The wind had strengthened during the night, but luckily, my tent was sheltered by scrub and the remains of the old tin mine buildings.

I packed away early and set off just before a band of heavy rain swept across the landscape, water running down the road in rivulets. I was soon soaked, but at least my tent was dry. I wearily plodded along wet lanes towards Stithians Lake, picking up a rather boggy path along its left shore.

Although there is a café at the head of the lake, I knew I’d be too early, so I sat on a bench outside and heated water for a cuppa, watching the gentle sway of the yachts moored on the water. It had mercifully stopped raining, and the sun made a welcome appearance, heating the day so suddenly that I could almost see steam rising from my clothes.

After a brief stop in Stithians village for supplies, it was back to trudging along the roads, heading towards distant Perranwell. I passed very few villages, but frequent gateways allowed me to stop and enjoy the views towards wooded hills, clumps of purple rhododendrons adding a splash of colour.

Finding a pub in Perranwell, I gratefully stopped for cider and a bowl of chips, which set me up nicely for what felt like a very long slog towards Truro. I had carried two guidebooks for the Mary Michael Pilgrim Way, which added weight to my pack. As I wasn’t now following this route, I left the guidebooks in a book library in an old telephone booth next to an impressive Remembrance Day display.

The final stretch to Truro involved a gradual climb that sapped my remaining energy, tough even with a now slightly lighter pack. I had booked a room in a hotel tonight, and luxuriously lay in a huge comfy bed, feeling slightly guilty that I wasn’t camping.

I had a great night’s sleep, waking refreshed and ready to make a serious dent in the buffet breakfast, before packing my things and wandering down to the cathedral. It was another nice day, blue skies dotted with cotton-white clouds, and I was soon sweating as I climbed out of Truro.

I stopped for a drink in a bus shelter in Tresillian, a long, thin village that straggles a busy road, before turning off onto quiet lanes. I walked for miles without seeing another village, but the roads were quiet, and the views were lovely, gently rolling hills showcasing the best of the Cornish countryside. Studying the map, I decided to head towards the hillfort of Castle an Dinas, as I knew people had camped there, but it was still some miles distant.

It was a relief to reach Indian Queens and find an open pub, and I eagerly drank a pint of cider while the friendly landlady filled my water bottles. After several more miles of road walking, I reached the hillfort and pitched my tent in the evening sun, huddled below the grassy ramparts. I froze in fright when I spotted a couple walking their dog, but they called greetings, unbothered by my tent.

As the sun started to set, I took a mug of coffee and walked to the top of the fort to watch as the light from the sun painted the sky with hues of pink and purple, the white peaks of the China clay workings above Indian Queens glistening in the last of the light.

I slept well and woke up to another bright, sunny morning. Looking at the weather forecast, tomorrow looked horrendous, but as I packed away and set off on a day that was already very warm, this seemed hard to believe. My first obstacle was the road running along the base of the fort. It had been relatively quiet the evening before, but it was now awash with fast-moving rush hour traffic. I tried to hop onto the thin verge whenever a barrage of cars dashed past at speed, but I didn’t feel safe. One kind lady stopped her car and begged me to accept a lift, but I declined as I would regret it later.

It was a relief to escape onto quieter roads, which I was able to follow to Bodmin. I passed through tiny villages and hamlets, discovering to my delight an honesty café selling ice cream. I sat in a field to enjoy it while spreading my tent out to dry.

I planned a late lunch stop in Bodmin. Bodmin has a slightly odd vibe; a faded, rather deprived feel, but I found a café that served me an enormous jacket potato with mounds of cheese. Leaving Bodmin was challenging; the only way out of the town seemed to be along roads that were busier than I would have liked. As I walked out of Bodmin, trying to dodge traffic, I was passed by a couple of funeral cars, followed by what seemed to be hundreds of bikers – it was an impressive sight, though a sad one, as they were obviously attending a biker’s funeral.

I followed a bridleway uphill, stopping for a brief rest and glancing at the map. I was headed towards the Goonzion Downs, where I thought I might be able to pitch up for the night, but they were several miles distant, and I was feeling very tired. Leaving the bridleway to cross a road, I spotted a sign for the Gwel-an-Nans campsite and decided to stop and ask if they would allow me to stay.

To my relief, I was directed to a pitch by the welcoming owner and enjoyed a lovely warm shower. It was nice to relax in my tent, without worry of being discovered and told to move on. I sipped a hot chocolate, listening to the evening bird song, hoping that tomorrow’s forecast would turn out to be wrong.