Cornwall Here We Come!

We originally paid to stay at Croyde for 4 nights with the option to extend after this time. After nearly being swept out to sea, Croyde lost it’s appeal. We decided to move on and head for Cornwall.

We drove to Newquay and out towards Watergate Bay. Tim remembered a campsite at Watergate Bay that he thought was in walking distance of the sea. As we headed along the coast, Burt muttered and spluttered his way up and down the roads. We have to get Burt a new engine before next summer so he doesn’t have to continue embarrassing himself as he crawls up steep hills in 2nd gear begging for 1st.

The campsite Tim remembered was on the top of a particularly steep hill overlooking Watergate Bay. We arrived just in time to snap up a pitch with electricity; another camper had just vacated early. (Surely that should have been a sign?)

The pitch we had had possibly the best views of the campsite. Our neighbours to our right told us they always asked for the same spot for exactly that reason. Our neighbours incidentally were from Congleton, just up the road from my home town. I am apparently one of the few not to laugh at the word Congleton.




Views are all very well, but on a misley cloudy day we could barely see past the bay. On a good day you should be able to see to Newquay and beyond.

View of the Sunset through Burt's Pop Top




After putting the awning back up, again in a stiff wind with some nice light rain, we decided we’d earned pizza and a pint at the pub at the bottom of the Bay. Tim remembered the magnificent pizzas from his previous visit, and how at the end of evening you could take a pizza home back up the hill to eat.

First stop though was the Watergate hotel overlooking the bay. We took our drinks out on to the decking, the only ones to brave the elements for the fantastic view.











I think The Phoenix is a Watergate Bay institution. I spent some time there over the holiday. Forget any mockney restaurant, the Phoenix is what Watergate Bay should be about. With signs on all roads to Watergate Bay announcing the Phoenix is in an improbable amount of yards or metres. From our campsite there is a sign saying 50metres to the Phoenix, mmmm, possibly it should read 500 metres. Still as the crow flies…. If the crow was able to bend space and time…



Wednesday night was Open Mike night. Anyone with a voice or ability to play an instrument was invited to put their name down to play for beer.

We ordered and ate massive homemade pizzas, made by the Aussie chefs, which are highly recommended. Then watched local youngsters and holidaymakers peform. One guy who seemed wasn't a local arrived with a full sized keyboard and stand, having gone back to his holiday apartment to get it. No one new what to expect, but he nervously starts playing. He was brilliant fun. He rounds his set off with a song of his own creation. It's great. Each person who gets up claims to not be very good, but this is no dodgy karaoke. One girl working for the lifeguards, whom locals seem to know, gets up for the first time to unleash her near perfect voice. It was still talk of the pub a week later. Of course the beer we drank helped what our ears heard.

The walk back up to the campsite had to be done by torch light along the road. That hill the first night was long, steep but wasn't too bad with a few drinks inside us. By the end of the holiday our calf muscles were killing us.

Next day it brightened a little so we put on the damp wetsuits and headed down to the bay. My first time back in the water since the incident at Croyde. The water was calmer. I stayed in the shallow water. I was calmer.

Next day I had a rest day whilst Tim took his longboard in the water for the first time. I had a lovely sit on the beach writing and taking photos.







On Friday night we headed back down to the Phoenix for pizza and live music. There was a local band playing advertised on their chalk board sign, whose name intrigued us, The Ragged Trousered Philanthropists. I had thought what a great name, however it's not as inspired as I thought. On googling their name I discovered it's a book title.

This was a band with a lead singer with Billy Childish moustache and something of his manner. Playing various instruments from washboard to accordian and guitar in between, they sounded like they should be part of the gypsy punk scene. Questioning them afterwards I'm not sure they appreciated the Gogol Bordello comparison. Back in the day I imagined seafarers and smugglers would have been similarly huddled, singing sea shanties with a similar raucous affect. We drank like spirit of Shane McGowan was in the room.





On Sunday, the BBC forecast had given slightly miserable weather, so we thought we’d head down towards Falmouth for a VW festival that Burt’s previous owners had mentioned to us. We’d found a hat in Burt belonging to them, so we thought it might be a chance to return it.

Unfortunately I couldn’t access the directions for the showground via my phone. And the Nokia version of SatNav was next to useless whilst in the vehicle. Looking for signs all the way to Falmouth, we decided to head back along the route we‘d come. One last thought was to try a place called Stithians, as the Showground had the same name. All along the route there were signs for a County Show.

