I knew where it was. It was just that I had little idea of how I was going to get there. Courtesy of the major road upgrade right on our doorstep that’s gathered pace this summer, I’d already been forced along two diversions I hadn’t been too wild about following. By the time I arrived at the outskirts of St Agnes I was beginning to lose heart. And now things got worse. The road I’d planned on taking when I looked at the map appeared to be a very narrow bridle path, and so I continued to the next likely looking route, only to find myself crawling along a classic Cornish lane, barely wider than the car and flanked by bracken that did little to hide the bruising granite walls on either side. And of course it was as I was almost a quarter of a mile along it that a car appeared, coming from the other direction. A few minutes of irritable backtracking to the unbroken sound of my car’s complaining reversing sensors later, followed by an apologetic thank you from the grateful occupants of the offending obstacle, I gave in and turned around, finally arriving at a layby beside the main road where I stopped to inspect the map once more. The last mile took me down another narrow winding lane, but at least this time I didn’t meet anyone coming in the other direction. The track from the road to the car park was a series of ruts, rocks and potholes, but finally I was here, ready to explore a space I’d never brought the camera to before. I was only six miles from home, but the drive had taken me almost an hour. On the plus side, apart from me there were just two vans in the car park. Presumably everyone else was stuck in that narrow lane waiting to see who’d engage reverse gear first.
It was Marcus and his YouTube channel, Cornwall on Camera, that had brought me here. Somewhere in the afternoon the idea had taken root that I needed to get out for a couple of hours, just to breathe in the air and watch the sea. Of course I’d have the bag with me, but photography wasn’t the main purpose. As I often do when I haven’t really made plans, I’d already half resolved to go to Wheal Coates, the nearest coastal beauty spot. But then I looked at the tide times and considered the options again. It was a mild afternoon, devoid of purposeful conditions, and I do generally prefer Wheal Coates when things are a bit nasty. Nasty was the last word I’d use to describe this gentle September Sunday afternoon, and as I continued in the current vein of indecision, Trevellas Cove suddenly leapt into the forefront of my ambitions and shouted “remember me with my twin sea stacks?” And so the deal was done. It was a perfect day to try something new.
Unlike the drive here, it didn’t take long to get my bearings, although I was immediately distracted by a small group of people on the beach who were all staring out across the water. What on earth were they looking at? It took a while for me to realise that their friend, swimming close to the shore, had been joined by an inquisitive seal, edging ever closer to him until it was almost within touching distance. For a few minutes I sat and watched, entranced, intrigued and full of envy. I made a mental note to bring my wetsuit and the underwater camera next time. And with that thought in mind, I continued along the narrow clifftop path towards where I hoped I might find the sea stacks.
It was only after I’d set up the tripod and began to try and make sense of the clifftop composition that they walked past, him barely registering me, her offering a smile as I nodded hello. And within seconds they’d vanished, before I caught a glimpse of them on the rocks below, donning wetsuits and jumping into the sea. I’d assumed I was standing as close as you could get with high tide approaching, but by watching their progress I was already beginning to learn something about the place. Following their route took me to a rocky platform. And there was the scramble to the side of me - a diagonal traverse that would allow anyone brave enough to descend the few metres to the shelf beside the sea. It wasn’t for the faint hearted, but just about navigable if taken methodically and slowly. After a bit of huffing and puffing and searching for suitable holds, I was soon on the smooth grey rocks where a whole new world opened up in front of me. Now I could stand close to the water, with lots of delicious textures right there in front of me.
Unlike many of Marcus’ shots here, I completely ignored the right hand stack and brought the edge of St Agnes Head into the frame, the small dot known as the cow and calf on the horizon. You’ll need to see them from Perranporth to make sense of that descriptive title. And although I hadn’t consulted the relevant apps, I’d evidently chosen a good time of year to come here, because the sun was setting in exactly the right place. I’d come here armed with the B team, the crop body and ragtag lens collection, including that one - the Tokina wide angle affair that had arrived from Pakistan and broken down on its first outing. But those debut nerves seemed to have been banished to the wings, the lens working without complaint and performing rather admirably considering how little it cost in comparison to the rest of them.
The return journey was rather less eventful, even though the clamber from the rocks to the grassy safety above felt marginally more hair raising than the journey down had. I need a pulley system installed for next time. Either that or a raft to get me back to the beach, very possibly with a playful seal in hot pursuit. Whether or not I’m brave or daft enough to take on that traverse again, I was glad I made the effort. I will be back. I think this place has another ace or two up its sleeve, waiting to be discovered.
