Pendeen to Sennen – South West Coast Path

I love this section of the Cornish Coast Path, and today I’m taking you with me.

My husband Jamie is playing cricket just a few miles from Pendeen Lighthouse, my starting point for the day, so I’ve packed my backpack with plenty of snacks for the nine-mile walk ahead. While I wouldn’t call myself an expert, I’m a confident walker, and this is one of the tougher stretches of the South West Coast Path. Experienced hikers will love it, but confident beginners should be prepared for a challenge.

It’s June, although you’d never know it. After Cornwall showed off with a week of glorious sunshine, today’s forecast promises “blustery winds with sunny intervals” — one of those wonderfully vague weather descriptions that could mean absolutely anything. Waterproofs packed, I set off regardless.

I’m heading into one of England’s most remote corners, and I can’t wait.

The moment the path led me towards the cliff edge, the Atlantic opened up before me — not gently, but all at once. The sea out here is deep, cold and restless, churning white around the black rocks below.

Pendeen Lighthouse stands proudly on the headland, surrounded by some of the most treacherous coastline in Cornwall. Looking down at the water, it’s easy to understand why so many ships came to grief on these rocks before it was built in 1900. Designed by Arthur Carkeek of Redruth, the lighthouse eliminated a dangerous blind spot between Trevose Head and the Longships. Lighthouse keepers lived and worked here until 1995, when automation finally took over, and the place has retained its quiet, windswept dignity ever since.

I hadn’t walked far — perhaps a couple of miles — before it felt as though there was a ruined engine house around every corner. This coastline wears Cornwall’s mining history in plain sight.

The first major landmark was Levant Mine, home to one of Cornwall’s oldest beam engines, now beautifully restored and steaming once again. From the bench overlooking the site, two paths diverge. Confident walkers should take the lower route for its wilder views and dramatic cliff scenery; the upper path is safer, but less striking.

Arriving at Botallack still stopped me in my tracks, despite the fact I’ve visited many times before.

I stood looking down at the mine buildings clinging impossibly to narrow ledges carved into the cliffs. Ruined engine houses perched above the crashing Atlantic, while tunnels disappeared beneath the seabed in search of copper and tin. Standing on the cliff edge, staring into the churning water below, I couldn’t help but feel small — and very grateful for my boots.

For a moment, I tried to imagine the miners’ world: climbing slippery ladders down narrow shafts hundreds of feet deep, some reaching far beneath the Atlantic itself. Day after day, they worked by candlelight in poorly ventilated tunnels, living with the constant threat of rockfalls, flooding, and deadly falls. Walking these cliffs, with the sea fresh on my face and the wild beauty all around me, I felt alive and deeply grateful for the chance to be here. But I also felt a quiet sadness for the people who came before us, who endured such a hard, dangerous life in places that are now so peaceful and beautiful.

After lingering for photographs, I continued south. By now, the sun had decided to make an appearance, triggering the classic hiker’s dilemma: attempting to wrestle a bright orange fleece into an already overstuffed rucksack without depositing half its contents across the path.

With that battle won, I headed towards Cape Cornwall, one of my favourite places on the entire coast.

Before reaching the cape, I wandered through the beautiful Kenidjack Valley, where two donkeys stood peacefully in a lush green field.

Naturally, I stopped for a chat.

I seem incapable of passing animals without stopping to speak to them. Dogs, cows, sheep, horses — and now donkeys. I’m basically a modern-day Dr Dolittle, just with better boots and no medical degree.

Arriving at Cape Cornwall reminded me why people often describe it as Land’s End without the crowds. The Atlantic stretched endlessly westward, and for a moment it felt as though I’d reached the very edge of Britain.

Even better, my favourite tea hut was open.

I’ve always loved the mismatched china cups decorated with members of the Royal Family. Naturally, I couldn’t resist a slice of cake either, despite the small matter of having already consumed more than enough calories. Some temptations simply aren’t worth resisting.

Refuelled and ready, I left Cape Cornwall behind and followed the trail south. The landscape quickly became quieter and more rugged.

As the path climbed steadily uphill, a group of Royal Marine Commandos appeared ahead, striding down towards me. I concentrated very hard on making my breathing sound less dramatic than it actually felt.

A little further on, I passed an old coastguard lookout where a plaque explains why the Commandos still train here today. Since the Second World War, Mayon Cliff and the surrounding coastline have provided ideal terrain for cliff-assault and mountain leadership exercises. Looking at the sheer drops and savage rock faces around me, it was hard to argue with that assessment. Apparently, they also carry out the “sickener” — an intense, gruelling physical and mental challenge used in SAS selection training. Let’s just say I would be perfectly happy to admire it from a safe distance rather than audition for it myself.

As the path climbed and dipped, the views opened out. I followed the undulating cliff path past Gwenver Beach and Whitesand Bay towards Mayon Cliff and the headland of Pedn-men-du. This final stretch is the longest uninterrupted section of the walk — about four miles from Cape Cornwall to Sennen — and by then my legs were definitely reminding me of it. If the tide is low, you can skip the up-and-down cliff paths between Gwenver and Sennen and drop straight down for an easy walk across the sand into Sennen.

Meanwhile, the June sun had completely abandoned the forecast and decided to behave as though we were somewhere on the Mediterranean. Why do Cornwall’s weather forecasts always seem to have such a strained relationship with reality?

I’d packed for wind, rain and the occasional glimpse of sunshine. Instead, I spent most of the afternoon peeling off layers and searching for shade.

Eventually, the path softened beneath my boots and began guiding me gently towards the finish.

Sennen Cove appeared without ceremony — a harbour wall, a cluster of whitewashed cottages, and the unmistakable scent of salt and chips drifting on the breeze.

After a walk like this, few things sound better than a pint of lager overlooking the sea. As I was on my own, though, I skipped the pint and treated myself to an ice cream instead.

As I sat above the harbour with tired legs and rapidly melting ice cream, I looked back towards the coastline I’d spent the day exploring. Nine miles earlier I’d started beneath a lighthouse; now the journey ended beside a cove.

Not a bad day out.

Practical Notes

The terrain between Cape Cornwall and Sennen Cove is rough and rocky, so proper walking boots are essential — this is not a trainers walk. Trekking poles are worth considering if steep descents aren’t your thing.

Pack waterproofs regardless of the forecast. Weather changes quickly on this exposed peninsula, and the wind is rarely off duty.

Most importantly, allow plenty of time. Nine miles may not sound especially daunting, but with around 1,500 feet of climbing, this walk earns every one of them.

Walking the Cornish Coast Path? See all my walks and my 30-day Bude-to-Plymouth itinerary https://living-with-autoimmune.com/?page_id=3064

Until our next walk together xxxx