16 Jun |
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“You’re doing what?” my friends would ask incredulously – usually accompanied by a look reserved for the slow-witted – when I told them I was going surfing in England. “Better take an extra wetsuit,” they’d chortle, not helping my mental image of a surfer entombed in frost like prehistoric leftovers from the last Ice Age.
 And who can blame them, I suppose. In a country more famous for drizzly days whiled away in cosy pubs, the thought of spending hours in the sea is not high on the to-do list for most people visiting the United Kingdom.
Perhaps they were right, I wondered, as my First Great Western train pulled into Newquay Station on a gloomy Sunday afternoon. It looked ‘distinctly autumnal’, as the forecasters on the Beeb seemed to be fond of saying. Five hours out of London, and about 20 from my front door in Cape Town, I’d finally made it to what is widely regarded as the home of English surfing.
Facing the full brunt of swells rolling in off the Atlantic, the myriad coves and dozens of beaches in and around Newquay offer a surf spot for almost all conditions. It may not have the legendary point-break of J-Bay or the warm tropical waters of Indonesia, but when the swell plays ball the breaks at Fistral Beach can fire.
Well, at least that’s what I was told.
Looking down on the beach from my room in the Carnmarth Hotel all I can see is a choppy mess dotted with day-trippers determined to spend the drizzly day on the beach. With a full day of surfing ahead of me the next day, I decide to stay on dry land and take a wander into town.
Like so many English seaside towns, Newquay has a split personality. On the high street it’s all flashing amusement arcades and discount stores touting 2-for-£1 specials. Low on charm but easy on the budget, it’s no wonder the town has gained an unwelcome reputation as a post-school party-spot. The Plettenberg Bay of Cornwall.
But wander beyond the high street and you’ll find that Newquay, like most of England’s towns, quietly guards its quaint corners. It began life as a fishing village, and so the harbour is a good place to start exploring.
Small fishing boats lie tied up along the quayside, where lobster nets are piled high until the spring tides subside. At low tide, the boats are marooned on the harbour sands and you can walk across the edge of the bay to the excellent seaside restaurant at Tolcarne Beach.
On the cliffs above the harbour, The Fort Inn is a great place to enjoy a pint of Cornish-brewed St. Austell’s ale; the terrace offering fine views out over the Bay. Down a few cobbled streets, the cosy Red Lion is also worth a visit; a low-ceilinged local hang-out where the TV in the corner plays surf movies on a loop.
Wandering up Headland Road it’s hard to ignore the huge granite cross at the top of the hill. An all-too-common sight in English towns, the cross is a memorial to locals killed in battle since World War I. With over 100 names listed for the Great War, it’s hard to imagine how the loss of young men must have devastated the small town nearly a century ago.
Down the hill towards Towan Head I notice two whitewashed stone buildings. Known as the Huer’s Huts, the oldest dates back to medieval times and were home to fish-spotters who’d scan the waters of Newquay Bay and alert the local fishermen when shoals of pilchard came close inshore. It’s a system that works just as well for the ‘trek fishermen’ of the Cape.
Another white building on the Head is home to the old lifeboat station. With its treacherous shore you’ll find lifeboats dotted all along the Cornish coastline. Perched on a cliff above Newquay Bay, the Towan Head station was once infamous for having the steepest slipway in all of the British Isles.
The steep cliffs that wrecked countless ships have been put to more playful use in recent years though, with the advent of ‘coasteering’. Clambering along rocky shorelines, swimming across calm inlets and leaping off high cliffs is all part of the fun in what has become a popular activity in sea-obsessed Newquay.
I’d rather be on the cliff than leaping off it though, so I stick to the gravelly path leading back towards Fistral. Off to my left, the historic Headland Hotel rises out of the grassy hills, almost unchanged since it was first built in 1897 at the height of the Victorian love-affair with ‘taking the air’ at the seaside.
It’s here that I meet Ben Ridding and Gemma Harris the next morning. From a cosy office in a corner of The Headland they run what has to be the happiest surf outfit in Cornwall; Surfing is Therapy.
Both experienced lifeguards and surfers, Surfing is Therapy sprang to life on a surf-trip to Costa Rica when it dawned on the couple that they could turn their passion into a profession.
And their enthusiasm for the sport, and the region, is infectious. Despite the patchy ceiling of grey cloud we’re wetsuited up and raring to go in no time. From the hotel it’s a two-minute walk down to Fistral Beach, where the wind has died and the swell is dishing up some reasonable two-foot breakers; a little sloppy, but certainly a wave or two on offer.
There are only two of us braving the water today, but even in the high season Surfing is Therapy pride themselves on not being a sausage-machine surf school.
“We only take small groups for surf lessons, with no more than 10 people at a time,” says Gemma. “Otherwise you just can’t give people enough attention to get them up and surfing.”
Private lessons are also available, along with our full-day ‘surfari’ exploring the area’s best breaks. After two hours in the water, and with the tide dropping, we decide to hit the road. From up on the hillside the view is spectacular, with coves and headlands giving the coastline the serrated edge of a postage stamp.
“Some of the bays can have nasty rips, especially on low-to-mid tides,” warns Gemma as we drive through Newquay to our next stop. “If you’re surfing on your own it’s a good idea to ask the locals or the lifeguards about any currents.”
There were no currents at our next stop, Mawgan Porth – ‘porth’ is Cornish for ‘beach’ – but the waves were breaking heavily as we stood and weighed up our options. With a mischievous smile and extreme (misplaced?) faith in my surfing abilities Gemma jogged confidently into the breakers. With my street-cred at stake there nothing I could do, but follow.
In retrospect, perhaps not one of my best judgement calls.
While the Cornish beach breaks are usually kind to beginners, when they’re dumping like Mawgan Porth only experienced surfers need apply. I ran, I paddled, I got dragged along the bottom like a tin can behind a car of randy newly-weds. To cut a long story short, the final score was Wave 1 – Richard 0.
When the late-afternoon waves rolled back into the sunset we decided to call it a day… time for a pint at one of Newquay’s beachfront bars, perhaps followed by dinner at Jamie Oliver’s restaurant ‘Fifteen’. Salty, sandy and shattered... just another perfect day on the surf breaks of Cornwall.
Travel advisory
First published in the Sunday Times, May 2011
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