Then, the Gurnard's Head
Last summer, in Cornwall
We took an open-top bus across the Penwith Peninsula, north to the Gurnard’s Head, a sister inn to our first stay, a continuation of our trip to Cornwall in August and September 2023. The Lands End Coaster stopped at all the major beaches on the west coast, but most of our route was through the peninsula’s interior, on narrow lanes through farm fields. From the top, we caught a glimpse of the neolithic stone circle known as the Merry Maidens, which we hiked to back in 2019. We passed the wide sparkling cove at Sennen. We paused at Land’s End, the furthest point west in the UK. And then we made our way across wide green fields to a bright yellow inn that sits between the moor and the sea.
Continued from First, the Old Coastguard
One.
I cannot describe the different feel of this place—the violence of rock, wave, wind. Moors that hint crimson and purple, bald stone outcroppings, cliffs with yellow moss that drop blackly into the sea. Coming down the hill on foot from the Gurnard’s Head inn, crossing green pastures on a narrow dirt path, I was suddenly struck by a strong, briny wind.
All along the coast, headland after headland, only a few white buildings. Here, on the west side, the waves pound and churn, thundering, vibrating the very rock itself. In the lee of the wind it is not so violent, but still the water roils, splashes up against the coves.
We’re on Virginia Woolf’s side of the peninsula now, the wild north side. The same paths and hills where she rambled from her family’s home in St. Ives, close to the village of Zennor where she retreated to fend off desolation. It’s easy to be still here, with all the motion of wave, bird, wind.
In these hills: closed tin mines. On them: grazing cattle, lines of hedges and stone walls. On the horizon: a rainbow that has remained for the last thirty minutes, only growing deeper. And then there is the Gurnards Head outcropping itself—an impossible-looking explosion of rock shooting out in all directions, breaking at right angles. And back up the hill our inn of the same name, with a room tucked over the dining room for us, facing both the Atlantic and the moor.
Two.
Over dinner we confessed that we had both been afraid to come back. Afraid that we had built it up in our memories. Or that over the pandemic this inn had fallen on harder times and would seem shabby. But no. It’s just as wonderful, with that worn-in bar when you first enter, wood stacked near the stove, dogs laying under tables. And the red-walled dining room, soft with candles and paintings.
Our first dinner was so good I nearly wept: a cloudy and still screech cider to start, a homemade gluten-free roll with butter, smooth cauliflower soup with goat cheese, then pork belly with a crispy hash brown, a sunny-side-up duck egg, and a sprig of broccolini. A glass of rose.
We tried to sleep with the windows open but the neighborhood cows were lowing too loudly.
Three.
On our walk to Zennor we stop every few moments to take pictures or catch our breath. The path here is cut into steep slopes that fall away towards the ocean. The course rises and falls, crossing streams that fall into turquoise coves, dipping into muddy hollows sheltered by trees. On the hillside the gorse is starting to turn yellow. The heather is purple. The ferns burnt brown. There are blackberries everywhere.
Chris keeps talking about a long climb into the village, and are a lot of steps, but it isn’t long. Then we are walking along a narrow paved road, hedges buzzing with bees, and arrive at the Tinner’s Arms for lunch. He has a falafel and beetroot sandwich. I have a salad with crayfish, avocado, greens, and a taste of cider. We peek into the church there, to see the pew with a mermaid carving, and then we rush out to the main road to catch the Land’s End Coaster back to the inn.
Cold showers, newspaper puzzles (him), a nap (me), and drinks in the beer garden. There is live music this afternoon and the musician has his dogs laying on the grass next to him as he plays. There is a breeze coming up from the sea. I am drinking kombucha and eating olives. It’s hard to tear away from this garden, the moist ocean air off the Atlantic, sweet cow manure and cut grass. But in a few minutes I’ll put my swimsuit on and we’ll catch the bus to Penzance for the Jubilee Sea Swim.
Four.
The swim last night, Newlyn Harbor to Penzance, surrounded by other swimmers wearing all the same gear my swim friends do, all of us in pink swim caps, the sun coming out strong as we started. The water wasn’t clear there, it was full of suspended sediment churned up by 150 swimmers.
I don’t usually race. I swim to explore. I work to keep up with friends who are faster than I am. I tried to strike a balance between swimming hard and finding flow.
It was a straight course, with the Jubilee Pool up ahead, a big white wall rising out of the water, and I aimed for that. At first it seemed to never get any closer. At a couple of points other swimmers came up close, nearly on top of me.
After I finished I had a pounding headache, dehydrated from spending the day before the swim hiking.
Five.
Morning
I slept badly and woke anxious. Convinced I’d never have a restful day here, regretting the surf lesson I signed up for tomorrow, fearing missing other beaches that we passed on our ride to the inn, which we’ve run out of time to visit. Missing our dogs Penny and Lance. After breakfast, Chris persuaded me to walk with him to Porthmoer Cove.
We picked our way across farm fields, through a wood with a stream, passed a ruined tin mine, and arrived overlooking the cove just as the tide was falling. Down in the water a single swimmer in a wetsuit was doing laps.
This cove is bounded by green hills and paved with large smooth boulders. Several streams trickle down beneath them to meet the sea. We climbed down a steep incline, nearly a cliff. I sat and watched the swimmer. Chris went to look at the rocks. Before long the water was irresistible. I took off my shoes and shirt and plunged in. I don’t know how long I was in, riding clear green waves, feet pushing off soft sand, ears ringing with cold. Other people came down into the cove, basking in the water, their dogs playing fetch. And all of this, encircled by towering cliffs.
Afternoon
Watching the tide come in from a cove east of the Gurnard’s Head. When we came down here after lunch there was a lot of sandy beach exposed. There is a dark cave and black-blue mussels clinging to the rocks. Up above this cove green velvety hills fold and tumble down to jagged cliffs. I’m on the west side of one big rock now, in the sun, wind to my back, warming up after a swim.
The water went from turquoise and serene to cloudy and tumultuous, gaining inches in seconds, creeping up as the tide comes back in.
Six.
We got up early for breakfast and have a table that looks out across the fields to the high moor and the hazy line of the Atlantic. It is windy today, the palm fronds and hedges shaking. I can hear the coursing of the wind in the branches.
This view allows your body to be still and your mind to wander. It’s like looking at a map, or a miniature, or down from a plane. I can see the distant form of a tractor, driving along a lane on the spine of a hill, or the Land’s End Coaster coming toward us. I can see flocks of birds circling distant fields, cows and sheep being let out to pasture, walkers coming across the church paths, the gleam of sun on distant parked cars.
Seven.
Regarding the Gurnard’s Head
It’s hard to capture its immensity in a photo frame. Or the way it seems immoveable within a chaos of wind and wave. There is an easterly wind today, flattening the surf, and still the rocky coves churn, the grasses bend and quiver unendingly. Chris is out on the rock. I am on the land, looking towards it, trying to shelter from the wind. The rocks around me are salted with white growth, soft with lichen.
I am trying to gather up what this place means to me. These days of walking hills, swimming in coves, eating well. I am trying to be present and breathe in this air. Not to scorn my own low sandy shores back home, though they seem impossibly tame after this.