Anneth: A West Kernow Way Adventure (Video)

Cornwall is the most southerly point in the United Kingdom. It is a remote and rugged part of the country, steeped in history, from the pagan traditions of the pre-Christian era to the industrial tin mining booms of the 18th century. In summer, it is the English Riviera, flooded with tourists down from London. In winter, it is a cold, wet, and windswept coastal landscape, surrounded by shipwrecks from a history of seafaring. It’s also the place I was born and raised, and no matter where I go, it still feels very much like home.

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As many Cornish folks before me have done, I’ve spent my life chasing adventure beyond this county, creating lives in distant places. Yet, even in the most beautiful of those places, Cornwall remains my center. I have never stopped feeling the magic of this land. Its wildness is imprinted in my bones.

The Ride

While home for an extended winter visit, I found myself back at the same time as Fiona, my oldest bike-touring friend. Over a decade ago, we took our first naive cycling trip through Spain and Portugal on second-hand bikes with overloaded trailers. No destination, no plan, just the pursuit of good times and custard tarts.

Fiona has spent years living abroad, too, but has recently returned to put down roots. We don’t cross paths often, but when we do, we pick up where we left off. Her ability to endure anything while laughing through it all is rare. The only time she complains is when there isn’t enough brown sauce for her pasty. So when she suggested a winter bikepacking trip in Cornwall, I didn’t hesitate. We’d talked about riding the West Kernow Way for years. Now, finally, we were both home and both free. It was time.

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The West Kernow Way is a 250-kilometer bikepacking route looping through Cornwall’s rugged western peninsula. It winds through remote trails, ancient byways, and coastal cliffs battered by the Atlantic. It wasn’t the easy choice, as midwinter meant short days, relentless wind, and trails thick with mud, but it felt right.

We started in Porthleven, the small south coast fishing village we both call home, following the route anticlockwise. The plan was simple: ride, sleep in welcoming pubs, and see our home in a new way. We left at sunrise on the shortest day of the year, following familiar roads toward Penzance before veering onto a narrow, bramble-lined footpath, quickly realizing how slow the going would be. The trails were a mess of deep mud, flooded fields, and hidden potholes.

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By the time we reached Penzance, the wind had stripped us of warmth, and the first real rain of the trip arrived in thick, slanting sheets. We rolled, shivering, into a pub, where pints of ale felt like a proper reward for our numb toes. That night, we stayed at Fiona’s sister’s house, drying out our gear and hoping for clearer skies to come.

West

Stepping out into the crisp morning air, the calls of seagulls echoed through the streets of Penzance, a timeless sound that always triggers memories of home. We crossed the Victorian promenade, smiling into the winter sun, before climbing up toward West Penwith, the landscape becoming wilder with every pedal stroke.

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West Penwith in winter feels like the edge of the world: windswept, raw, and stripped back to its bones. The granite cliffs stand firm against the relentless Atlantic, waves pounding the rocks with a force that makes the land feel ancient and untamed. Our route twisted through old mining tracks and across boggy fields, forcing us to shoulder our bikes through sodden marshland. We weren’t in a hurry, though. This was what we had signed up for.

We spent the last of the daylight on the cliffs at Cape Cornwall, eating sandwiches and watching the sky burn gold and pink above the churning ocean. The 70-mile-per-hour winds howled at our backs as we rolled into the village, where we found a pub with an open fire, ticking all the festive boxes. The longer you sit by a pub fire in winter, the harder it becomes to leave. Eventually, we realized we’d left finding accommodation a little late. A frantic search led to a last-minute bed in another pub, and a small Chinese takeaway sealed the evening.

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The next morning, we devoured three plates of breakfast, knowing we’d go most of the day without passing another shop. The ride took us through the Penwith Moors, a landscape of muddy tracks, ancient granite hedgerows, and gnarled trees sculpted by wind. The Tinners’ Way, an old mining path, led us through mizzle-covered moorland, the damp air clinging to everything.
Men-an-Tol, a weathered stone circle, stood alone in the mist, its holed center like an eye peering into the past. In winter, it felt ghostly—silent but heavy with history. We lingered only briefly before turning east, heading back toward Penzance for the night.

North

Cornish place names have a charm of their own. They’re quirky, ancient, and impossible for tourists to pronounce. As we rode out of Hayle, we passed signs for Steppy Downs Road, Trethingy, and Merry Meeting, names that belong in a storybook. Barriper and Penponds followed, places I’d always seen on road signs but never actually visited.

From the top of Camborne Hill, we looked over the north coast, a view scattered with relics of Cornwall’s tin mining past. This was the landscape of childhood school trips, scrambling through old engine houses, and pretending to be explorers. We took a moment to soak it in, knowing the ride was passing too quickly.

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Our need for movement returned as temperatures dropped, but Fiona’s bike had other ideas. A stubborn flat tire had her replacing and patching tubes three times before we finally found the hidden thorn causing the issue. With the light fading, we adjusted our route, cutting across the peninsula to Penryn, where another warm pub awaited.

South

The south coast felt like a home within our home. Calm creeks and sheltered villages offered a welcome break from the howling wind of the north. Though we were only 20 kilometers from home, the indirect route stretched the day to 70. We weren’t in a hurry, riding through familiar lanes and past places stitched into childhood adventures. The smell of salt and damp earth hung in the air, stirring half-forgotten memories. Fiona and I had spent years apart since our first bike trip, but in the rhythm of the ride, it felt like no time had passed. We let the moment stretch, knowing we were nearing the end.

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As we crested the final climb above Gunwalloe Cove, the coastline opened before us—wild, windswept, and deeply familiar. Below, the waves rolled in steady lines toward the shore, the winter light casting long shadows across the cliffs. Ahead, Porthleven sat on the horizon, marking the last stretch of the ride. The sun was sinking, washing the sky in soft golds and pinks. For a moment, we just stood there, taking in the quiet beauty of this place we call home.

Further Reading

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