First though, we had to get changed. We’d rinsed off the mud from socks and trousers the day before, and had left them on the radiators overnight – dry and warm. Except…’Samuel?’ ‘Yes?’ ‘What did we do with our shoes?’ ‘Oh.’ The shoes, which we’d left (and forgotten) in the cupboard were not dry. Or warm. Still shiny with rain. There are few things less pleasant than putting warm, dry, socked feet, into squelchy wet and cold shoes. Putting them on in the room would result in wet shoe prints all over the carpeted floor, so it was back outside for fumbling with wet and hardened shoelaces.
The sky was grey now, but still calm. We headed over the road and onto the beach for our first proper glimpse of St Michael’s Mount. Mist-topped, it loomed out of the blue-grey waves, the causeway connecting it to the mainland still submerged. Two thousand years ago trading ships were sailing into its harbour and exporting Cornish tin to the rest of Europe.
Religion followed the traders: an apparition of the Archangel St Michael is said to have been witnessed by fisherman in 495 and by the sixth century AD it is thought that the Mount was a thriving religious centre. After the Norman Conquest, the abbey was granted to the Benedictine monks of Mont St Michel in France. The church on the island’s summit was built by the French Abbot, Bernard le Bec, and through the Middle Ages the Mount became a major pilgrimage destination. Four miracles, said to have happened here between 1262 and 1263 would have only added to its religious magnetism.
(from the St Michael’s Mount website)
As we headed down the beach we heard a motor start. The amphibious ferry runs from the beach to the harbour fairly frequently in season, but we were just outside it so had no idea when the next one would be. The waves were hurling themselves across the stone causeway, but the tide was beginning to recede, so we decided to wait for whichever came first: the next ferry, or low tide.
Next to the causeway was a rather irresistible large pile of rocks. I was up on them first (yes I’ve come a long way), though I stopped at the top. Sam, typically, hopped to the next pile, and clambered to where they were jutting out over the (angry-looking, swirling, menacing) sea. A raven settled about two feet from where I was, glanced at him, then gave me a sympathetic look before taking off again. Having satisfactorily conquered the rocks we went back down to the causeway. The sea was definitely drawing back, and a good half of the causeway had become visible. A group of Chinese tourists had turned up, and followed us onto the stones. Walking out as far as we dared, we stopped to take pictures – then legged it from a high wave. Squeals from the tour group told us they hadn’t been so lucky. Legging it was probably slightly more difficult for them too, given their footwear – heeled suede boots, on the large part. Each time we’d inch a little further forward, and each time a wave would drive us back. The dry socks in wet shoes effect had long gone, since we were now wave-sprayed anyway.
The little ferry turned out of the harbour. ‘C’mon Sam…’ ‘In a minute!’ I leave the boy to his photography, and head back over the causeway. The ferry moves faster than I expect, and is back on the sand by the time I reach the beach, so I run for it. Sam notices, and begins to run too, but sand isn’t conducive to speed if you don’t have massive tires, and by the time we near the ferry, it’s heading away towards the sea again. Peeved, we trudge back towards the causeway.
Patience isn’t a strong point for both of us, and standing at the halfway point on the stones, we decide we’ve had enough with waiting for the sea. The causeway isn’t completely level, so our strategy is this: wait for the waves to flow back. run to the highest visible point. wait for the next wave to swirl (hopefully) around you. run to the next. It works, until a rogue wave came from behind a rock, and drenched us both. Giving up for strategy, we decide to charge it. Less than a minute later we’re on St Michael’s Mount, watching as other tourists give it a go.
The Castle and grounds are closed to visitors at this time of the year, so other than the views it gives over the sea, there isn’t much to see on the Mount. It’s still a thrill, though, and I can imagine how beautiful it must be in the summer, though the thousands of others who feel the same way might make it a lot less peaceful. We explore what we can, peeping into the gardens, and wandering down a row of houses. Rounding a corner we are surprised by three small boys sailing plastic boats in the pools that had formed on the ground overnight.
The Mount explored we head back over the now dry causeway. We plan to be in Penzance for lunch, so start walking. According to the map there’s an unbroken stretch of beach from Marazion, so we decide to ignore the coastal path and stay on the sand. The rain’s held up so far, and the grey skies are cracking hints of blue. Every thirty feet or so there’s a narrow stream we hop across. The walk to Penzance looks like it’s going to be uneventful, until we reach this:
It’s too wide to jump over, too fast flowing to walk through, and the rocks are either too slippery or too far apart to walk across. The buildings you see in the background, by the way, are in Penzance. We’re THERE. We just can’t seem to get to it. I propose walking back to where I saw a nice, climb-able pile of rocks that’ll lead up to the path. Sam points out that the path is really just next to us, and starts climbing up the first pile of rocks he sees.
THESE:
They may not look all that bad to you, but they were HUGE, EVIL ROCKS. It took about twenty minutes for Sam to coax me up them, and I still hadn’t forgiven him for it twenty minutes later. Still, we were at Penzance. The sun was finally shining, and the sky was a ridiculous blue. It was early Saturday afternoon, the town was full of happy people, and I’d found a fish and chips cafe. All was good in the world. Valentine’s Day present 2010: a massive success 
