Tuesday 26 June 2018

The Return of an Old Friend and a Ride to the Coast.

As ever, if a photo looks fuzzy, right click and open in a new tab.

"We should take wandering outdoor walks, so that the mind might be nourished and refreshed by the open air and deep breathing." - Seneca (ancient Roman Stoic Philosopher, thought monger and keen pedestrian). 

Ok, I can't walk far so go by bike, but the sentiment is the same. Besides, the Romans didn't have bikes, otherwise old Seneca would've been a bike bimbler for sure.


Last year I had the privilege of being visited by a Badger, who I christened Flash on account of when my neighbour opened his back door while I was watching him furtling about on my patio one night, he was gone in a flash.

Most nights he'd come and I'd spend anything from ten minutes to half an hour watching him bustling about, poking his nose, and feasting on the veritable Badger Banquet I'd lay out for him. Dog food, Peanut Butter sandwiches, an egg, peanuts (the bird kind), he dined well each night but it was a small price to pay for the pleasure of seeing such a magnificent wild animal up so close.

Then the visits stopped, coinciding with the start of building work in the field I guessed his Sett was located in. That was back in about September, and each night I'd put more food out for him in the hope he'd come but he never did, and I must admit to feeling gutted, while hoping he hadn't come to any harm.

Then, having given up all hope, a few nights ago I heard a noise late one night out on the patio and went out to have a look to see what was occurring, but couldn't see anything. Then again about half an hour later, the same, and again I couldn't see the culprit. I still had some stuff left over from last year so made a Peanut Butter sarnie, tore it up and scattered the bits across the patio, and added some Peanuts for good measure. Sure enough, the next morning, all had gone.

The next night I put out the same again plus some dog food and again, all was picked clean the following morning.

Finally, on Sunday night, my hopes were confirmed as I heard the unmistakable loud noshing sound (Badgers have lamentable table manners...) and on quietly opening the top half of the split kitchen door, there was a Badger busily chowing down.

When I say a Badger's table manners are a bit lacking, I'm not kidding. Belching loudly ("Bwwwaaaarppppp") seems to be quite acceptable behaviour when a guest for dinner on a friend's patio...

My hairy arsed chum, just as before, was quite happy for me to stand there and take photos using the flash.

At first, I wasn't sure it was Flash back again, he seemed bigger from memory, and scruffier too, but on comparing the photos I'm sure this is definitely my old mate once more - the slightly wonky tail being the decisive feature.

This is great news for me as it really makes my day whenever he comes for a feed, but of course now there are a few questions that I have, like where has he been all this time? Did I do something to upset him and he got the hump for a while? Is Flash actually a 'He' or a 'She' or in these enlightened times, a self identifying non binary gender Badger? The fact he/she/unsure hasn't grown might suggest a female, as some males can grow to be right old lumps. Regardless, I'm chuffed to bits to have him back, and I only wish he'd bring some more of his group with him.

The days lately have been properly summery long and hot, just like when I was a kid - the perfect weather for riding? Well not really, not for me anyway, as I don't like my sunshine too fierce, but early starts when I'm able are always an option, and with a long ride in mind, to the South Coast once again, I actually set my alarm clock for silly early on Saturday morning, and sallied forth on the trusty Jamis before sun up.

Just before the sun broke over the horizon near St Erme.



Photos done, I set sail heading for Probus, glad I'd worn my jacket as it was very cold indeed when dropping down into the valleys, in particular down to the T junction at Riverside, about two miles from home. 
As I slowed down and started to turn left at the T junction, I heard something crashing about in the undergrowth. I stopped and took my sunglasses off  - yes, but they're not that dark and I could see where I was going in the light of my cheapo bike lamps quite well. Peering into the undergrowth under tree cover though was another matter. I was expecting, hoping, to catch a glimpse of a Deer, as it sounded too heavy for a Pheasant, and I'd already passed a couple of those and they weren't awake yet, not having taken chaotic flight as they usually do. Again I heard some heavy duty rustling but couldn't see anything, so I headed off up the ugly great hill and towards Probus. It turns out, that noise could've been made, maybe, perhaps by a.... Nah, lets keep events in order (a clumsy excuse for making you read to the end of this missive).

