirt and gravel compressed into bricks. This has been the way for 1000 years. There is a strong sense of the ancient juxtaposed with modernity. New public buildings in the cities have a gleam to them, but still the decor is filled with the intricate, ancient patterns that you see in the fabric, crockery, and tile of traditional Moroccan artisans. Like many “emerging” countries there’s a strong contrast between those who still live in a world set centuries ago, and the modern, well-tailored, urban denizens. There are still horse drawn carts that make their way through the alleyways of the cities and the open landscape of the countryside. The terrain ranges in color from the nearly bleach white of the deserts to the deep red that we so often associate with Africa. 

Arabic is the primary language followed by Berber, French and English. You can see the devotion to Islam in the design of furniture, clothing, woodwork, and stonework. The mosques in the cities are just as grandly ornate as the Cathedrals of Europe. 

 

During Ramadan, the people who work every day in restaurants, hotels, medinas and farms are just a little less patient because of their daily fast. Cab drivers are more likely to break out in fistfights. In general however, the population is warm, accommodating, generous, and anxious to sell a wealthy Westerner whatever it is that they can make a Dirham from.

 

As a country, it doesn’t seem quite as poor as certain other African nations. But it may be a lot closer than it looks. From the main streets there are alleyways that go off into a maze of cool shaded neighborhoods. This is where the true authenticity of Morocco is, at least in the cities. Sometimes there are just a few people in these alleys quietly going about their business, other times there are massive marketplaces hiding away in the middle of a maze of alleyways like the Jewish spice markets in Marrakesh. It’s easy to walk forever in a city like Marrakesh. Young boys play together in large groups well past dark. Maybe the women of the house throw them out until it’s time for bed.

 

Jemaa el-Fnaa is the big main square in Marrakesh where you can hear musicians, watch dancers, listen to story tellers, or make friends with a cobra. There are plenty of people who are eager to sell you things and they’ll be sure to ask for a great deal of money with the expectation that you will bargain them down. They will often approach with a greeting, “Hello Sir. How are You? Where are you from?”.

 

 

There is no shortage of light skinned visitors, particularly in the winter, when the weather is gray and cold in New York, London, Berlin, Oslo, or Copenhagen. 

The tourists will discover that Allah has limited the number of places where you can actually drink liquor. It’s a Muslim majority country and most restaurants don’t serve booze. It’s OK to bring it with you to a hotel and some supermarkets will sell wine and beer. Except during Ramadan.

Everything gets quieter once you get up to the high Atlas Mountains. The roads twist and wind up into the small towns. 

Imlil is charming little hiker town with lots of small cheap restaurants, and at least a dozen used gear stores. There are aggressive men in the streets anxious to sell Berber apparel and rugs. The desperate owners of these stores will follow you down the street shouting “come look in my shop “, “where are you from? It is important support local people” 

 I had room on the top floor of a Riad that had an absolutely breathtaking view of the snowcapped Atlas Mountains. Many people visit Imlil in order to climb Jab Toubkal the highest mountain in northern Africa. The international crowd comes here to hike. There are as many Americans as Europeans. Give them a place to hike, and Americans will show up. The hills are steep, and it is a joy to zig and zag up and down the maze of trails that will take your breath away. My riad was nearly 6000feet above sea level and the air was thin right from start. 

 

Returning from the mountains, I spent the night in Marrakesh at a secluded little Riad down three alleyways from any street with cars. My driver could take me no farther than a quarter mile from the riad. From there, I had to find my way through Medina crowds and buzzing swarms of mosquito-like motorbikes only to get repeatedly, confused and lost in a maze of alleyways. Lacking reliable cell service, it was difficult to pinpoint my destination with a GPS. With the help of two different shopkeepers, I was finally able to find the right alleyway and then find the next alleyway by asking still other people, my GPS now worthless, until I finally came to the registration desk at the Riad. I got a little grouchy with them and suggested they put up a few more signs to enable an exhausted, seventy-year-old man to somehow find his way to the accommodation. I later learned that there are usually a gaggle of old guys with carts who are happy to take your bag and lead the way for a fee. Sometimes the riad will arrange for a cart guy to meet you. 

