Sunday, August 9, 1981
Today was a rest day. The weather sunny again, my nose and neck sore and red. We walked up to the village of Portwenn Bay and I bought a ‘paper, and then back down along a narrow footpath through trees to the Bay itself, which looked so promising gleaming in the sun.
We sat for awhile on Trenannon Head; in the distance, across the sparkling sea, we could see Quinstow, barely visible beyond the haze-shrouded cliffs. Trenannon Head was brilliant, the lighthouse gleaming white, the coastguard post looking so remote, its mast whistling in the wind. There's always a wind on the coast, even when it’s clear and we sat once more on the cliff edge, looking out over the blue sea towards St. Delaward. I really enjoyed the view. The sky was full of fair-weather cumulus and washed out blues, the sea a deeper blue, with the occasional white foam of a breaking wave, and the land on which we sat was speckled with yellow dandelions and tiny purple flowers.
After this, we trudged down a narrow country lane, through golf-links to the village of Portwenn Bay again, and sat for a while on a bench there, feeling sore and hot.
We ended our day watching the milling hordes on the beach. They all seemed so blissfully ignorant of the passage of time, yet their holidays will seem so short, each one moving in their own miniature cosmos, aware but unaware of the others. It's hard to describe my feelings. I can’t help thinking like this; on train journeys and at hostels we meet people, get to know them a little bit but then leave and never ever see them again. It’s sad.