When I set off from Wadebridge the sun was already up and the sky was clear. It occurred to me that it could be a lovely sunny day, but I didn’t trust the changeable Cornish weather that much so I dressed in my layers anyway and set off for Padstow, on the north Cornish coast. It was a pretty, meandering drive past fields and hedgerows with tantalising views of the coast here and there, over a small crest or between a row of trees. I arrived in Padstow just before 9am and found a pretty town not quite awake yet. I could hear water lapping against the fishing boats a they rocked sleepily in the harbour. A few eager fishermen were about, hailing each other across the decks, while gulls circled lazily overhead or squawked at each other from the rigging.

It seemed a pretty and peaceful place. A trickle of people were up and about already, looking into the shops and cafes that circled the harbour, but as it was Sunday most businesses were still closed. I headed towards a promising looking café that turned out to be jam packed full of breakfasters, grabbed a quick pasty and headed back out again.

There is something special about being out and about in the morning. After the sun is up but most people are not, except for the keenest joggers and dog-walkers and those whose industries require them to be up with or even before the sun – in this case the fisherman. There is a sort of peace that descends, or perhaps it rises with the sun, to be inevitably broken by the hustle and bustle of daily life, or perhaps the first ring of a phone. But it happens every morning, and although I’ll admit that I miss is most days, when I am up to see it – especially in a new place – and the weather is kind, the day that stretches out ahead is one of endless possibility. I found a path that led past the shops and the harbour and out to the beach, and set off.

I walked for about half an hour along the headland, then climbed down and walked back along the beach. The tide was out, and others had come down by then, obviously making the most of the Sunday sunshine. As well as many dogs and their humans, I saw a family making a small campfire, and a little girl in a kayak being pushed along by her father. Further along,  two very small, naked children were running around in circles, squealing with delight as they evaded their mother, who was brandished a towel at them in a hapless sort of way.  As I walked along the waterline, shoes slung over one arm and trousers rolled up to my knees, I felt like I had stumbled upon a moment in time – I felt separated, but not it a bad way – it was like looking at snapshots of another life.

I put my shoes and socks back on somewhat reluctantly (why is it so impossible to get all the sand off?) and wandered back into the town. It was now almost 11 and it was full of people, bustling and buzzing like any seaside tourist town. I grabbed a couple of souvenirs and extricated myself from the crowded harbour, and drove up to the top of the headland where I enjoyed another lovely walk, this time from a very cosy looking hamlet called Smuggler’s Cove up to a lighthouse, which was no longer functional but in good condition all the same. I sat for a while enjoying the sunshine and the views, feeling a bit uncomfortable in all my layers but enjoying the peace and quiet. The wind whistled through the grass in a pleasant, cheery way as some cows looked on, chewing lazily behind a low stone wall. I began to wish I had brought a picnic with me.

I walked back to my car and was in the midst of doing some Mr Bean-esque removal of layers when suddenly there was a face peering in the passenger window.

“Excuse me, do you know where the Cosy Cove café is? Only we’re going for afternoon tea.” Now there were about five of them peering in.

“Um, no sorry, I have no idea, sorry, I’m just here for a walk,” I replied as I hurriedly stuffed my arm back through my sleeve. Fortunately they disappeared, and, one layer down, I headed south, this time towards St Merryn. I had been told by a friend to go there and so I did, hoping that I would find somewhere pleasant to have lunch. When I arrived I was disappointed to find not much to the place at all except a garage, a pub and a small convenience store. I had just decided on the pub when an enormous coach pulled up outside of it and disgorged an entire load of pensioners in through the front door, so instead I grabbed a snack from the convenience store and followed a sign to Constantine Beach.

I found it eventually, down a winding road, past a posh looking golf club and down a hill, which I then had to reverse back up again as there was no parking. Instead I had to pay £4 to park up in a nearby field, which I wouldn’t have resented quite so much if I had planned to spend more than an hour or two. I walked down to the beach past many people who were clearly well-kitted and planning to spend most of the day there, in wetsuits and with surfboards, buckets and spades in hand.

Never mind, I thought to myself as I dropped another 60p into a bathroom turnstile so I could remove a couple more layers – Ill still enjoy whatever time I spend here. Which I did, although I spent most of it wishing I had planned the day a little bit better. If I’d known it would be such a nice day, I mused, I could have planned to spend the whole day here, brought a decent picnic and a book and camped out for the day. Still, I found a good spot high up on the beach where I could lean against the grassy dunes and observe all the fun and activity going on around me. I enjoyed a pasty and a Korev – Cornish beer – both of which were about the same temperature by the time I got there – and built a sandcastle, complete with drawbridge, turrets and ramparts, stables, kiln and stairs to the upper walk. I was quite pleased with myself. I finished with an ice cream and yet another walk, and headed off again.