After settling in, I began to enjoy myself. I had a rooftop room. The rooftop itself was on two levels and each of them had a little pool that, when I visited in late February, were too cold to swim in. There were numerous lounge chairs that I could settle in and take the kind of nap that energizes me and cheers me up after harrowing trip. That night was the Saturday before the beginning of Ramadan and the main square was just another quarter mile through the Medina from my accommodation. I brought my fiddle out and I sat in with three different Gnawa bands that were playing in square. The musicians were friendly and gracious, and instead of them paying me, I left them a little tip. The rhythm of the music is intense and trance like. The group singing brings together a feeling of brotherhood. Women do not normally play that kind of music in public. By the end of the night, I was howling along with them, scratching away of my fiddle and having a hell of a time. I was exhausted after sitting in with three different bands. As soon as they saw my violin, they invited me to play. They would pull up a chair make a gesture like someone playing violin as a jester to invite me. Back at the riad, I ordered some wine from the bar. Very few hotels have liquor on site, but this was one of them. I ordered a cheap bottle of Moroccan red and drank it while staring up at the stars and sniffing the night air. 

 

The next day, I headed out with my driver to the oceanside ancient city of Essaouira slightly northeast of the Canary Islands. The raw Atlantic Ocean comes into the harbor, making it a haven for surfers. It’s also a fantastic place for people who like to lounge on the beach or drink in the bars along the promenade. There are copious local people trying to sell everything from baked goods, to artwork, to bottled water, to camel rides. 

The smell of the sea has always been like a narcotic to me. I immediately melt into relaxation. The seafood plates are ridiculously generous. I enjoyed the calamari and the prawns. The eels with their teeth and eyes still intact seemed a little threatening. The service is grand as always, and the cafés are filled with mostly Europeans from France and England. Due to my white skin a local will always approach me and speak in either French or English. This is fine with me because I find Arabic a very difficult language to learn. I feel as if I’m on a holiday, rather than an adventure as I did during the first week. I’ve got nothing against this. In fact, I booked the hotel room for an extra night.

 

 

Fès is another story entirely. Marrakech has a vibrant tourist industry with the streets buzzing 24/7 with pleasure seeking visitors from the North. Fez reveals the medieval, ancient times of Morocco. There is a labyrinth of narrow streets and alleyways. The 1200-year-old walled medina of Fez, with its 9454 cobbled alleyways and 300 mosques, is both the world's largest living medieval Islamic city and its largest pedestrian zone. Thankfully motorcycles are restricted from disrupting the peaceful progress of pedestrians. This is a relief after being in Marrakech for a while.

The tightness of humanity packed into small spaces during Ramadan brings out a special surliness in people. Men are seen arguing and sometimes breaking out into fist fights. Taxi drivers will become agitated with each other concerning the order in which they pick up fares. Adolescent schoolboys on the way home from school break out in rumbles. Due to the division of sexes in Morocco boys grow up looking to each other for human closeness, and they become much more emotionally involved than they do in other parts of the world. Feelings are easily hurt and when the stomach gets empty, the temper heats up.

 

 

My wife had joined me at this point in the trip. The managers of our riad had insisted over and over that we needed a guide to truly see everything important without getting lost. I was skeptical. I imagined that we would be led from one historic sight after another and then spirited to businesses owned by the guides relatives where we would be given the hard sell on rugs, leather goods, spices, and ceramics. We allowed ourselves to be taken in and ended up dropping at least $500. I have no doubt the guide got a piece of the action as I have no doubt the riad manager got a finder’s fee from the guide. This is how it works in Morocco.

 

On our way home we had a 19-hour layover in Reykjavik which gave us enough time to spend the night and have a morning soak at the famous Blue Lagoon. 

Fagradalsfjall, a volcano that had buried the nearby town of Grindavik in November of 2024 was showing all the signs of imminent eruption and the hotel management gave us evacuation information, should there be a problem. We were happy to get home safely.