The hills are alive with the sound of groaning and panting

I was camping in Perranporth last night and it rained heavily all night and in the morning, so I walked into town to have a mooch. All the tourist shops were selling red tops emblazoned with 'Lifeguard'and so the beach was full of people dressed as lifeguards. There's a reason we don't all dress as, say, police officers or vicars, which is that it adds a dimension of confusion to the world that we could alldo without. I'm just glad I didn't notice anyone drowning because I'd have had to run around the beach like a distressed chicken telling everyone in a red top to do something and waiting to see if they did.Back at camp, I rolled up my wet tent, put it on my bike and set off up the first hill. A couple of guys out on racing bikes steamed past me. 'Morning!' they said. Wise guys. It wasn't long before the road turned vertically (I exaggerate) downwards and then in about a minute I was at sea level again on the flat, for about 200 yards across thebay. Then, the road turned vertically up the cliff on the other sideof the cove. Ah, there I was, tired but on the flat again, but no, the road went straight back down to the next cove, then up, down, up adquitetiredium. Cornwall has no flat bits at all. When Galileo told the Cornish that the Earth wasn't flat after all, they said, 'No shit, Sherlock.' That's true. I decided to turn inland and go a different way. The weather was unsettled and the skies dark. It was bleak, really, and every now and then we were treated to drizzle ('Isn't it glorious!'). Everything seemed grey, even the grass at the side of the road, so the journey inland was a soulless one. I passed a huge MoD base, run-down and mostly disused. I wondered what it was. I took a wrong turn and went through St Eval, the village attached to the base. The houses were all grey pebbledash centred around a bland green. Signs around the green said 'RAF police dogs on patrol: The public may enter this area on foot for recreation but this permission may be withdrawn at any time'. ... They should at least wait until you've finished your game of footie. One street was called Liberator Row. What is this place? I wondered. There was only one sign of life in this spooky connurbation - a big guy with a crew cut sitting on a white plastic chair outside his house. I'd have asked him some questions but I was hurtling downhill at the time (in the wrong direction) and when I tracked back, he'd gone, and nothing moved except the tumbleweed blowing across the green [embellishment]. I decided to get out before the Russians came. It turns out that this was a big US base in the cold war, although as usual it retained the RAF title - their way of hiding it. Towards the end of the day, the air became thick with moisture. I was travelling along single-track roads that the trees had arched over into voluptuous green tunnels now dripping water and filled with warm mist after the rain. All I could hear apart from the occasional bird and my frantic panting was the sound of trickling water everywhere. Back on the tops, it rained on me like it really meant it. I didn't bother with waterproofs because it was warm enough just to get wet, and I did. I was soaked through so I couldn't get any wetter, and the road was one long puddle. My clothes stuck to me like an insipid handshake that doesn't end. In this state I turned up at Tintagel youth hostel, which is nestled in the cliff with views all the way back down the north coast. Brighton and Hove Ramblers gave me their leftovers - lentil pie and green beans - and then we all watched the sun go down over the sea. David