The morning is full of mizzle as I meander through the narrow lanes of Port Isaac, that lead me down to the Platt. I make my way around the old slipway, where songs of fishermen still breath upon the lapping shore. As I walk past the old chapel, now a combination of heritage, coffee and tourist’s delights, the path leads up to views of the quaint working harbour. I rest a moment, besides empty cottages that cling to the land.  The harsh wind hurries along the coastline from the ghost of King Arthur. I can just make out the contemporary frame that connects the land to the ruins of Tintagel-I Shiver. 

The gulls cry above me, eager for the morning catch. As a fading rainbow falls into the sea. I take my time, knowing that soon, this place will be swallowed by society. The coastline here is unforgiving to the elements, as the trail leads me down to a hidden cove. The strength of wild yellow beauty guards the steep cliff face. At the bottom a stream from the valley cascades down the karn and makes its way to the ebbing tide. The water giving itself to the lure of adventure, to become whole within a vastness of unknowing. It reminds me of my own journey-I smile. 

As I watch the merciless sea and the dangers that it offers. Yet I resonate with the dreams of the young stream. For, to remain upon the safety of the shore, would also leave me restless. 

Words by Caroline Hancock