Wednesday, August 12, 1981


We walked in sun and heat to Tregall, six miles distant along the cliffs. The path was easy to follow but wound up and down steep inclines and although we stopped only once, we seemed to make slow progress. I was really shagged and we were just about to start worrying when Tregall harbour appeared.

The harbour is very narrow, hemmed in by enormous, slate cliffs. The cluster of houses around the harbour date back to the sixteenth century and included, much to my delight, a second hand bookshop which was next door to the hostel. The heat was really sapping, and I again splashed out cash on drinks with gay abandon.

We sat for while on the cliffs near Spriggan Point overlooking the harbour entrance and I felt really low; angry, resentful, frustrated, and bored. The hostel opened at five; it's not as good as the ones at St. Delaward, Porthrose or Quinstow and is a bit more primitive, with rows of beds upstairs like a prison dorm. At teatime our fellow diners consisted of two Englishmen, an American, a German, and a NZ woman who regaled us all with tales of her solo trips in Canada and elsewhere. Much hearty companionship from them all to the exception of guess who.

I sloped off on my own, wrapped up in regrets and self pity but these soon disappeared as I walked along a long, narrow road which seemed to go on for miles. I ended up in the actual village of Tregall itself, and the atmosphere was intense, heightened as it was by the growing twilight. The main street was sunlit and silent and almost deserted, old locals watching St. Gwinear’s Brass Band as it crashed amateurishly through the houses playing the “Floral Dance” followed by dancing girls and kids. Unreal. I also stumbled across the grassy hillocks and mounds of Sancerre Castle, a Norman fort.

I went back for Grant and we both walked up the road again, through Tregall village and beyond this time, down a tiny country lane that was overshadowed by thick, weedy verges. The gloomy hedges created a weird, ancient atmosphere which we both just stood and savoured. Our conversation turned to witchcraft and the paranormal and I got really spooked out by the dark, oppressive trees. We imagined ancient, pagan rituals conducted by hostile insular moon worshipping locals. It has that sort of Wicker Man feeling. We had a real laugh.

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