OSGB GRID REF. SW760401. FROGPOOL

INTERESTING PLACE NAME

HAWKS TOR ON BODMIN MOOR

CAMPING ON TRESLEA DOWNS

GREAT SOUNDING NAMES

FRIEND SARAH WILL APPRECIATE THIS ONE

NOT ALL ROAD WALKS ARE UNATTRACTIVE

KINDLY GENTLEMAN MR HALL

The first day of October and Bodmin Moor was in my sights. First, however, I had to get to North Hill, the village I had chosen to be my 'launch point' onto the Moor. Unfortunately, due to a dearth of suitable footpaths, getting there from Launceston involved walking southwest along the B3254 for 5 miles. As it happened, traffic was light and drivers were courteous so the roadside walk was not as bad as I had feared.

My route across Bodmin Moor took me to Hawks Tor, Newel Tor and Hill Tor. I would have liked to include Kilmar Tor and Brown Gelly on my route, but walking the very rocky 1km length of the former would have taken too much time, and the latter was surrounded by barbed-wire fences. I had to climb a few walls and fences anyway because Bodmin Moor is not a National Park and there are few official footpaths across it. I kept a low profile and did my best to avoid attracting the attention of any farmers whose fields I might be crossing.

The weather was fine and the air clear, giving great views. Although I was not following paths, the good visibility made navigation easy. I wished there had been more days like this when I was walking the Pennines. I had expected Bodmin Moor to be bleak and boggy, but it was neither of these on this occasion. Of course, had the weather been wet and foggy my impression might have been quite different.

All too soon I came back onto the roads again just south of Colliford Lake. I continued past Pantersbridge, but the light was fading by the time I reached Mount. A local informed me that there was a small area of open moorland just beyond Mount where I could camp. I quickly climbed what turned out to be Treslea Downs and pitched my tent amongst the wild ponies that reside there.

The following day's trek involved yet more roads, although these were mainly unclassified and had very low traffic densities. It seems odd that I should have my greatest difficulty finding suitable footpaths in one of the most rural parts of England. By mid-afternoon I had reached Bugle, and the opportunity to replenish my food and water. I continued on through Whitemoor and Nanpean until I reached the most appropriately named St. Stephen.

I had walked through the heart of the China Clay industry. The evidence of this destructive activity was all around. The hills had been systematically demolished to remove the valuable commodity leaving distorted, unnaturally terraced hills and pointed slag heaps, all too unstable and dangerous to walk upon. It is hard to appreciate the scale of the destruction this industry has wrought on the landscape until you see it with your own eyes. Much of the China Clay business is now owned by a French company called IMERYS which, when rearranged, spells MISERY, as one friendly farmer pointed out to me. Whilst misery may be too strong a word, the area certainly had a depressed feel about it which is infectious.

Anyway, the Landlady at the Kings Arms Inn at St. Stephen let me camp in the field at the side of the pub. That cheered me up.

The weather teased me with a little shower of rain in the morning. I packed the tent quickly before it got too wet, only for the rain to stop anyway and a glimmer of sunshine to appear. This mixed weather set the pattern for the day. It was drizzling as I continued my road walk west through Laddock and St. Erme, but dry by the time I'd reached St. Clement Woods to join National Cycle Network route no. 3 south to Truro.

What a cheerful place Truro is! I stopped for a while to eat lunch, explore the bustling town centre and enjoy the street music. I would have liked to have stayed longer, but I had this charity walk thing to do.

Cycle route 3 took me down to Bissoe (no, not Bisto, silly). About a mile south west of Bissoe I came to Frogpool, an apt name given what the weather was doing at the time. Local enquiries (at the Cornish Arms) resulted in my introduction to 84 year old farmer Mr Hall, who offered me the use of a dusty attic storeroom as my residence for the night. He even had an outdoor loo I could use! Magic. What more could any wild-camper wish for on a rainy night? Well, there was the additional pleasant surprise that my food and drinks bill at the Cornish Arms was mysteriously paid for me. I suspect that somebody by the name of Andy might have had something to do with that.