From Probus I was to head towards Tregony, and given the early hour, decided I'd take the main road all the way. It's a little further as there is a lane that goes more directly, and it's the route I normally use to avoid the main road. The lane does drop and then climb again very steeply though, while the main road stays pretty much level all the way to Tregony, the drawback being during the day it is a fast but twisting road, and busy with it. Blind left bends always create anxiety on such roads when your ears pick up the sound of something fast moving approaching from behind. At the early hour I was booting along it though, riding was a real pleasure, swinging through the bends and keeping up a surprisingly (for me) good speed. 

Bombing along the road to Tregony I caught a glimpse of this scene through a gap in the hedge and threw out all the anchors and made a nifty U-Turn in the road to ride back and get the photo. I can confirm that cable disc brakes are pretty effective when used suddenly and hard.

Tregony folk were all still tucked up in bed as I rode up the broad main street, not even the village shop was open yet. If you ever want a free car, just hang about outside one of the village shops early on a winter's morning down here - soon enough someone will pull up and stroll in to pick up a paper or cigarettes or whatever, leaving their car outside with the engine running. 

Turning right at the top of the main street the single track lane plunges down into another chilly valley and then starts a roller coaster ride up and down, left and right, but these lanes don't hold the same pleasures for me as those around my home patch. The hedges and banks are high and beyond is just flat farmland. Interest and therefore photos, seem in short supply then, but that is probably just lack of familiarity, as I know 'my' lanes like the back of my hand, spending all year riding them, and taking more time as I do so to poke my nose about. Doubtless if I rode these lanes as frequently, I'd 'see' more in them.

It wasn't all featureless going though - while most gateways displayed nothing more than a field, usually on an up slope and full of half asleep cattle, this one at least did afford some mild visual interest.

I have ridden these lanes on a couple of occasions though, when heading to Portholland, and so I knew where I was going at the various turns I encountered along the way, but soon enough, I met the point where I would be on virgin territory for me and started following the signs for Caerhays.

Seemingly out in the middle of nowhere, as these churches often are, is St Michael's Church. Patron Saint of ladies underwear and upmarket sandwiches, it is believed the Saint passed through here while travelling as a knicker salesman.
Whatever, this rather fine looking church presides over a parish containing just 96 people as of the 2011 census.

 I'm not at all religious, but I do find country churches interesting - once the focal point of any community and full of history. But there is also sometimes one feature that always catches my eye, and therefore some of my camera's pixels, and that is a coffin rest or stand.

Not all churches have these stands (maybe they did but have lost them over time) but they were for resting the coffin on while the someone went to fetch the priest from the local pub from the vicarage.
Some legends have it that the priest would then come to the Lychgate and inquire as to who was in the box, and whether they were of virtue good enough to be allowed within his graveyard. 
On coffin trails - those paths that cut across country towards such churches along which the dead were carried, coffin rests can also be found along their route, so as to give the pall bearers a rest but not allowing the coffin or stretcher to touch the ground, as it was feared the soul of the dead would escape and haunt the spot for ever more, so maybe the platforms were also built with that in mind.

The seating in the Lychgate was somewhere for the pall bearers to sit, but also the story goes that some dead peeps would be removed from their home and taken to the Lychgate where they'd lie until the burial could be arranged. The seating and roof would provide cover for mourners who would stay with the deceased throughout to protect them from evil spirits (and body snatchers, foxes, and local dogs no doubt too).

While taking this shot, a local farmer came along the road on a quad bike and must've wondered what the hell I was doing messing with the church gates, and at such an early hour too.

Noisy undergrowth bothering unseen beasties apart, this ride hadn't seen much in the way of wildlife, unlike some early morning rides I've had where Rabbits, Hares and Deer have all been startled by my presence. I did catch a glimpse of some activity in this field though, but just mundane stuff, nothing exotic here...

Travelling on I was now passing the Caerhays Estate, the first sign of which is this rather splendid gatehouse. I'd live there quite happily - I could empty buckets of water on door to door salesmen from those battlements...

