We walked this stunning stretch of coast path in spring, and Cornwall gave us almost everything you’d hope for at that time of year — apart from the freezing Arctic wind. We set off early for this 10-mile (16 km) walk. Although we’d explored parts of the trail before, we’d never walked the full stretch in a single day.
The moment we stepped onto the coastal path at Porthcothan, the wind hit us head-on, and I immediately thought it felt invigorating. I’m a glass-half-full kind of girl, so I focused on the salty tang of the sea carried on the air rather than the numbness creeping into my fingers. Despite the wind, Cornwall still felt wonderful in May: rugged cliffs plunged into the ocean, yellow gorse blazed against the blue sky, and waves crashed far below us.
Not long after setting off, we reached our favourite driftwood bench — the one that always tempts us to stop. Normally, after walking from the opposite direction, we happily collapse there and congratulate ourselves on getting some exercise. But today, with miles still ahead and the wind cutting through every layer, sitting still felt like a terrible idea. Neither of us fancied turning into a human icicle on a piece of driftwood.
Heading towards Bedruthan feels like stepping into one of the most dramatic landscapes on Cornwall’s north coast. The path rolls gently above hidden coves, wild heathland, and low cliffs that suddenly open onto huge Atlantic views. There are climbs and descents along the way, but nothing too punishing — just enough to keep your legs working and your eyes constantly searching for what lies around the next headland.
Even if you’ve seen photographs of Bedruthan, the scale of it catches you off guard in person. Jamie and I once drove the Great Ocean Road in Australia and saw the famous 12 Apostles. They were impressive, but crowded and commercialised. Bedruthan feels completely different. The huge slate stacks rise from the beach like the broken teeth of some ancient creature, battered endlessly by the Atlantic.
According to legend, the giant Bedruthan used the stacks as stepping stones across the bay. Whether you believe the story or not, it suits the landscape perfectly. Standing above the beach, with the wind roaring around you and waves swirling through the rocks below, it’s easy to imagine some enormous figure striding through the sea.
This coastline was also prime smuggling territory. On dark nights in the 18th century, locals watched for signal lights from luggers offshore before scrambling down hidden paths to haul brandy, tea, and silk up the cliffs ahead of the revenue men. Stand above one of the jagged inlets today, and it’s easy to picture it: moonlight on the water, muffled voices, the creak of barrels against the rocks. Some of the caves are still there if you know where to look.
The walk from Bedruthan to Mawgan Porth is relatively short, but in spring the cliffs are transformed by sea thrift. Today, the flowers spread across the headlands in bright pink patches, softening the rocks’ harshness and adding colour to an otherwise steel-blue day.
Mawgan Porth feels like a natural halfway point. One moment you’re high on exposed cliffs; the next, you descend into a wide sandy bay sheltered by steep headlands. The atmosphere changes instantly. Even with the wind still whipping across the beach, the place feels calmer and more welcoming.
In summer, the beach buzzes with families, dogs, and surfers. Today, only the surfers seemed unfazed by the cold. I’ve always envied people who grew up in Cornwall. They emerge from the sea, peel wetsuits from their shoulders, and wander barefoot across the sand carrying surfboards as though icy Atlantic water is nothing unusual. Meanwhile, I’m usually wrapped in several layers, wearing gloves and a woolly hat, wondering if I’ll ever feel my face again.
As we arrived, the smell of coffee and wood-fired pizza drifted across the beach. After hours in the wind, it was seriously tempting. Unfortunately, we had packed our usual cheese-and-tomato sandwiches, so pizza was firmly off the menu. Mawgan Porth became our breather stop. The walk itself isn’t especially long, but the constant undulations — combined with the wind — made our legs feel heavier than expected.
Beyond Mawgan Porth, the coastline begins to shift again as the path approaches Watergate Bay. The cliffs remain dramatic, but the atmosphere grows livelier and more energetic. Home to Boardmasters, Watergate Bay has become one of Cornwall’s best-known surf destinations. Even outside festival season, there’s a feeling of movement and possibility here, with surfers scattered across the waves and huge skies stretching above the beach.
From Watergate Bay, we followed one of the most scenic sections of the South West Coast Path into Newquay. The trail winds above golden beaches and rugged cliffs with uninterrupted Atlantic views almost the entire way. Passing Porth Beach and Lusty Glaze, the landscape slowly shifts from coastline to surf town. Cafés, beach bars, surf shops, and the harbour bring a completely different energy to the final miles.
There’s something refreshingly unpretentious about Newquay. It doesn’t try to be quaint or polished; it fully embraces its identity as Britain’s surf capital. I’ll always be drawn more naturally to the quieter clifftops, where the wind seems to clear every unnecessary thought from my mind. But after a long coastal walk, there’s something equally satisfying about sitting above the harbour with fish and chips as the evening light fades over the sea.
By the end of the day, my legs were tired, my face was salt-crusted, and my cheeks were glowing bright red from the wind. But somewhere between the cliffs, the sea air, and the miles of open coastline, my mind felt completely reset — the kind of reset that makes you want to lace your boots up and do it all again the next morning.
Before I leave you, I want to say a heartfelt thank you for joining me. Whether you were hiking alongside, feeling the salt wind on your face, or walking these clifftops and sandy coves virtually from the comfort of your chair, your company was appreciated. Thank you for sharing the journey with me. Until next time, may your own paths — real or imagined — always lead you to wild and wonderful places
