The late afternoon sun sits low in the sky as I walk the South-West Coastal Path, bringing me down into the picturesque harbour of Charlestown, Saint Austell. Cirrus and Cumulus clouds speckle a rich, pale blue Summer sky, a veritable swimming pool for the clouds to float through and enjoy. Lined with pastel-painted stone fisherman’s cottages, nestled alongside the encapsulated Georgian character and period properties, industry and heritage thriving in the blood of this historic Maritime village.

In 1790, the population of the village, known at the time as West Porthmeur, stood at just nine fishermen and their families. No harbour was present, so trading and fishing vessels loaded and landed on the beach. The growth of Copper mining and, later, the nearby China Clay pits in St. Austell, began to flourish in the late 18^th century, facilitating the need to develop a local port to transport goods, with a local man, Charles Rashleigh, funding the construction of the harbour, finally completed in 1804.

Rounding the harbour wall, I look out across the shimmering waters of Saint Austell Bay. Sea Blues and Aquamarines meet Cyan and Maximum Blue Green in a spectacular dance, mixed shades entwining as they sway through the gentle ripples of the shore. Offshore from the ancient cliffs, pillars of moss-coated sea stacks reach out of the water from the deep, like the fingers of an outstretched hand grasping for the Sun. A cooling, gentle breeze ripples the surface of the fast-steady water. Ebb and flow currents bring the currents of the gentle tide as it soothes the shoreline,  a mild eddy wrapping an embrace around the rocks.

The imposing Crinnis Cliff Gun Battery silently watches over me, built in the years following the harbours construction to defend the port from potential French invasion, when the Summer waters brought calmer seas. The coastal path leading down into Charlestown still stands as the remains of the track once used by the horses and carts as cannons were established and later taken down in the Winter for storage.

Soaked in generations of geology and human endeavour, I watch as a lone paddle boarder drifts on the waves of time. I walk in the tracks of history, following in the footsteps of the past.

Only Happy Days.

~ A ~