Porthluney Cove is a private beach belonging to the Caerhays Estate.
I turned the bike round for this shot, I was actually travelling right to left through here.

Caerhays Castle.

Caerhays Castle is actually a manor house, with a history dating back to the early middle ages, but this building, the Norman castle style affair, was built in 1808.
The gardens are home to the largest collection of Magnolias in England, with over 600 species and variants growing here, sourced from all over the world, but all I could see was cows.
Oddly, the gardens are only open to the public between mid February and early June, but the reason given is the gardens are very much Spring gardens, and by June all the beauty has been replaced by more mundane growth that lacks interest to visitors.

Another break in the hedge thanks to another gate and a more spectacular view, this time looking south towards Dodman Point.

More sleepy wildlife, I don't usually get this close to a Pheasant without it beggaring off pronto.
Camera angle makes it look like a monoped, or as Peter Cook once said, a 'Unidexter'. It did have two legs, honest.

My pre ride research had suggested Gorran Haven would be about 14 miles, but I just didn't seem to be getting any closer. Time and again I'd think Ah-Ha! Only to find I wasn't actually there yet, but was still seemingly some way away.

Must be getting close now - that's Gorran Churchtown, the neighbouring village.

Finally, I hung a right turn at a crossroads and started descending a very long hill down into Gorran Haven, passing a gasping, tortured, mountain biker coming up. His pained expression and slow agonising turns of the pedals didn't bode well as I'd be climbing this hill on my way back out again too.

Destination reached - Gorran Haven. This is a panoramic made up of a load of shots, so right clicking and opening in a new tab should remove any fuzziness and show the village off better.

Not much has changed, thankfully, as this photo shamelessly pinched from the rather excellent village web site shows.

An early start, 17 miles done, some very ugly hills ascended - time for coffee!

Gorran Haven is an unspoiled little fishing village, thanks to it being slightly off the beaten track - if you come here you've made an effort to do so, and also due to the proximity of its more glamorous and touristy neighbour - Mevagissey. Pilchards, then Crabs and Lobsters were the main catches, but as is the case all over, the fishing industry has died right off.

More info on the village, including a rather interesting gallery of old photos can be found on the village site  HERE.

By now is was about 08.30 and getting very hot already - the jacket having long been consigned to a pannier, its job done. I could feel the back of my neck and sides of my face ripening nicely in the sun so opted to cast dignity and style aside, and fish out my wide brimmed sunhat that I'd brought along. In my head I looked like Indiana Jones, fresh from some daring exploit in a movie, in real life I looked like a tramp, a scruffy tramp at that. Still, who cares, crack on!

For a bite to eat I'd brought along an interesting concoction that I'd read online was a rather delicious snack to have on a ride - a Ham, Peanut Butter and Jam sandwich. I was a tad dubious of this, expecting it to be some ghastly sickly sweet tasting thing but in fact... oh my word... that's erm... really rather good... why didn't I bring more? Damn!

Conscious of the rising temperature and ferocity of the sun I thought I'd better get a shake on, long way to ride home and all that, so had only a very quick poke around the village before setting about the long climb back out.

Quite an important looking building in amongst all the cottages, as seen from up the side of the church.

St Just's Church, Gorran Haven, is a tiddler as these places go - stand in the aisle and you can hold out your arms and touch each wall. Probably. Note the flower growing out of the kerb.

Here t'is in more detail. Looks like some flavour of Poppy to me but I'm no expert, but they do seem to like growing out of the kerbs round here.

 View down Church Street from the church.

Not a lot has changed...

Reluctantly, and with a degree of trepidation mixed with resignation, I set about the gradient up and out of the village, the one that had seen my fellow bi-wheeler grimacing and straining so hard up. It is a long hill, but I wasn't finding it too bad to be honest. Get in the granny gear early and when a pedal comes up, just push it down again. But getting near the top I saw a path signposted as Sustrans Cycle Route 3 and the promise of it being a shortcut back to the local school that I'd passed on my way in. So feeling up for a bit of light off roading (and maybe relief from the hill) I took to the path, and jolly splendid it was too.

 Off road path out of Gorran Haven is part of Sustrans Route 3 and lops off a corner compared to going by road making for a handy short cut.

