Someone has to provide the entertainment don’t they? It was all going on at Portreath as Kathleen thrashed the cliffs, the beach and the Monkey Hut at high tide on an exhilarating Saturday afternoon. By now we’d stood on the cliffs beside the pepperpot, and we’d watched the action from Dead Man’s Hut, where we had to queue patiently for a front row view. Finally, we headed down to the beach. Not on the beach - that wasn’t happening unless you were wearing a wetsuit, preferably with a long leash tied around an ankle with the other end tethered to a bollard in the car park. But on the small esplanade between the car park and the beach, reduced to shingle after a particularly vigorous winter season.
I don’t come to Portreath that often. It’s not even five miles away from our front door, but I have a habit of overlooking it, despite the obvious attractions. In warmer months I’ve often coasted down the cycle trail for an ice cream on the front before puffing my way back up the slope in a very low gear, sometimes stopping for coffee at the farm campsite and cafe that friends of mine run. Occasionally there will be some form of family gathering there, usually for a child’s birthday party in summer. But apart from that, I just pass on through, usually heading for Godrevy, and then only if in an idle moment I’ve decided to take the coast road. But when there’s a storm, this is the first place I always think of. Porthleven on the south coast often has the biggest waves, but I rarely drag myself over that way.
I should really come to Portreath more often. The crumbling coastal path in both directions remains largely unexplored on my part, and I suspect there are some rather good views along those cliffs that change with every passing winter as another few hundred tons of loose rock slide into the ocean. From here it’s a short but strenuous hike east to Porthtowan, or a slightly longer one to Godrevy, via North Cliffs and Hell’s Mouth. Another famous landmark where I’ve never taken a photo. What on earth have I been doing, you might ask?
As storms go, Kathleen was a tame puppy in comparison to some of the hoolies we’ve witnessed here. There’s no way some of the monstrous assaults on our coastline would have seen surfers taking to the water, but nine or ten of them were already bobbing about on the waves when we arrived, and another was about to join the party. Or was he? For fifteen or twenty minutes he edged back and forth - never coming inside or anywhere near the third in my frame I might add - watched by a crowd of day trippers who’d come to enjoy the elements in the couple of hours during which it had somehow remained dry. I’d already changed from the long lens, set up the tripod and popped a filter on, hoping to catch the sea dragging back around his ankles, and now I was just willing him to stand still, at least a teensy bit in from the edge of the frame as I clunked away at the shutter with each receding carpet of white foam. Finally he saw something that the rest of us couldn’t, and plodded off into the water. With a winter wetsuit and a pair of fins on his feet, I could only imagine how exciting it would be to nail those waves today. Not long afterwards it began to rain hard, and we raced back to the car and headed home to put the kettle on.
I love how this one turned out, with the bodyboarder gazing enigmatically out to sea, calculating the conditions as he waits. The first thing that I liked was the wake created in the surf as the water flowed back around our hero’s legs. That alone made this my instant choice from the group of shots I took here. But when I looked closer on the big screen, everything about the day was here. Another roller about to explode extravagantly over the poor maligned Monkey Hut on the end of the breakwater. A wall of white spray groping for holds on the side of the porous cliffs, on top of which sits the lonely Pepperpot. A car driving up Lighthouse Hill, seemingly oblivious to events going on around it. And if you look in, you’ll see the huddle at the Dead Man’s Hut, some of them armed with expensive camera gear, while others are just enjoying the experience. And just below them, the young man leaning over the railings with a woman near him thinking she’s safe. Just a few exposures later, the space is swamped by a wave - I’ve seen plenty of people take a soaking there on days like this. I’m sure some of them do it for kicks.
If ever you asked me to show you a picture that described the place, I’d look no further. Visceral, effervescent, bristling with white water, and always some crazy soul armed with a board, prepared to take it all on for that unforgettable ride. This is Portreath and it’s never dull.
