A 70 mile strip of the A39 is more than just another thoroughfare. It's where generations of Cornish ingenuity blend with an influx of newcomers seeking a more rural life.
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Locals wouldn't say there's much romantic about the A39, a national highway that crosses south-west England. To most, it is a convenience at best, a site of accidents at worst so many accidents, in fact, that it has the unfortunate reputation as Cornwall's deadliest road, the likely result of everything from its often-narrow, winding nature to some tricky junctions.
But the A39 – particularly the section dubbed the "Atlantic Highway", a 70-mile strip that runs from Barnstaple, Devon, to Newquay, Cornwall is more than just another thoroughfare. It is one of the only arteries connecting an especially disconnected part of what is already a remote region.
That remoteness means two things. For one, it helps keep the area relatively wild. To be clear, north Cornwall is not a secret. The summer tide of tourists is felt everywhere, the area's carparks, beaches and pubs frothing over with visitors. But it's almost always possible to find a quiet cove or a cafe filled with locals. In the off season, even the most popular spots can be empty. And aside from Tintagel Castle of King Arthur fame, none of Cornwall's top 10 most-popular attractions sit here.
The remoteness, especially given the area's lack of train stations, also means that there are few good ways to explore the area.
I lived in this area with my family for two years. In that time, I fell in love with north Cornwall's ocean views, rolling farmland and dramatic cliffs, but with its lesser known attractions, too. Despite its remote and rural nature, north Cornwall is dotted with farm-(and sea)-to-table favourites, art galleries and unique museums devoted to everything from witchcraft to military history – the result of generations of Cornish ingenuity and artisanal heritage blended with an influx of newcomers seeking a more rural life, many of them even before Covid.
And so, when my family, lured by a job opportunity, chose to move out of England, I knew I had to explore this special region one last time. And that meant one thing: taking to the road, specifically the A39. This entailed navigating twists, turns and, more annoyingly, the odd overzealous car that rode my bumper if I dropped a mile or two below the speed limit. But it still made for an easier drive than many of the smaller, single track roads that link up to the A39. Then there were the benefits of using the main highway: its convenience but also – surprisingly – its moments of beauty.
Despite its name, the Atlantic Highway runs mostly through patchworked fields, bucolic villages and emerald green woodland, with occasional slices of sea seen from a distance. Technically, it starts seven miles inland of Newquay, home to Cornwall's only public airport.
This first section skirts some of the heart of Poldark country and the locations where some of the television series' lushest landscapes were filmed, including Park Head and Porthcothan. I headed here first. This is the Cornish landscape at its most dramatic and striking, the wildflower-covered cliffs plunging down to sandy coves, lapped by blue green water. After a hike along the South West Coast Path, I quickly worked up an appetite.
Luckily, one of England's prime "food capitals", Padstow, is just eight miles north off the A39. Once a pretty fishing village, today Padstow is better known for its restaurants. Rick Stein launched his culinary empire here, while Tripadvisor travellers recently rated Padstow as being the best place for Michelin-quality meals in the world.
So, it was only fair that I tried out the Michelin-starred Paul Ainsworth at No. 6, a restaurant known for its inventive plays on Cornish fare. While No. 6 pays homage to the area's fishing heritage, it doesn't overlook Cornwall's more land-locked offerings. Sometimes in one dish like my first course, a warmed, raw scallop in an acorn ham broth with kohlrabi tartare.
"It's a prerequisite that we have got incredible fish and shellfish," said chef Chris McClurg, the restaurant's chef de cuisine. "But what often goes overlooked is the quality and standard of the husbandry and farming in Cornwall."
One of their most beloved dishes, for example, is a main course called "all the pigeon" that uses every part of the bird in ingenious ways. A roast leg is wrapped in kataifi pastry (made of fine strands of shredded phyllo dough) and fried; the livers whipped into a parfait; the offal, mixed with dark chocolate, turned into a "pain au chocolat" and dipped into a "ketchup" made from Japanese sour plums. I'd never known a pigeon to be turned into such a balanced mix of sweet and savoury, crunch and tenderness.
But one of my favourite dishes was the simplest: a buttered scone. The scone itself was one thing. Then the server brought a glimmering yellow log. He hovered a knife through a candle flame, then glided it through the log with a motion that felt almost visceral. The butter tasted as good as it looked, creamy and lush, heightened with just the right amount of Cornish sea salt.
Despite its reputation, Padstow is far from the only place nearby to find good food. Back on the A39, I drove the 10 miles north to St Kew. I was still full from my Michelin-starred experience which is available as a set tasting menu only. But if I hadn't been, right off the highway is one of the area's finest farm shops, St Kew Farm Shop & Cafe, serving up a short menu of changing specials (think buttermilk-fried chicken with local slaw and jalapeno cornbread) and top-notch coffee, as well as one of my favourite grilled cheese sandwiches in the area, made with local sourdough and cheddar from Davidstow creamery just down the road. Or there's local favourite Aunt Avice's Pasty Shop, whose hot, fresh-baked Cornish pasties often sell out early in the day.
Turning through the quaint village of St Kew, I headed along one of the smaller B roads to the coast. Before long, the single-track road, high hedges on either side, opened up to the blue of the sea. Compared to its neighbours, Port Quin is a hidden gem. The only people here were a small group of kayakers bobbing out on the water. After popping coins in the car park's honesty box, I headed up the coastal path to walk off some of my lunch, ducking through thickets of blueberries beaded with rain.