Finally we found the Showground, split in two, as it was hosting both shows on the same weekend.

We walked round the VW Jamboree but there was no sign of Mark or Sandra. We did see some very nice VW’s though. With a bit of love and money we could have Burt up there one day.

















Whenever we were passing through Newquay we always took Burt for a spin around Fistral Beach. The Fistral Beach car park backs directly onto the beach. Real surfers and their camper vans are there early in the morning to get the best space and probably the best waves. So as you drive around the bottom of the car park every other vehicle is a VW. Top popped. Surfing gear spilling out the back. All looking cool and shit. We'd get there late in the afternoon just in time to catch the last rays, waves and empty spaces left by exhausted families.

On our way back we decided to pop by. It was literally pouring with rain. Looking out across the beach you wouldn't have known it though. Take away the rain, it could have been any normal summers day, with people under their UV sun tents, sheltering from the sea breeze behind their windbreakers, playing bat and ball, building sand castles with moats. And surfing. After my last experience in the sea during some bad weather, I declined the offer of an hour or two bodyboarding, settling instead for a snickers bar and reading the previous day’s Guardian from the comfort of Burt‘s cab.









Monday was another day of forecasted cloudy weather, neither of us fancied another day in the sea, so we decided to go for a walk along the cliffs. You can walk from further along the coast from Mawgan Porth to all the way to Newquay. We set off, betting each other how far we would get before we give up. I calculated the distance to Newquay Harbour must be somewhere between 5 to 6 miles.

With each Bay we reached we reached we bet the other to the next one, knowing we'd have to do the walk back.

We took the binoculars, which came in handy when looking for the mysterious Corn Buntings. All along the route from Porth to Tregurrian, by road or by path there are signs next to all the fields to warn of the Buntings breeding ground. Yet there wasn’t a bird in sight. However with some patience and the binoculars we spotted a couple.















We made it all the way to Newquay in time to look round the shops.

























Tuesday we were both back in the sea. I finally really got the hang of body boarding, though still unable to steer, so there were a few times I nearly flew into unsuspecting children.

Wednesday we were starting to feel quietly shattered. So spent the day sleeping and eating. Having discovered the café in the main part of the campsite that did take out full breakfasts in a bap, we were content.

On Thursday we decided to take Burt for a spin up the coast. We set off with the intention of heading to another beach. North along the coast heading back towards Devon is Polzeath. According to the right magazine's Polzeath is supposed to be a good surfing beach. As we drove in and round the beach road we could see the beach was rammed full with squawking families. So drove straight back out the other way.

We took Burt onwards, round the coast heading towards Tintagel. We came across a small sign for Port Isaac. After a discussion as to where the TV series Doc Martin was filmed, Post Isaac or St. Agnes, we decided to detour there. Looking for somewhere to turn round, we came across another sign directing us to Port Isaac, so we took it.

As you drive up to Port Isaac there are signs asking you not to park on the roads. Wide roads, with ample space and dozens of parked cars, but we decided to respect the residents and council's wishes and followed a sign for the beach car park. As we followed the signs the road became noticeably thinner and thinner, until we were directed to do a sudden left down a steep road. A road that was signposted as one way. The second we took that road two things happened, a sign appeared that said the Beach Car Park was closed and another that said vehicles wider than 6 foot could not navigate the street.

Tim calmly manoeuvred Burt slowly through the narrow cobbled streets of what appeared to be Toytown; whilst I covered my eyes. Every time I looked a pedestrian was inching passed, shuffling out of way, we needed all the room we could get. We eventually came to the Beach Car Park, it was closed because the tide was in. Asking a passer-by if we followed the road round would we be able to get through he waved us on up another steep hill. The road suddenly became two-way traffic, but without the room. A 4x4 heading straight for us. Unable to reverse we forced the 4x4 back up the road until there was enough room for us to squeeze passed.

Glad to be finally out of Port Isaac, incidentally it is the home of Doc Martin, Tim suggested going back round again! I’m not sure he was joking. We drove onwards up the coast. Driving through Tintagel, we eventually settled and parked up at Boscastle for a well earned Clotted Cream covered Scone and Pot of Tea.

On the way back Burt met some sheep...


