Friday 1st May: Perranporth - Mawgan Porth (10 n.mi.)

Woke early and dried the laundry in a stiff breeze at the edge of the cliff. Manhandled the boat to the beach and was preparing to launch when a dog on the sea wall above launched itself into space, barely restrained by its owner heaving on the leash. This was my introduction to Peter and Linda Squires, whose dog (a half-breed: half dog, half lemming) has an attitude to precipices that, by rights, should have been selected out of the gene pool long ago. Peter was preparing his kayak for a solo trip, so we agreed to paddle together - a happy outcome, as he turned out to be very competent, good company, and able to plug the yawning gaps in my ornithological knowledge. We spotted (that is to say, Peter did, as I was preoccupied with boat handling) oystercatchers, gannets, fulmars (recognisable by their stiff wings and low flight), herring gulls ("your common fish-&-chip gull"), and a pair of Manx shearwaters.
I had planned to paddle to Padstow, but conditions were kicking up and neither of us fancied tackling Trevose Head in what, by then, would have become wind-over-tide conditions, so we put in to Mawgan Porth. Peter has far more experience than I do in surf, so he led the way ashore. A couple of minutes later, I saw the bow of his boat rise vertically skywards as he kindly pointed out the preferred line...
Now aware that I was in for a trashing, I followed ... failed to hold the boat square on to the surf ... had a few seconds of very high speed kayaking as the boat planed diagonally down the face of the wave ... and capsized. The deck cargo (too much of it, far too many lanyards) was all over the place, and impeded my exit (lesson learned).
Once ashore, I discovered that my spectacles had been swept away, despite their lanyard. Fortunately, my wife and friends were en route, visiting for the bank holiday weekend, bearing the prescription sunglasses to replace those lost at Sheerness. This trip is becoming seriously expensive in lost and damaged kit!
One of the joys of the expedition is meeting the locals. In Mawgan Porth, a gentleman in a cloth cap inveighed against the iniquities of nouvelle cuisine and pretentious restaurants. Given gentle encouragement, he warmed to his theme, eventually averring that the sole reason we have not been invaded by aliens from outer space is that they look through their telescopes at the offerings of the celebrity chefs and decide that Earth is not worth the trouble. Peter and I could no longer keep straight faces, and departed, debating whether this gent was a single-subject obsessive, or whether he might actually be quite versatile.
Fish and chips were procured, the cavalry arrived (complete with sunglasses) and we pitched camp at the local site.