A Cornish Memory by Ron Trill

Some memories never dim. Nearly fifty years ago, in those carefree days after the end of the Second World War, I spent a fortnight touring Devon and Cornwall. That meant following the coast westwards and, after Lands End, back along the north coast of the peninsula; or you did it all in reverse. I was staying at Youth Hostels, so about half of one's fellow hostellers would be travelling in the opposite direction and were seen once and no more, while the other half would be with you most nights and would be quite old friends by the time the holiday was over.

Plymouth seemed to be a kind of gathering point for what sometimes felt very much like a pilgrimage. Cyclists arrived from various points by road or train and a large group of Americans blew in by boat: ("Say, I hear your English bikes do all the work for you."). Not a helmet in sight. This was fifty years ago. There was also a German lady, fortyish or so, who rode an enormous lady's loop frame bike. She seemed to fit into it rather than sit on it.

After Plymouth, the next hostel was at Boswinger, a small village about fifty miles further on near the coast. This was a long way for some hostellers who were doubtful of their abilities to ride this distance in one day; this ride was going to be a great adventure. They set off with determination, and all arrived in good time, and, I believe, enjoyed the challenge! Just shows what you can do.

Beyond Boswinger there was a succession of lanes and fishing villages before picking up the main road to St. Mawes and the ferry to Falmouth. Over towards the Channel though there was the area known as Roseland, and by riding the few miles down the length of the Roseland peninsula, it was possible to catch the ferry at St. Anthony-in-Roseland. Places so-named should not be missed, good then that there would be enough time to leave the ferry at St. Mawes and ride round to the Falmouth Hostel by way of the St. Just-in-Roseland church and the King Harry ferry over the Truro River.

It was still only early afternoon when I arrived at St. Anthony. There was the water's edge and I could see St. Mawes across the channel, yet there was no sign of any quay or jetty... So where did I catch the boat? It was a warm afternoon and nothing stirred in the village, but perhaps I could find someone to tell me. However, as I walked back to the village I met a pair of ramblers, who had a day or two previous, left their car and were taking a week to walk back to it. They too, were catching the ferry, but were much more clued up, luckily for me! A few yards back from the water was a gate after which a path led steeply up the cliff to a stile and then down through a copse to a tiny cove. Apparently the ferry, when it arrived, would put out a small boat to land or pick up passengers.

We were standing there chatting and about to move to the cove when down the road looking splendid on her bicycle, came the German lady. I was reminded of a full-rigged sailing ship! But there was a problem! Her bike was indeed large and heavy, and it had to be got over the stile. It was, perhaps, a little way below one of the labours of Hercules, but the ramblers and I did manage to get down to the cove with the hefty contraption, and once there, hoped the ferry crew would give some help in getting it aboard.

Waiting for the ferry was pleasantly relaxing. It was difficult to believe that Falmouth was a mere two miles away, behind a headland. All the hustle and bustle of modern life was a world away... Yet the arrival of the ferry did not upset the illusion, in fact it seemed a part of it, that is until the crew found themselves hauling 2 bikes up the side!

The German lady also left the ferry at St. Mawes and was greeted by a party of girls as a long lost friend. Consequently much excited chatter and laughter followed while I was looking at the map. Suddenly they were gone and there was a silence most profound. Two ladies, age uncertain, were standing nearby. One said "What a to-do!" The other replied, slowly "Yes, but it is a great way to see the country. I wish I had had the sense to do it when I was young." I rode away, wondering how many wished they had not stopped.

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