Once Upon a Time in Crackington Haven
It is an extravagantly boring village, or that’s how I remembered it, tucked away on the rugged northern coast of Cornwall. Around the small cove, cliffs rise like guardians, jagged and wind-carved, creating a sense of intimacy and isolation all at once.
It’s a lovely place for a wedding, almost 20 years ago, bringing together a group of friends in the days leading up to the event. Time had no weight, not yet. So we skipped stones in the salt-tinged breeze, our toes at the edge of the sea, poised at the cusp — delighting in that crackle of new beginnings, the anticipation of our lives to come, lives not yet fully written.
We had in our company a geologist who explained the origins of these rock formations, the layers, the folding, the sediments, and more folding. To think of it, I can’t remember much of what he had said except that it was all quite impressive. So now in my headcanon Crackington Haven came into existence long ago when time paused and let out a sigh, breathing into those towering cliffs a tidy nook of sand and shale.
The rocks bear the weight of time, the salt-tinged wind hints at long-ago whispers from the Atlantic. It is an ancient landscape that compels us third-rate writers itching for adjectives; on stormy days, waves crash against jagged rocks as an offhand reminder to your puny self of fate’s mercy. When the sun breaks through, the pebble beach transforms into a peaceful retreat, perfect for watching the seas roll in.
There are many journeys to be had here by the intrepid boring day tripper. The land tells its story — a conversation between the earth and the sea that has unfolded for millennia. Along the gentle grassy hill, sheep graze giving the odd hiker nary a second glance. Cows stand in their slow contemplation of their own bittermelon dreams.
We crossed paths with the “Naked Rambler” who was on his second attempt to hike length of the UK wearing only socks and boots, plus hat and backpack. He was sunburned.
The quiet of the coastline is deceptive, leading up and down, down and up, in a never ending rhythm, unbroken stretches with the sun directly overhead, nothing but grass and hills, then finally threading through a dark fairy-tale forest, and the up across crags and stones abuzz with energy. Stop, just for a moment to retake your breath. Nothing is happening — or nothing yet, like the preamble of a story, the once upon a time of it, now describing sharp cliffs and restless waters, now that feeling of teetering on the edge of something ancient.
Or were we lost? Maybe we had veered off our path. This is a common thing during a boring day trip. So we ask a young hiker, in a chance encounter on the path to who-knows-where: what’s beyond when the trail disappears over that steep hill? “Hills,” he said. “More hills.”