Our other neighbours on the campsite were the only downside to our stay. They were the sort of people who give Northeners a bad name. Inconsiderate, loud and annoying, there is only so many times we could hear Amy Winehouse singing “Monkey Man” and the same early 90's rave hits over and over again. From 9 in the morning till 12 at night their TV would be blaring. Who goes on holiday to sit in their awning, in the cold, wet British Summer to watch Jeremy Kyle and This Morning. The strange thing was they didn't switch off the TV to play their CD‘s, just rather turn both up trying to compete for sound. Strange, strange family.

We decided after yet another morning waking to Urban Hype and cloudy skies to pack up and leave early. Only by a day. It was great holiday, but time to go home.

Burt on Tour - First Stop Devon

We took two weeks off work to take Burt on holiday. I say we, Tim obviously already had time off, 6 weeks of time. We spent several weeks buying all the necessary camping stuff, like a large coolbox and a drive-away awning, in order to make sure we had the best first real camping experience in Burt.

There was just one thing we didn’t do, which was actually book anywhere. We made enquiries before setting off and decided we’d find somewhere to camp. Rather than head straight for Cornwall’s famous surfing beaches, we decided to take a few days in Devon. Tim had read that there was a great little surfing beach, with camping next to it, which he wanted to try out.

Now had I realised prior to setting off exactly where this beach was, I might have vetoed the detour. Croyde is about 10 miles from Barnstaple. That’s the Barnstaple we were supposed to drive to last time we were in Devon when heading for Woolacombe, only we thought that there was a bypass to the main town and ended on dark road to hell, before ending somewhere on a cliff. Not quite the Italian Job.

This time we stuck to the dual-carriage way, and navigated our way to Croyde a lot easier than we did to Woolacombe, which is just 4 miles further along the road.

Croyde would be hard pushed to call itself a town, though I’m sure it does, certainly in peak season. Comprising of a couple of pubs, cafes, an ice cream parlour and a village hall, there appeared on first glance to be more campers than residents, with plenty of campsites dotted a long a stretch of road about a mile long.

We drove along the road round the town until we reached the beach, only to be met by a sign on the campsite, recommended by websites as the best, to say it was closed. It looked like we had the options of a Holiday Park chain, a sloping muddy field or a families only campsite. We chose the family campsite with electricity and a hard standing, hoping the gravel pitch would save us from having to be towed out from the campsite several days later. It also had a fish and chip shop on site, always a bonus.



After an hour of wrestling with poles and canvas in a strong, rain sodden wind we eventually had the awning up. There was something in the instructions about having a trial run putting it up, Mmmmm.... I don't think so. And after all our hard work we decided we’d earned a pint.



We headed for Billy Buds first, and ignoring the few drops of rain in the air, we took our drinks to the beer garden. After 10 minutes we were accosted by locals selling raffle tickets for the Croyde Lifeguards. £1 lighter, we decided Billy Buds was missing something, being a little soulless.

We walked back up the road to the next pub, The Thatch Pub. A few hours later we discovered they not only shared a beer garden but owners. Still the atmosphere was better in the olde wilde thatched one.

We stood in the thatch covered entrance, now a prime smokers spot, chatting to all those who stopped for a cigarette. We ended up swapping stories with a couple of guys from Leeds, who had driven down to pick up a second hand surf board bought off eBay. Since they’d driven all that way, they’d decided to make a weekend of it. Which wasn’t that strange, until we discovered they’d been here for the previous two weeks on holiday. One week later they were missing the place; I’m thinking the eBay thing was merely an excuse to go back on holiday.

The girls with the raffle tickets arrived shortly after we got chatting trying to sell us tickets again. The lads bought some, and they went on their way saying they‘d be back with the winning tickets later.

After a few pints (too many) we were engaging a local in conversation, when the girls came past with the winning tickets. None of them ours. 15 minutes later they were back again, still with no winners. They were getting desperate, possibly as they saw their chances of getting a drink afterwards diminishing. Tim swapped his ticket with one of the girls winning tickets and announced he had the winning ticket. Cue me being sent to the back of the pub with the “winning ticket” to collect my prize. There were surfing t-shirts in various sizes and a 90’s 3CD compilation amongst the prizes. Reading the CD listing was like reading the songs from hell. Literally the worst songs from the 90’s. We’re talking Cotton Eye Joe and Toploader.

I picked up a green men’s surfing t-shirt and took it back to Tim. The girls had disappeared pleased they had at least one “winner.” 10 minutes passed and they were back. This time the Leeds lads relieved them of a ticket, picking up the only t-shirt left, they handed it to me, as it was a girls surfing top. But they didn’t stop there, and 2 minutes later were handing me the 90’s compilation. By this time I was pretty merry and onto Jack Daniels. I’m told my ranting about Sonia and Robson and Jerome was hilarious but possibly scared the rest of the Thatch drinkers.

