Day 10: Sunday,11th Sept Portreath to St Ives

You're blocking my path!

Culture at the Tate,St Ives

Oh woe is me. As anticipated several weeks ago, I was bound to develop injuries on such a long and tortuous mission and on wakening up I discovered that my achilles hadn't slept at all well that night and my groin was still in aggro mode. But once more, the famous Patricia had come to the rescue by persuading the Penzance Hypochondriacs' Clinic to dehypochondrialise the tendons. The procedure was carried out at 0900 on a SUNDAY morning and after the treatment, I shot off like a dog with two tails over the hills and far away in the general direction of Hayle and St Ives.

And how's this for a tale of unwanted co-incidence? Here we are, Pat and I charging around like the demented souls of the lost tribes trying to boost the coffers of a London children's hospital when, earlier today whilst atop Hell's Mouth near Hayle, we picked up the news on our mobile that one of our two grand-daughters, Lucy, aged 7 and 11/12ths, had just fallen off her scooter, broken her arm and ended up in, yes, the children's A&E  of the local  (Luton) hospital!  Nothing too serious but it's her 8th birthday celebrations next week when she will be joining us on our adventures. Still, she has her big sister, Maddie, 9, to mother her.

But it was "once more into the beach" and the dunes, but although the injuries were complaining furiously I battled bravely on in the face of adversity to overcome the sand-driven horrors and landed in the delightfully sand-free refuge of St Ives. Oh happy day: and so to bed.