Random pathside shot.

Pleasant though the path was, it also gave me a headache, as it drops the rider back onto a road just short of a crossroads. Ah-Ha! I thought, I need to go left here then right. So left I went, and still went, and went some more. I wasn't lost. Oh no, not me. I'd just temporarily misplaced where I thought I should be. Eventually, realising I'd made a mistake variance in the scheduled route, I turned back, admittedly rather puzzled. My trouble is I've got a short memory, a shocking sense of direction and sometimes a lack of paying attention when travelling in somewhere, so I don't recognise my way back out sometimes. The path had dropped me at a crossroads, but not the crossroads I thought I was at, (there being two in short order along the main road) so it was a case of now riding back, straight through the crosroads I'd emerged at and then turning left at the next and on my way to Gorran Churchtown.

I don't know what was going on, but by now the morning was properly under way, people were starting to get out and about and get on with their Saturday, and the road to Gorran Churchtown and beyond was hellishly busy. I imagine folk were heading towards St Austell for shopping or something. Whatever, I had a constant stream of traffic passing me as I made my way the short distance to this next village.

St Goran Church and war memorial, Gorran Churchtown.


Told you I've got a 'thing' for coffin rests...
It looks like there was once a proper Lychgate here, but as is often the case,the roof probably fell into disrepair and was never replaced. Some coffin rests were also removed at some churches as they were no longer used, and get in the way, particularly at weddings and erm, funerals.

Have another photo.
Where a coffin rest was removed the stone would no doubt have been recycled around the churchyard or maybe disappeared into villager's gardens...

The day was by now getting pretty hot, but the ride still enjoyable as I made my way towards home along the lanes to Grampound. 

A bum bag might be deeply unfashionable, but makes for a quick on the draw shot, such as this one taken from the saddle in Polmassick.

Easy wheeling down the hill through Grampound.

I joined the busy A390 main road just above Grampound, a road I'd normally avoid at all costs, but sometimes it's just easier to take the more direct route, and put up with traffic whistling past your elbow for a short while. In fact, the drivers down here aren't too bad, usually hanging well back and leaving plenty of room when passing. Mind you, me looking like a rolling jumble sale probably keeps them from getting too close in the way people don't make eye contact with the homeless and give them a wide berth in the streets.

Grampound also features one of those flashing radar fed signs reminding the speeding motorist they are over the 30 limit as they drop down the hill into the village. Despite my best efforts I couldn't quite get enough speed up to trigger it, managing just 32 mph on my speedo The sign remained unlit by my passing as I observe all road regulations at all times of course...

I had thought of staying on the A road and climbing the long but not especially steep hill up to Probus, but in the end, decided instead to turn right in the middle of the village and take to the lanes once more, popping out on the Probus - Ladock road which conveniently knocks a big corner off but does mean grinding up a steep hill.

Well here's an unedifying sight if ever I saw one. A scruffy Herbert rolling along using a selfie stick.
That hat did a good job on this ride I can tell you. I'd forgotten to put any sunscreen on before heading out, but my neck and face were nicely protected by the floppy brim. It doesn't half feel odd wearing at times though, as it collects noise and channels it directly into my bent over ears more, often sounding like an approaching car. 

Given I have an absolutely knackered back, you'd think it strange perhaps that I wear a rucksack on a ride. More so given there are panniers on the bike too. But my tripod won't fit in the panniers, and being a lazy sort, I can't be doing with bungeeing it to the bike. I also carry all my tools and pump in the rucksack, meaning I don't have to swap all the gubbins from one bike to another. Each bike has a saddle bag though containing spare tubes for that particular bike. 
As for my back, it actually feels far better with me wearing the rucksack. It sort of braces my back, as it has chest and waist straps and a shaped back, so doesn't wobble about or tug at my shoulders. I once rode without it on a short ride and it felt very weird and very vulnerable. I know it's probably a placebo thing, and sort of misplaced feeling of security, but it genuinely feels better with it on. Unfortunately it doesn't work when walking, and I still get my upper back ache after only a short walk if wearing it then. 

