From the top of Bosigran Castle, near Penzance in Cornwall, the whole world looks to be yours. The Iron Age promontory fort—nothing more than a rudimentary, blocky rock wall atop a staggering stone headland—looks out into the Atlantic Ocean, over leg-jittering death drops above swirling seas that crash against the rocks below. As the sun sank towards the water—despite the occasional rock climber popping up from a presumably terrifying ascent, and the occasional hiker on the coastal path—we felt as though we were the only people alive in the world.

When we parked the car by the remains of the Carn Galver tin mine on the road out of the historical village of Zennor (itself on the road out of the slightly more populous and touristy St Ives), the skies were ominous and brooding as blurring clouds dumped stripes of rain onto the horizon. As we—my partner Charlotte, our puppy Teddy, and I—wound our way down from what remains of the mine’s engine house to the bumpy, boulder-studded headland, I felt exposed: a chilly wind was blowing. I worried our walk would be cut short, or, much more irrationally, we might be blown off the rocks and into the churning froth below.

Cornwall has a magical feel to it, unlike any other place I’ve visited. I’ve long heard tales of mischievous piskies (some distant cousin of the pixie, I believe) wreaking havoc across the county, and of ghosts of smugglers and seafarers alike. But it’s the ancient, physical power that the land wields that feels more tangible. An hour or two’s walk from Bosigran, depending on your route, lies the Boskednan standing stone circle, or the Nine Maidens—a Bronze Age stone formation. Stood atop a moor, with clouds above and a driving wind at your back, it’s hard not to feel some vestigial power or deeper significance.

We clambered down from Bosigran, as quickly as any walk with a curious puppy will ever allow. On a previous walk on our trip, from Carn Galver over the moor to the never-not-hilariously-named Ding Dong mine—from which a clear day affords views over to St Michaels’ Mount off the opposite coast—we discovered Ted’s affinity for bounding over boulders and climbing tricky paths. And this was no different; he zoomed past us on tireless little legs, as we clambered our way up and down the headlands to the north of the Iron Age fort.

On our return, the light had changed. Gone were the grumpy clouds and alarming squalls in the distance, in their stead were the golden rays of a late summer sunset, and the blinding shimmer of a now placated sea. It warmed our wind-chapped cheeks, turned Ted’s fur from jet black to a warm, russet brown, and buoyed our spirits as our thoughts turned to the best part of any long walk: pints.

***

The Gurnard’s Head in an unmissable pub. Not in the way that reviews laud it—though the pub has indeed won many awards—but by virtue of it being painted bright yellow. Against muted browns and greens of the Cornish countryside, on a lane flanked by bramble and bracken, the pub stands out. It was a welcome sight, not least because it was only the third pub we’d been to since March 2020.

It was, somewhat odd, much for the same reasons we’d set foot in so few pubs. We had our temperatures taken, I jotted down my contact details, and then we were led to a lone table in the garden.

““There’s something to be said for the enhancing powers of what, in that moment, was the perfect pint of beer.””

It’s not just the pubs themselves I’ve missed—it’s all that surrounds them, too. The atmosphere, the carpets, the friends; the list of that which I miss is too long to recite in its entirety. After being away for so long, now surrounded by a quiet, late summer evening of a beer garden only goes so far in scratching that itch—what I really want is to be piled into a cosy pub with as many of my friends that can fit around a table, losing count of the pints until we fall away into the night. Though this pint was only a little comfort, it’s still different enough to drinking on my sofa.

With the pint of Harbour Brewing’s Cornish Bitter brought to our corner of the sunset-bathed beer garden, my pangs of longing for normality were, if only briefly, washed away. For a moment, the only fleeting indication that something was amiss was the waitress’s mask and distance—what pandemic?

I maintain that there are few tonics as healing for sore and tired legs as a pint of beer, and this was no exception. We sat in silence as we watched choughs and house martens wheeling overhead, as shadows inched themselves up the drystone wall behind us. The fiery oranges of autumnal heather—punctuated at random by flashes of vibrant purple of heather clinging on to summer, and the occasional sprout of lemon yellow gorse flower—on the hills to our rear matched the glowing tones in the bitter. It was, unless you count the terrible pint I had elsewhere (which I don’t), my first proper pint of cask bitter since the previous winter.

It didn’t, as you might imagine, last long. I don’t remember poring over the tasting notes—beyond warm and juicy malts, and the gentle hum of citrusy hops, all wrapped up in perfect condition, my only recollection is that it was everything I wanted from a pint, from that moment. It was, undoubtedly, one of the most poignant beer experiences I’ve had this year. It felt once more that nothing else existed—or mattered—beyond this moment of malty serenity, as the world and its many worries fell away.

I’m sure that slice of quiet sunset might have been as peaceful had I been drinking something else—I was, after all, sitting in a beautiful part of the world with my two very favourite companions. But there’s something to be said for the enhancing powers of what, in that moment, was the perfect pint of beer.