It was at about this point that I realised I didn’t have any accommodation booked for that evening, so I made a quick stop in St Merryn – where there was mobile phone signal – and found a reasonable looking hotel going for a discount rate in Newquay. Newquay was about 40 minutes away from where I was, so I decided I had time for one more stop. Marvelling at the wonders of modern technology, I drove off in search of the village of St Mabyn, home to Haywood Farm Cider.

I had found the flyer for Haywood Farm Cider and one or other of the pubs I’d stayed in, and it caught my attention because it promised me I could ‘experience’ traditional cider, relax and enjoy the cider in a pleasant, orchard setting, and that on some select weekend days in summer, one could sit outside in the sunshine enjoying cheese and cider and listening to some local live music. That all sounded very enticing, so I was somewhat bemused when I emerged from the windy, muddy drive, onto a gravelly, muddy parking area, in front of an old barn. I had to laugh.

It was really quite charming. In front of the barn, strewn around the carpark were various bits and pieces of machinery in varying states of rustiness, upside down old crates and barrels and a very scruffy looking dog. There was a door at either end of the barn – one was small and looked like it led into a kind of office, the other was an enormous sliding door of rusty iron, and it was wide open. I wasn’t sure which one I should head for, but fortunately a man emerged through the open door and saw me. He looked every bit the farm labourer – his trousers were torn off and fraying at the knees, his polo shirt was covered in bits of paint and plaster and who knows what else, he had a curly beard as long as his neck, and was grubby from head to foot.  Turned out he was the manager.

I followed him into the barn, where there were two more workers, who looked more or less the same, but with slightly less facial hair, and were working an old apple press. A radio in the corner was blaring out hits of the 60’s, there was a very beaten up sofa against the back wall, and an enormous pile of apples was stacked up against the corner nearest the door – some of them had tumbled away and the dog, who had followed us over, was sniffing at them furtively. Not for the first time on this trip, I felt as though I’d walked into somebody’s backyard.

The two workers, it turned out, were a kiwi, who had turned up in January to work for a week and was still there, and a Frenchman who didn’t speak any English. I waved at them from the door and turned to follow the manager to the tasting room, just in time to see the dog snatch an apple in his jaws and disappear. I discovered that the room at the other end was an office, but it was a tasting room as well. There were cider barrels stacked up against one wall and I sampled all of them before deciding on a carton of the sweet version. I thanked my ‘guide’ for his time and headed back to the car with my purchase, and the last thing I heard was him calling, “but ignore the use-by date on it, the French guy did them and he got it all wrong”. Chuckling, I headed off for Newquay.

My hotel, as it turned out, was on the beach slightly out of town. I went for a wander and found a cosy looking bar where I sat and wrote some postcards and made friends with a local cat. Then I headed up to the very edge of the beach, where I found a trickle of people all heading up the same hill. I followed them, and found, to my delight, the most perfect open spot for watching the sunset. It was a clear night and we had a spectacular view of the sun sinking down into the ocean.  I reflected, as I sat there feeling not-too-cold, that this was a rare sighting in England – for me, anyway. I was grateful.

I walked back to the hotel and couldn’t be bothered driving anywhere else, so I had a lazy dinner in the restaurant, and, because I could, did a few laps in the hotel pool. Then, as there was nothing else to do and I had a long drive the next day, I went to bed early. I had a disappointing breakfast in the hotel – how do you make an egg that doesn’t taste like an egg? – then drove down to Newquay Harbour for a walk along the beach before heading home. It was quiet and pleasant, and I really wasn’t looking forward to the drive, but it had to be done, so I climbed back up and off I went.

I just had one more stop to make – just off the main road a little outside a small town called Winterbourne Abbas, is yet another bronze age rock formation, this time another stone circle known simply as 9 Stones. I pulled up in a small layby, took my life in my hands crossing the A road, sidled along a bank for about 20 metres and climbed over some brambles to get to it, where I discovered a lovely iron fence with a gate, at the end of a long path leading back into the town. I let myself in and looked at the stones for a bit, but the busy road right next door did spoil the ambience somewhat. I made it back to the car in the same risky fashion and headed home.

So now it’s finally the end of my Devon and Cornwall road trip and I suppose I have to summarise it all and draw my conclusions. It was a brilliant trip, full of lucky finds and surprising discoveries. I can’t wait for the next one, wherever that may be. There are a lot of interesting places and people in this country, and lots of little corners hiding fascinating things, and it just takes a little bit of effort to find them. Sometimes plans don’t work, and sometimes they backfire completely, but mostly it’s worth it. And one thing’s for certain – there’s no need to ever feel bored or lonely if you’re travelling in Britain – all you have to do is find the nearest pub.