I had a pretty uneventful ride home via my well worn lanes from Ladock, and still took the longer route home rather than slog up the long hill into the village. I was though, utterly chooped by the time I opened my gate and had the Jamis parked in the shed. My bike computer made it 38 miles, which is a lot for me, but especially so given some of the hills I'd encountered. My legs were done good and proper I don't mind admitting, but in my defence, the bike is a heavy beast and the Cornish hills legendary in their ugliness. It is said that a Cornish mile is worth two up country miles in terms of effort expended, and I don't disagree with that!

As ever, the full and gory details of this ride along with a better map can be found HERE although that says 35 miles done.

So I got in, had a shower, had some lunch and settled down at the computer, having a quick look at a few regular sites before getting down to editing the photos of the ride. It was while looking at the local news page that my blood suddenly ran cold as I saw this article YIKES!!
So a woman travelling along the lane between Probus and St Erme, the very lane I rode out on that morning, the very lane where I heard something large bustling about in the bushes, saw a big cat plodding up the road ahead of her. Fuh... Fuh... flipping heck. I'm not riding down there in the dark again that's for sure! I have an old washing up bottle to spray the local cats with when they come into my back garden looking for birds to kill, I'm not sure a Cougar/Leopard/Puma/Bengal Tiger or whatever it is would be overly concerned by a little squirt of water...

Oh and I've had more Poppies growing by the kerb at the front of the house - more than I've seen out in the countryside as it happens...


Right, that's me done, all up to date. It's lovely out, in fact I may take it out again later (an old joke...) but it's too hot for me to go riding at this time of day, so instead I'm off to look for some Tiger Repellent spray on Amazon...

Happy Cycling!

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Thursday 21 June 2018

Footpath Treasures.

Back before Christmas I think it was, I had a ride on the Marin that took in a lane that passes through Metha Bridge - a bridge at Metha, funnily enough. There's not much at Metha as it goes, a couple of houses, a bridge over the Lappa Valley railway, another over a stream, and on that day, a spectacularly large dog turd on the side of the road that required a healthy degree of caution when walking around looking for photos. It was the sort of dog bomb that should you step on it, it would either send you into a terminal understeer skid, or you'd sink into it up to your laces. It was a whopper. 

Dog doings aside, there was another, erm, feature that made that particular location memorable, and that was a footpath just up the road from the twin bridges. The path wended its way too invitingly into the Metha Woods for me to pass by, and so I pushed the Marin around the gate and stile (security fail there then eh!) and had a mooch up the path to see where it went. I didn't go far as it happens, as it was seriously muddy, off cambered and therefore very slippy, but I saw enough to decide it warranted further investigation at some point in the future.

That point actually arrived last Sunday, when needing a ride but trying to decide where to go, I remembered that footpath and so set my mind on that. I even got as far as getting Fatso out of the living room come Sunday morning, and onto the patio outside as I made my way out of the house, but then the less than ten percent chance of rain arrived, the 'light drizzle' that the TV forecaster had said might appear. This wasn't drizzle though, this was full on rain. So I waited to see if it would pass. Then I waited some more before wimping out and putting the bike back in the house and making a coffee.

As it happened, a bit later on, it did stop raining, and I did go out for a ride, but on the Voodoo instead, and around the local lanes. The photos from that ride aren't worth sharing here though, being very dull, although the ride was enjoyable enough and I got my nature fix.

So now we come to last Tuesday, the 19th, and once again I wheeled Fatso out of the house, and once again it was damp out, only this time it was drizzle rather than lashing rain, so figuring I wouldn't get too wet, I donned my jacket, left my over trousers at home, and set off.
I soon regretted putting the jacket on though as the drizzle stopped, and I got very hot and sweaty indeed as I  climbed the hill out of Boswiddle. Jacket duly consigned to my rucksack I carried on - I hate it when that happens!

I didn't take any photos along the way until I got to Mitchell, where I also met a gorgeous little Jack Russell puppy on only its second trip outside in the world. Cuteness overload she was, and I forgave her the tinkle she sprayed on my my knee and gloved hand as she excitedly said hello. I expect I had no control over my bladder at her age either.