Soon I moved on to giving the local advice on women, and swapping stories of men with his female friend. I can’t have scarred them too much as he invited us to his surf film night at the village hall the next evening. A regular evening event in the summer, showing amateur local surf films to the camping residents. Not as I suggested, a night of Blue Juice and drinking. Sadly, such was my hangover the next day we never made it.

(I do have a new hangover cure, surfing. A bit of sea air and a gallon of salty sea water does wonders for headache and mineral deficient body. )

That first night I was convinced the awning was going to be blown from it's tent peg anchors and smash into Burt. The wind was so strong even Burt was being buffeted about. What chance did an awning have? But next morning the awning was still upright and all the guide ropes still taut. We were lucky it seems, as one unhappy camper explained to Tim how they'd decamped the whole family to a B&B in the middle of the night as their tent pole snapped in two. Two days later when I went to chuck some rubbish I found the bin overflowing with another broken tent. This might be a reoccurring theme.

We were woken early each morning by chickens doing what they do best, cockadoodling. That first morning they sounded like they were right outside the door. Turns out they were right outside the door. They were literally marching round Burt, as if on chicken army patrol.

Left....

Right...

Changing of the Guards


Not ones to let naff British weather get the better of us, we headed off dressed up in our wetsuits to the beach. A path near the campsite took us straight there, with only a few rain filled pot holes to negotiate along the way.

This would be my first time bodyboarding. Tim tried to show me how to do it. It took me sometime to successfully surf all the way into the beach, but it was fun trying and exhilarating when I did it. Knackering though, especially if you're as unfit as I am. My hands were the first to feel the pain, cramp from holding onto the board so tightly.



We had a well earned few drinks after we showered.

Just a tad on the windy side still...






Next day the weather was appalling, even by British standards. We headed to the beach but the red flags were out, signifying it was closed. We checked with the lifeguards and they said the swell was bad and it wouldn't reopen that day. Word had it all the beaches in the area were suffering the same fate.

Each day I checked the BBC website for the 5 day forecast. Each day it gave a miserable 24 hour forecast, nice or better weather always on the horizon. What's that saying, tomorrow never comes?... The next day was supposed to be better but it was hard to see it in the skies that morning as we ate our sausage butties. I made enquiries at the campsite shop and at the surf shack about the chances of the beach being open. But they had no idea. So we put on our wet wetsuits and headed down to the beach to see for ourselves.

How happy we were to see yellow and red flags, meaning our trek in wetsuits wasn't in vain. The water was choppier than our first day. The distance between the flags was smaller than before. Happily practising my bodyboarding skills, Tim was off surfing in the larger waves. I was with the kids and other newbies in slightly shallower water. Occasionally waves would come in that would suddenly leave us in deeper water. The sea was strong, I could feel the sand beneath my feet swirling. I hopped on to a wave, along with a couple of others. It started to drift towards my left. As I'm heading left I can hear the lifeguards asking us to stay within the flags. I look to see where the flags are in relation to us and our wave. The lifeguards are picking up the flags and moving them across to the right. The wave I'm on dies mid sea. I attempt to put my feet on the floor. It's not there. I can see people further along, within the flags, they're able to stand where the are. Then I feel the sea pulling me out. I start waving to Tim and shouting help. I don't know how to get on a wave without my feet being on the ground.

Now you can probably tell from my tone that I was panicking at this point. Tim thought I was waving to say hello. As we wanders over the floor goes from beneath him, he can see my face and realised I was having trouble.

Tim tries to instruct me to jump on waves. I fail dismally. No amount of swimming seems to get me anywhere. The lifeguards using their megaphones ask for people to wave if their in trouble. I am waving like a mad man. Within in what feels like seconds a blonde guy in red life gear surfs past me with amazing ease. I didn’t even see a wave! He grabs the girl next to me and swooshs in to the beach. Within seconds another is brushing a young boy to land. Me and Tim, slowly start to make progress and the sand is getting closer. I think once I saw how easy I could be rescued, I stopped panicking, and our efforts to get out started to pay off.

In the end I didn’t need the services of the Baywatch team. Not sure what I would have done without Tim to rescue me.

Needless to say I didn’t fancy getting back in the water that day. As we headed off the beach we heard them announce the beach closed for the day. Enter the sea at your own risk.