Last weekend I learnt about cold water, wet rock and hard drink.

Bude

We left for Cornwall on Thursday evening and stopped overnight in Dorset, where we were spoiled by a stunning seaside sunrise at Seatown. We arrived in Bude late morning, by which time the mist had lifted to reveal clear blue skies and the air had a deliciously spring-like warmth. Keen to make the most of the weather, we decided to jump straight into the water.

I was so excited to be back in the sea that I quickly forgot two things: the cold and how to surf. Within minutes I had 1) snapped the leash, 2) realised that I’d seriously under-waxed the board (so amateur), and 3) got annoyed that I wasn’t instantly the most competent surfer in North Cornwall.

Also, the feeling of rough sand between semi-numb toes was unpleasant enough for me to regret leaving the surf boots in the van (idiot). The strong cross-current at Summerleaze beach meant that I took five painfully slow steps sideways for every metre gained paddling out, and I only stood up a [small] handful of times after several poorly judged attempts. Despite a terrible performance, I had a great time in the sea.

After a couple of hours of grinning at caught waves and swearing at missed ones, I lumbered (there’s nothing graceful about carrying a surfboard in a cross-wind) inland to my water bottle to dilute the gallons of saltwater I’d swallowed. Frustrated by the current and battered by the unrelenting sea, we heard the clock strike beer o’clock and thought it unholy to be late for mid-afternoon mass.

Refuelled and rehydrated, our little group went exploring the pretty, bustling streets of Bude. It reminded me of Perranporth – something to do with the layout and the mix of touristy shops and quirky little pubs and cafes.

The first place I fell in love with was the North Coast wine shop/bar. As I sipped craft cider, people-watched out the big windows and basked in the hazy late afternoon sun, I thought I’d died and snuck into heaven. The second place was the Barrel at Bude, a tiny, dark, timeless pub which implements fines for mobile phone use and serves “proper cider”. I’m not a great drinker but I do put a lot of effort in, and this cider set me on a downward trajectory that was intensified by a couple of cocktails back at the North Coast place. Needless to say that falling in love that night proved just short of fatal.

Hartland Heritage Coast

I woke up the next morning fully aware that I’d once again proved to be “that friend” that can’t be taken anywhere, disappointed with myself but hugely grateful to have been returned to my van. A pint of tea later and we drove to the Hartland Heritage Coast to blow out the cobwebs with a coastal climb.

That didn’t exactly go as planned; first we ended up in a farmyard down a dead-end road, then halfway down a steep, scree-covered cliff, then we realised that the climb we wanted to do (Wrecker’s Slab) was a few miles along the coast. Unfazed, we hiked along the South West Coast Path and stopped overlooking Vicarage Cliff. Although the rock looked lovely, it was totally inaccessible for a few hours around high tide and – consistent with our luck – high tide was about 1pm.

Despite being a little hungover and gutted about our failed climbing plans, the beauty of the rugged cliffs, moody sky and vast, boatless sea wasn’t wasted on us. We dumped our kit and went exploring, breathing in the salty, tangy air, dipping toes in the crystal clear stream and watching the sea crash relentlessly over jagged rocks and deserted, grey beach as we recovered on the soft, tufty grass. Heads cleared, we hiked back to Morwenstow via Hawker’s Hut, a lovely little driftwood folly, and went for one in The Bush. Lovely pub, great sandwiches, 10/10.

Sheepstor

Determined to climb, we drove to Dartmoor mid-afternoon and hiked up to Sheepstor. It was damp, foggy and exposed, but despite wet rock and dwindling light we managed a humble route (“Sheltered Crack”) up the tor. On a dry day the granite would have been lovely and grippy, with loads of gear placement, but being a) February and b) England it was slippery and algae-covered. One to return to…

It turns out that circumnavigating a foggy, rock-strewn tor in search of the biggest rock face is pretty disorienting. Fortunately the group had enough skill and (in my case) experience of being lost to get back to the car park before dark. Pleased to have a climb under our belts, we drove across the vast, open moorland to the Warren House Inn, where we spent a lovely evening enjoying a few gentle drinks and some great company.

Dewerstone

Sunday morning’s weather looked grey and mizzley, so we didn’t have high hopes for a decent climb. We optimistically headed south to climb the Dewerstone, one of the area’s best-known climbing spots. It’s a 50ish metre slab of rock in a fairytale-like wood, penetrated by a clear, rocky river and full of moss-covered trees. The rock was very damp at the base of the climb and the weekend’s alco-toll meant that we weren’t in peak physical condition, so we chose a very do-able route – “Mucky Gully”.

It was a really enjoyable climb because of the variety it offered – good holds, bridging and jamming – and its sheltered position. The rock was slippery at the bottom, but dry and really grippy from about halfway up. I had it easy as I seconded the climb so I can’t say how it was to lead, but we did it in three pitches to avoid running out of gear, particularly big stuff. By the time we reached the second pitch the sun had come out, and the view over the mossy woodland was lovely.

Having taken our time to enjoy the climb, we wandered back through the woods and headed homeward across the moor. I stopped briefly at Widecombe (pretty town, the Old Inn is okay but unremarkable), admired Haytor on the way past and exited Dartmoor reluctantly, drawn home only by the lure of a roast dinner and the unshakable burden of responsibilities. A near-perfect weekend.