Mitchell - Cute puppy not shown, unfortunately.

I like crossing the A30 via Mitchell as the road passes beneath it, so I don't spend twenty minutes waiting to risk life and limb in dashing across in the nearest approximation to a gap in the traffic that road affords these days.
In formulating my plan for the ride I also decided to have a potter along a short lane that I've never been along before. It didn't look much on the map, the adjoining lanes aren't anything overly special, but still, you never know what you might find up some unassuming back road, so I took a slight dog leg to the right then left before reaching Metha Bridge.


I've just come from the left, I've already been down the road to the right in the past, and also come from behind where I took this photo. What I hadn't done before was ride along that lane dead ahead in the photo, and to Fatso's left there. Reason enough to go and poke my nose explore.

 As ever, if a photo looks fuzzy (as this one above does to me) right click on it and open it in a new tab.

The drizzle returned as I pootled along this lane, but as I'd rather be damp from the outside in, rather than from the base layer out, I didn't put my jacket back on, and thankfully didn't regret that decision as after about ten minutes that was the last of the wetness for the day.
The lane wasn't anything spectacular, but still very pleasant and just the sort of road I enjoy bimbling along. 
Most importantly, going in the direction I was, it was either flat or downhill - always a bonus that.

Anyone who has seen many of my photos will know I love gnarly trees in winter, when all their twisted, bony  branches are fully on display, and this lane does look like it could offer some great 'treescapes' as I think of them, come winter, so I'll be back along here later in the year for sure.

Keeping a wary eye out to avoid colliding with any large dog deposits I arrived at Metha Bridge just as a steam train on the Lappa Valley Railway passed beneath, making a (lovely) smell and sound that harks back to the days when it was a proper branch line from Chacewater to Newquay. All the summer growth means that it was hard to get an interesting photograph around either of the two bridges so after a quick nose about, I went straight to the bend in the road where the footpath starts.

Hat pulled down, collar turned up, trying not to look too shifty as I'm about to go rogue and take a bike along a footpath. Nothing to say you can't do that mind you, if you push it...

But I didn't want to push it, I wanted to ride it...

I know it's a naughty thing to do, and can get you drummed out of an organisation such as the Rough Stuff Fellowship but I think we cyclists should be allowed to use such paths. A mountain bike will do less harm to the surface than a horse (I know, they shouldn't be on a footpath either), maybe even multiple boots clomping along it on a muddy day, and on a bike, you're more likely to ride through a puddle or boggy bit than a walker, who is more keen on keeping their feet dry and boots free of mud, and so will go around it, widening the scar. To me, the countryside should be accessible to all within reason (motor vehicles aren't within reason on such paths) and also by cycling along them, we can prove usage and prevent any landowners from closing them off. Besides, I don't have a car, and can't walk far anyway, so my bike is how I reach the path in the first place...

Anyway, in summer the Metha Wood path is much more bike friendly and a real pleasure to potter along. It runs parallel to both the Lappa Valley line (so at this time of year you're treated to many blasts of steam whistles) and an unnamed stream or river, which gurgles, babbles and even roars its way through the wood. This stream appears to rise on Newlyn Downs, site of the old Cargoll Mine and passes another mining site at East Wheal Rose and so runs a reddish brown contaminated as it is with metal deposits.

Back in the winter the whole area off to the left of the path was wet and boggy, and even now in June it was still very dodgy looking so sticking to the path is advisable. But there was a raised bank that met the path at ninety degrees, clearly trodden by walkers and also at a point where the stream was roaring like a good'un, so leaving Fatso on the main path as this bank was a bit too 'technical' to even push it along, I made my way carefully along and found this small waterfall, the source of the  light roaring noise.

 The raised bank was just wide enough to set the tripod up and get this shot, but it was also a tad slippery... 

