The car, christened somewhat ironically as Brutus, blows another leak in the coolant. It was my own stupid fault for taking it out on the hottest day of the year to the beach. Everyone else heading in the same direction. The hard shoulder filling up with other cars. I scrape up the hill and in to the Travelodge carpark behind Rufus Stone services. I get out and see the trail of water. I already know the reservoir is empty. I call the AA, thankful to have breakdown cover. Though, across the course of the day I realise I’ve made a mistake in bringing the car this far from home. I spend almost all day in the shade of trees across the car park. A group of coach party tourists push my car across the car park so they can fit in. The road at a standstill. The toilet is out of service. I buy another bottle of water, a sandwich. I read about an RSPB nature restoration project in the Lake District. An AA van arrives but its already got a car attached. Another van arrives, takes one look and says he can’t help. He leaves and then the AA inform me I have to pay for recovery. There’s nothing else I can do. Another long sweaty wait later and Brutus is locked in place behind a big yellow van and I’m cruising home. I’ve missed out on a sea swim, a free dinner and a day with my Gran. Worse would have been if I’d had an accident. The woman behind the reception in the Travelodge had to call for an ambulance earlier. She was told she’d have a 13 hour wait.

A day lost and a reminder that I never really wanted a car. Only two days later I’m on the southbound train to Cornwall. I leave Basingstoke in the last of the late summer heat and sunshine. I was always planning on being on the train for this journey. It has already cost me significantly less and I’m better able to enjoy the ride. I finish my book, listen to a podcast, write some notes. The countryside remains familiar through to Exeter. Chalk hills split into vast fields. Pockets of trees. Hay bales at rest. The landscape bubbles up a little more aggressively in Devon. A man, either a wizard or mentally unwell, takes a seat next to me. His wisdom is that if I find myself in trouble I should head to Truro. I’ve no plans for trouble. He continues to talk to someone else I can’t see. These men are always the same. Blue jeans, black shirt, questionable facial hair. Always white, and with that not necessarily alcoholic but often musty aroma. The train hits the coast, the last stretch I’ve walked. No matter how I get there, travelling out West always seems to involve heading in to the grey. I hit the pinch fold hills of Central Cornwall and carry on to the North coast. I try to count how many times I’ve been down here. I can’t even remember the last time. I sort of remember where I am, where I’m going. Familiar enough. I head to my old and tiny fisherman’s cottage. I have to call the owner because the window key has snapped in my hands. He seems surprisingly fine with it and I wonder if that’s because I’ll be picking up the bill. The superstitious side of me fears the worst. The car, the key, the third as yet unrevealed thing. Old mates Katie and Nancy turn up and have a look around before we head out to the pub. We try somewhere new which is closed before heading on to the Bluff. Every time we’ve been up here Nancy has taken the same photo of her pint of cider with the view. She doesn’t hesitate to take another. I call it an early night after a long day on the train and tell my pals I’ll see them tomorrow.

I head out for an early run across the estuary, around the headland and on to the dunes. The smell of salt in the morning air. Past lives collide in St Ives Bay. I wonder where those even older photographs are, from a time before Katie and Nancy. A time now I hardly remember. I head over to Katie’s after the school run. Nancy and I squeeze in to borrowed wetsuits. We load weird shaped suitcases in to the van and head over to pick up her friend Siobhan. Then it’s down to Carbis Bay beach. The sand is white. The sky is blue. Already I’m counting my blessings. Katie gets me inflating a paddle board. Nancy goes in the sea for the first time I’ve known her. Katie and Siobhan are in the sea maybe all of the time. There’s a pang of jealousy. Oh to live here. We carry the paddle boards down to the ankle high waves and push out. On my knees things are fine. Every time I try to stand up I lose my balance and fall straight in. Nancy shouts there’s a seal. It doesn’t take long to see where. A bullet of black beneath the surface. Is it coming straight at us? Why is it coming straight at us? A seal, they assure me. It pops its sea-doggo head above the surface and I feel slightly less on edge. We move out of the wind, closer to the cliffs. I manage to get on my feet and stay there. Once is enough and enough is enough, we head back to the sand and seek out a coffee. We drift along the coast a short way. Through St Ives, bunting clappping in the wind. Nearly dead German tourists crawl through the streets. I don’t think I want to come here again if it isn’t winter. There are always too many people, everywhere. We make for the bar on Porthmeor Beach. The rain starts and the bar staff begin unfolding the canopy, which does a wonderful job of dumping a load of water on a woman sat on one of the benches. She doesn’t complain too much and still gets two fresh drinks. I sit and watch the surfers catching waves. One day I tell myself, being in or on the water will be a daily choice.

The next the morning I find I have the tightest of thighs. You don’t spend all that much time on your knees. I drag myself back to the Smart residence. We pile in the van again and head out towards Land’s End. Nancy and Katie sing literally anything in the front of the van. I’m just happy to be involved. The winding roads across the hills. The reminder that this part of the country, the foot, the end, remains disconnected. We walk the South West Coast Path from lands End to Nanjizal Bay. The drama of coast is a close second to that of the mountains. I know that now. High peaks are rare and I think that adds value for me. I’m never more than 70 miles from the coast. I can still feel my excitement as we close in on the bay. I speed up, almost sprinting down the stairs. The Song of the Sea opens up. The tide slowly coming in. Katie and I wade in to the pool, the cold water shock brings reward. An unrivalled sense of calm. Gobies flee from our slow moving feet. We clamber over the rocks. The waves, the tide, the power of the open Atlantic grumbles beyond. The noise is humbling. There’s talk of swimming round but neither of us seem to have the confidence to say “let’s go”. We edge back, over the boulders. A crowd waits on the far side and we ruin plenty of photos simply by being here. Nancy waits, the cold too much. Katie and I head for the waves crashing in the bay, riding the breakers back to shore. On the way back we stop at a shipping container to pick up coffee. Then it’s on to the bustling centre of St Just. At the Dog and Rabbit I have a sandwich with so much goat’s cheese I think I’ll be made out of it by the end. Then we’re back to Hayle. I return to my cottage. Another temporary home, knackered. They are my girls and I love spending time with them. Four years have passed but it could only be four days. I hope it is not another four. On our last morning together we walk the high street of Hayle, which in spite of its size does not house an ugly magnet worthy of purchase. I should have made more effort at St Ives. We drop Nancy at the station and then Katie and I walk out along the harbour to the beach. There are so many fish in the shallow water. Katie stops to pick up tiny bits of plastic out of the tide line. We grab a pasty for lunch. The train comes for me. I leave the deep west behind. The land seems to relax, letting go of all it has squeezed in. The hills unfold. The sky lifts. I cruise along the familiar coast. The faded seaside glamour is briefly restored through mid-afternoon sun. I swap at Exeter to move inland. Back to the chalk. Back to the sprawl of my suburban reality.