
Walking the South West Coast Path: The Anti-Burnout Workflow
The coast path is very good at exposing nonsense about pace. What it can teach founders and freelancers about workload, focus and finishing without burning out.
What I’m thinking about while I’m actually making things.

The coast path is very good at exposing nonsense about pace. What it can teach founders and freelancers about workload, focus and finishing without burning out.

Working from Newquay is not a laptop-on-the-beach fantasy. The freedom is real, but it only works if the operating system behind your life is better than the Instagram version.

Cornwall has a long history of people making a living outside the obvious centre of power. What that can — and cannot — teach modern bootstrappers about independence.

Gravel Hill’s iron mine stood beside the Atlantic. Its ore still travelled about three miles by cart to reach a ship. That awkward journey explains a great deal about this coast.

The Gannel carried cargo, served mines and supported shipbuilding. Restoring that movement changes the relationship between Newquay and Crantock.

A wheelpit, a corn mill, coastal mines and competing transport schemes reveal the working landscape behind Holywell’s beach.

Ore from Newquay crossed the Gannel to be processed near Crantock. A forgotten works connects the town’s mines to the opposite bank.

Wheal Leisure, the workings around Droskyn and Cligga’s wartime tungsten put the mining town back beneath modern Perranporth.

Between Poly Joke and Holywell, flints, burial mounds, imported pottery and cliff castles reveal thousands of years beneath an apparently quiet landscape.

The lost church on Perran Sands turns out to be two buried religious sites—and a centuries-long argument with a moving landscape.

The woman, the horse and the verse at Piper’s Hole look like one tragic story. Their chronology tells a more complicated—and rather revealing—one.

A named chapel, a wide cemetery and a newly excavated medieval building make Crantock’s religious history much larger than the surviving churchyard.

A strange cry on the Gannel acquired a surprisingly useful ghost story. Its real setting was a crossing where the tide decided when the journey ended.

Seven churches, a corrupt city and three days of divine weather: Langarrow is a magnificent legend, rooted in a landscape that really did disappear beneath sand.

The hollows beside Fern Pit have attracted explanations for more than a century. Their history is easier to establish than their purpose.

The August 2026 rockfall hid Holywell’s cave. Its pools, healing traditions and rival inland well tell a history which survives the loss of access.

Seven churches, seven churchyards and a real religious community: how much of Crantock’s most persistent story can we put back on the ground?

A floating millstone is an excellent entrance. The harder question is how much we can recover of the man behind Cornwall’s most enduring saint story.

A vanished chapel east of Cubert brought four saint traditions together. Its story includes relics, road works and a remarkably versatile stone.

A childhood warning about St Newlyn East’s fig tree leads into a saint’s staff, newspaper scepticism and the surprisingly difficult question of how a local curse becomes ancient.

St Newlyn East’s Preaching Pit looks ancient. Hay Close really is. Their different histories reveal how the same landscape kept finding new reasons to gather people together.

Porth Island held a defended settlement and an ironworking industry long before Newquay grew around it. Later storytellers supplied a Danish chieftain.

A pub with a tunnel story sits beside a landscape of old mineral routes. The interesting part is working out which connections belong together.

Watergate Bay’s hotel was built for an expected railway arrival. The railway failed to turn up; the building found several other futures.

A shaft, a count house, miners’ homes and an adit towards Towan: the industrial hillside hidden inside modern Newquay.

Holywell Bay could have had a railway, pier and harbour. The parliamentary record reveals a serious Victorian proposal—and a coastline that escaped a very different future.

I remembered a smugglers’ tunnel under a Cornish pub. The records confirmed the building, not the smuggling—and that became the more interesting story.