Looking for an alternative shot I stepped down from the bank onto a sort of 'beach', a flat area beside the water - big mistake! My foot immediately disappeared into the mud right above the ankle and I quickly yanked my leg back up, requiring a mildly alarming amount of effort. Cursing my one muddy foot, I thought again and leaning over, placed the tripod down into the mud instead, using the articulating screen to compose the shot from above. 
This worked well until I lost my footing on the bank and out from under me went my feet, down onto the bank went my backside and I made briefly like a luge pilot as I slid feet first down the bank and back into that clawing mud, just avoiding knocking the tripod and camera into the stream in the process. Grabbing a nearby tree root I managed to get up off my bum and set about extracting my feet from the quagmire. My word that mud was deep! Both feet were now wet and muddy to well above the ankle, as was my arse, in fact as my hands were also covered in gloop, it wasn't long before everything was dirty - my shirt, my legs, the tripod, the camera. What a mess. But also it's all part of the fun, I suppose. The main thing was I hadn't hurt myself nor ruined the camera, so all was good really.

People amaze me with their petty snobbishness, and photography is full of it. The snobs will have it that no professional, or for that matter, any serious photographer, would be seen dead with a camera that boasts an articulating rear screen, but for me, that tilting, twisting rear LCD is a real bonus. More fool anyone who eschews a camera equipped with one because of some ill formed idea of what constitutes 'proper' photography.

Getting back to the bike I tried cleaning my hands and backside as best I could with some grabbed foliage, likewise the legs of the tripod, before remounting Fatso and pottering on some more. I had thought that navigating this path would take about twenty minutes, maybe half an hour, but with all my messing about I was already about an hour in when the path came round a bend and into a more open area where the stream spreads out sideways. More time spent getting photos then as it is a lovely spot, and I can see me setting up the stove here at some point in the future for a relaxing coffee.

Well the Lappa Valley Railway is close by...


What a charming spot this is, a small clearing in the wood with the stream trickling slowly past. The Lappa Valley Railway station at East Wheal Rose is just behind the trees on the opposite bank though, so it's not quite as peaceful as it looks in summer, but between trains all is magical tranquility.



It doesn't show so well in photos without getting silly in post production with the red saturation slider, but like a lot of rivers and streams in old mining areas, this water is a very rusty colour, being full of all sorts of nasties, and seemingly devoid of life.

Finding this on the water's edge then was a major surprise - I would only have been more shocked had it still been alive. This chap was about six inches long too, far bigger than any fish I would've thought might be found in such a waterway. I spent a while scouring the stream from the bank looking for more fish, preferably live ones, to no avail. Nor did I see anything else alive in the water for that matter.

A check of my watch found it gone lunchtime, another surprise, but a sure sign that I'd been relaxed and enjoying myself. 
Just after that clearing the path leaves the stream and heads down to a stile then between high hedges to its end at Little Nanhellan, by East Wheal Rose.


Ancient looking stile is thankfully easy to negotiate with a bike without having to lift it, just wheel it over.

The footpath joins the drive way in front of this cottage at Little Nanhellan as it emerges into the lane from St Newlyn East towards Mitchell.

Looking from Little Nanhellan towards Mitchell, and another footpath signposted in the distance that may be worth checking out although I doubt it will be as good as the one I'd just left.

There I was in my last blog post bemoaning the disappearance of the traditional Scarecrow in favour of heart attack inducing Bird Bazookas, but now I find this in a field near Mitchell. As Scarecrows go though this one this one isn't the best by a long way.

Finding new places to explore is always good, especially when they turn out to be a real treat as this footpath certainly is. It is my sort of path - through scruffy woodland with a stream to provide a relaxing soundtrack and picturesque viewpoints. Somewhere to poke about miles from people seemingly (even if it was just an impression given the close proximity of the chuffa trains). After a concerted push I got home feeling invigorated by my morning's efforts and the surroundings I'd found myself in, and basking in the afterglow of stimulating exercise. albeit an afterglow with a muddy arse.

Very crappy map, the full details are HERE
The footpath lies roughly twixt points 7 and 8 on that map.


Map showing the footpath and stream.

Of course, rides like this inspire me to seek out more such destinations, but suitable paths to take a bike, even on foot, are a bit thin on the ground, and I have to cast my net ever wider in the search for new ground to explore, but there we go. The chance of unearthing some hidden treat or treasure, some delightful spot to disappear to, will keep me scouring the maps and breaking the 'no biking on footpaths' rules for a while yet!

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