By Harry Mottram: Seeing drivers get into a panic over reversing their massive SUVs a few feet in the lanes that zig-zag the Cornish coast is part spectator sport and part comedy. Since I was on a bicycle I could feel smug and slightly superior as bikes don’t cause traffic jams. I was cycling from Falmouth to Helford along lanes which are as narrow as they were steep – roads designed for smugglers and their donkeys loaded with illegal kegs of brandy and French wine in an era before the invention of the internal combustion engine. It was very slow since I was carrying a heavy rucksack on my back and tent and bags on the fold-up bicycle with its small wheels and limited gears. It seemed like a good idea to travel by train from Somerset to Falmouth and then cycle the last few miles to Coverack, but like so often with me my good ideas were deeply flawed since it turned out to be too exhausting. At least I could smile at the struggling motorists who had huge difficulty in being able to pass each other in the lanes with some refusing to reverse for fear they might scratch the sides of their motorcars – or because they didn’t know how to.
The ferry across Helford Passage is for pedestrians and consists of a small boat which takes about a dozen people – and was advertised as being able to take cyclists. Taking the ferry would cut ten miles off the journey to Coverack where my son Ashley and his family were staying in their trailer tent. The lady in the kiosk by Helford’s beach charged me £15 to take my bike across instead of the £7 for a singe adult as ‘bikes take up the space of several people’ which sounded like a chance to relieve another holiday maker of more cash. And when I was put into a non-ferry rowing boat with small engine with two other cyclists, I realised I’d been had. Rather rocky since the craft was not designed to carry such a load but we didn’t sink – but it was a struggle lifting the bikes in and out of the boat and it was all a bit dodgy. My fellow cyclists were two Austrians touring Cornwall with large mountain bikes – about twice the size of my rather feeble looking made in China Mahon bicycle. They were on a ten day odyssey of the county and were good company but like me thought the ferry was a bit unstable. We had been told to wait by the ferry man for ages while he kept taking people across the river before eventually calling his mate to take us in a different smaller boat. Ferrying groups 12 or more at £7 a head was clearly more lucrative than a trio of cyclists.
The passage has a long and interesting history and the blog written by freelance writer Elizabeth Dale is worth a read (https://helfordriverboats.co.uk/the-ferry/) as it outlines how Helford (from Cornish for creek and English for er… ford) has long been associated with piracy and extortion – and in a way still is when it comes to the ferry. Helford is down a long and very steep and narrow lane – and is a revelation with so many people on the small and rocky beach, a busy pub and so many boats in the estuary – mostly moored awaiting their absent owners. Listening to the conversations of the bathers, sun worshipers, drinkers and boat owners all-around was entertainment itself since they represented largely the Great British upper middle class at play. I was only jealous not to be sipping champagne on one of the power boats cruising the estuary – surrounded by leggy blondes – instead I had my overloaded steed to push up the unfeasibly steep hill on the Lizard side of the river.
Eventually I ran out of energy five miles short of the campsite at Coverack and found myself sipping pints of Doom Bar in the Prince of Wales in Newtown in St Martin where my son arrived in his car to take his knackered dad to the campsite. It was the second time he’s come to my rescue when the old legs gave out this year – so I really must revert to driving my hatchback from now on – and get stuck in those narrow lanes with motorists who can’t reverse.
Scrolling through Visit Cornwall’s site the tourist guide lists beach after beach and cove after cove to check out – some I knew and some I’d never heard of – and all looked fabulous with sandy bays and rocky headlands – all the better for being empty when photographed. Coverack was well down the list – partly I suspect because it hasn’t yet suffered that fate of so many places – the curse of the Instagram influencer. My cycle ride from Falmouth past two beaches had suffered that fate – Swanpool and Maenporth looked enticing but were crammed with cars, people and the ubiquitous beach accessory of inflatable crocodile shaped swimming floats. And with one eye on the road and one eye on the leggy blondes eating ice creams I waited patiently again for the nervous motorists to continue their occasional stand-offs in the lanes by the beaches.
Taking the train with a bicycle was a struggle mainly because Great Western Railway only allocate a small space for two bikes in a carriage – enough room for two children’s bikes but not for the pushchairs, suitcases and bulky e-bikes which were crammed in each time. If nothing else it revealed the popularity of the trains and as I looked at the various overgrown branch lines we passed and thought about the folly of the Beeching cuts of the 1960s. Who would have thought back then when they closed my local line in Seaton that cycling and trains would be back in fashion some 60 or more years later? Obviously not the minister of transport.
My stay at the campsite in my little tent with Ashley and his family in his spacious trailer tent was very enjoyable and comfortable since I can sleep on nothing more than Linda’s spare exercise mat. The camp site was friendly and filled with families enjoying the freedom the long summer evenings afford as they sat outside socialising while their children cycled round and round. The next day I hiked along the coastal path to Roskilly’s café and ice cream parlour to meet Ashley, Jenny and the children – for pizza, ice cream and to look at the very fat (but contented looking) muddy sleeping pigs at the farm. And on the hike to the cafe I picked up one of this year’s most warned against wildlife hazards: a tick. It must have been all the vegetation I had to hack my way through to get there.
Later we spent time on the beach – I had a swim – and the children dug holes in the sand in search of treasure. I felt like I was on holiday, which of course I was. With drivers unable to reverse to laugh at, the packed trains and a non-ferry ferry it was an eventful three days – and I had a tick to take home with me as a souvenir. Ouch.
For details for the work of the journalist Harry Mottram visit www.harrymottram.co.uk
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