Five nights in St Agnes
This place has a soft lining of memories. Bodyboarding in the February surf: blue fingers, salty hair. Scampi and chips in the corner of the creaky, cave-like pub. Trekking the coastal path to the next beach along – as a family we’d never walked so far, either before or since.
I’m here now with my husband, jokingly asking him if I’ve converted him to Cornwall’s wilder north coast rather than the calmer seas and rivers of the south. “I didn’t need converting!” he protests, but I like the idea that I’ve shared something and won him over, regardless.
As we pull into the car park, a man leaving warns us to check around our tyres for hedgehogs before we next drive away, having seen one earlier that day. Sure enough, as we set out later that evening, we spot one – small, equal parts fluffy and spiky, snuffling around and, amusingly, heading off down the road towards the sea. It’s a quiet wonder, and we keep it in sight until it disappears into the undergrowth, hoping it travels safely. I’m struck by how strange we must look to passers-by: two fully grown adults, peering at something on the ground with equal parts concern and entertainment, not really able to do anything but observe intently.
The limited opening hours of the beachside bar give us only a small window in which to visit, and so we are soon pitched up and eating tacos and chips, jumping up to grab an outside table as soon as one becomes available. We people-watch as the tide comes in and a group of fearless youths throw themselves around in the rising water below, trying to hold on to the jetty as the waves wash in, bobbing about in their wetsuits like shiny loose mussel shells in the froth. We stagger back up the hill, a few drinks down, and I think: oh, right, this is what fun feels like; I remember now.
It’s like my sense of adventure has kicked back into gear, and I am grasping, tentatively, at the welcome relief of feeling joy, the ink slowly seeping across the canvas of anxiety that had become all too normal. A couple of days later we go for a walk east along the coast – climbing steeply for the first bit, until suddenly everything comes into view and the beach is small below. Paths criss-cross over the heather and gorse. The hedges hum with bees and the buzzing puts me on edge. We press on, turning inland and following the wooded path alongside the stream, then circle back towards St Agnes itself. We spend at least the last quarter of the walk discussing whether to get an ice-cream at the end, as if it was ever really a question up for debate. Resolving to buy one, I choose and savour a scoop of the Jaffa cake flavour, and it’s glorious – catching the drips, crunching the waffle.
Our first attempt to go to Chapel Porth beach is thwarted by a full car park, but we return on a Tuesday, when it’s less busy. Dramatic is an understatement: we had planned to go in the sea, but the westerly-facing shore is being pounded by huge surf, the water more white than blue. “I hope you don’t mind me being protective, but I’m not letting you go in there,” laughs my husband. I don’t mind; the very idea of swimming feels suddenly ridiculous, and kind of hilarious, as the wind buffets our faces and I’m glad for my scarf. I try and take it all in: the gleaming, butterknife-smoothed sand, the sparkle of the waves in the September sun - an almost audacious level of beauty. A couple sit eating sandwiches on a bench halfway up the cliff, enduring what might be the breeziest lunch ever, and there’s something funny about the juxtaposition of this mundane, necessary activity against the wildness of the setting and weather – and something lovely, about participating in the place in such a way.
We finally brave the sea at Trevaunance Cove, just down from St Agnes itself, which is slightly less exposed. It is cold but I get used to the temperature surprisingly quickly, and I have that familiar sensation of wondering why I don’t make going in the ocean one of my life priorities. The immediate engagement of all your senses, tempering the rest of your life and worries to an ignorable level against the demands of the unpredictable splash, the roar of the waves: calming and exciting all at once. It’s exactly the kind of activity I need more of; a welcome counterbalance to my tendency towards introspection, to sometimes depriving myself of what is a very human need for fun. I keep one eye on the impressive surfers a little further out, the other on when and how the swell ahead is rolling in. I stay in until I can no longer ignore that I am starting to get cold – years of protracted warming up on beaches have taught me not to push it.
The local bakery has started doing vegetarian sausage rolls, and on our final morning, I stop by to buy one for the journey back. It’s incredible – flaky, buttery, just-the-right-amount-of-greasy pastry, with a perfectly seasoned onion and cider filling. I’d planned to take a couple of bites and then save the rest for later, but I can’t stop myself eating the whole thing before 12pm. I lean into the momentary experience of eating something delicious, and it feels like a wonderful metaphor for fully embracing the good stuff when life offers it to you. Whether through accident or design (and perhaps some magical combination of familiarity and novelty), this trip has given me a wealth of such opportunities – and I feel more human, more in the world, more in myself, than I have in ages.