Another couple of miles up the coastal road (or 3.5 miles up the path) is Port Isaac. Made especially famous by the long-running series Doc Martin, airing its final series this year, it is the quintessential Cornish coastal town: whitewashed cottages, small harbour, narrow lanes, and on either side, cow dotted hills with steep cliffs and views of the blue ocean. Like its neighbour Tintagel, it is one of north Cornwall's better-known destinations.
For something lesser-known, though, I prefer St Nectan's Glen, where a short hike takes you through an ancient woodland to a towering waterfall. Over time, visitors have strung the surrounding trees with prayer flags and ribbons, a practise often seen at sacred sites in Cornwall, and have built "faerie stacks" of stones. At the top of the glen perches an old hermitage, said to have been the residence of the 6th-Century saint Nectan himself. It's a spot that feels as mystical as any King Arthur castle.
No. 6's "all the pigeon" dish uses every part of the bird in ingenious ways (Credit: Lateef Photography/Paul Ainsworth at No. 6)
For now, I was headed further north to Boscastle. One of Cornwall's more unusual towns, it's known for its quirky Museum of Witchcraft and Magic as well as the chefs, artisans and artists drawn both to its beauty and the opportunities afforded by tourism industry like new upstart The Rocket Store, which serves up dishes like wild sea bass sashimi with ginger and tarragon.
At the Old Forge Gallery, a centuries-old blacksmith's shop, I rummaged through prints and paintings depicting the area's striking scenery. The artist, Helen Setterington, moved here from Yorkshire 16 years ago. "We came so that I could study the sea and paint the rugged colourful and dramatic north coast," she said. "One day calm, the next day a storm of swirling waves. Just breath taking and very inspiring."
"One day calm, the next day a storm of swirling waves. Just breath-taking and very inspiring."
Back on the A39, I stopped at a spot that revealed a different side of the area: the Cornwall at War Museum. Despite north Cornwall's remoteness, it's played a key role in past wars. During World War One, the coast was heavily defended from the German U boats thick in the water; in World War Two, the region hosted RAF bases, served as a launching point for the D-Day landings in Normandy and was the target numerous bombing raids. Even today, the area plays a role in the UK's national security thanks to GCHQ Bude, one of the UK government's main intelligence and security organisations. On a clear day, you can see the base's large, eerie white satellite dishes, perched on the coastline, from miles away.
Just off the highway, opposite Davidstow creamery, the museum sprawls across three acres of a decommissioned RAF airfield from WW2. It's the passion project and full-time job of local couple Steve and Sheila Perry, who gave me a whistle-stop tour.
"People spend hours just going around," Steve said, ushering me into a room crammed with naval artefacts. "And we see the same faces come back again and again." I could see why it would take a lifetime to take in everything he and Sheila had collected: medals, uniformed mannequins, hundreds of photographs and documents, even tanks and armoured vehicles.
Another 15 miles north on the A39 brings you to the turn-off for Bude one of the area's bigger "hubs" with almost 10,000 residents. The seaside town is known for a few things: its 19th-Century castle and heritage centre, its striking sea pool, its surfing (it is home to the very first surf life-saving club in Great Britain).
It's also known for one of the best cafes and bakeries in the region, Electric Bakery named after the former Western Power electric depot in which it's housed. Opened in 2019, despite never advertising, it quickly took off. "It grew quite organically because we were local first," said Christine Apiou, chef and one of the bakery's four directors.
Today, it's the kind of place where the staff seems to know everyone's names, it's impossible not to run into everyone you know on the weekend, and where customers happily queue for rotating specials like toffee apple buns or fried chicken bánh mì with pickles and lemongrass mayonnaise.
One aspect that sets Electric Bakery apart is that their mission isn't just to provide top notch coffee and baked goods, but to support locals as much as possible. That includes staff, none of whom are on seasonal or zero-hour contracts (which offer no guaranteed minimum hours). It also includes food producers. The cheese comes from a small dairy three miles up the road, the vegetables are mostly from a half-acre market garden in Bude, and they've even started growing their own wheat on the farm that co-director Alex Bluett owns – the flour behind the bakery's "three-mile loaf".
The result has been a local following so loyal, Bude real estate agencies even have started putting proximity to Electric Bakery as a "sell" for their properties.
Back on the A39, I drove through the medieval village of Stratton – my soon-to-be former home once known for its pivotal role in the English Civil War, but today a sleepy parish of Bude. The road curved and dipped through arcs of green trees, so close to the road that their branches embraced overhead, and took me past the Little Pig Farm Shop, which serves breakfast, lunch and brunch using products sourced from within 30 miles.
Pulling off the main road, I headed towards the coast to one of my favourite spots: the Rectory Farm Tearooms. Rectory Farm isn't a hotspot like Electric Bakery or The Rocket Store. It's an institution, opened in 1950 and since featured in magazines, on TV programmes and even as the set for films like the Guernsey Literary and Potato Peel Pie Society.
I reminded myself to heap jam on to my scone first
Sitting in the tearoom's garden, I reminded myself to heap jam on to my scone first cross the border to Devon, less than two miles away, and I'd be obligated to put cream on first instead (the forgetful, beware!). Taking a bite, watching bees buzz around fat pots of flowers, listening to hikers trade tales from their time on the South West Coast Path, just a 10-minute walk away, I found myself, already, missing this part of the world: its scenery, its people, its history, its flavours, and yes, even its highway.
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