cornwall – ARUNDHATI BASU

Author’s Recognition Award

I am not yet a published author of books. I hope to be. When this award nomination cropped up, courtesy of Sheree of the blog View From the Back, I thought, why not. It would push me to write about this project I have been working on for the last five years. What masterpiece has she been writing for that many years, you might cackle. And really, I could not take offence — this routine of writing and re-writing is a scourge. I have not known when to stop, somewhat like a dervish who abandons himself to his rhythm of whirling and looks for all the world as if he might never stop, then drop like a consumed fly at some point . More about the project in a few ticks, but to begin with, do hop over to Sheree’s blog for a peek into the world of an avid cyclist with a cracking sense of humour.

About the Creator of the Award

Beverley at Becoming the Oil and the Wine Blog. I popped over to her blog and found that she has a compelling story to tell. Her idea behind creating this award was to support fellow bloggers who have written and published books or who are in the process of writing a book. You are free to write as much as you’d like about your book and/or the reasons why you decided to write one.

About my Book

As I mentioned already, I am in the throes of seeking an agent — and simultaneously in the process of writing the proposal for the book. Nobody told me that writing the book would be the easier bit.

The book is about my dippy-dotty travels through Cornwall (in the UK), complete with hand-drawn sketches that are as imperfect as I am as a person. Featured as a logo for this post, is one of the sketches from the book featuring the village of Church Cove in the Lizard Peninsula. I wish I could tell you that this is the one book you need to own when it comes out, but that would be an utter untruth. I would however appreciate it immensely if you did. And that is as much as I can bring myself to talk about my labour of love.

Nominees for the Award

If you have recently published a book or are thinking of writing one, please consider yourself nominated and tell us all about your work. Meanwhile I’d like to nominate the following bloggers:

Award Rules

1. Create a new post on your blog using the above logo or create one of your own.

2. Copy and paste the Purpose of the Award and The Rules of the Award on your post.

3. Thank the person who nominated you and link to their blog.

4. Include the links to the creator of the Award and the inspirational post: Celebrating and Supporting our fellow writers.

5. Write a brief description of the books you have written or the book you are currently writing.

6. Include a link to your published books or the potential date of publishing.

7. Nominate at least five bloggers who have published a book or who are thinking about writing a book.

8. Support at least one of the bloggers you have nominated by either purchasing one of their books or sharing the links to their books.

9. If a nominee has not written a book share one of their blog posts.

And that’s that folks! Have a great weekend. Ours has started with a steady rain and the promise of a tropical storm.

Jul 10, 2020Jul 14, 2020

Arundhati Basu28 Comments

Mevagissey

There is a small traditional fishing town in Cornwall called Mevagissey. I don’t know why but my mind meanders into its narrow steep streets that wrap themselves around tiny old cottages of cob and slate, maybe because it is a lovely sunny day here, and the waters of the Hudson are that calming shade of cerulean that makes you think of all things sprightly. In Mevagissey, Adi and I met a pasty lover. An English Cocker Spaniel who after bathing in the waters on a bright spring day filled with sunshine had pattered in with a pasty in his mouth, looking quite so solemn. He brought humour to that musty shop we were in, brimming with old camping junk and odd ends, old compasses, rusted lanterns, war memorabilia, grouchy old man behind the till.

Mevagissey named after two Irish saints is a modest place where you trudge up a maze of streets that taper up and down, past boutiques, cafés and chip shops. Locals still make their living from fishing, carrying on the legacy of fishing that has been part of its history like Looe which eked out a living from pilchards and smuggling. Pilchard was its backbone to the extent that pilchard oil lent electricity to Mevagissey which happened to be one of the first among the villages in the county to be thus powered up.

The surprise waiting for me in the village was a 18th century building on the harbour that turned out to be a small (and free) museum. A long time ago in that building — the roofs of which were constructed out of beams acquired from smugglers — they would have made boats for smuggling and repaired them. The passage of time has lent it a more sober personality as a museum where it documents life as it would have been in the village in times bygone. You tend to gawp at a different mode of life, a more simplistic one that you would have probably read about or imagined. Great oak beams, a big hearth that would have been warm once, cloam oven and butter churn, barley thresher and cider press. Trappings of another age and time. Oh and how delighted was I to find out that I was in the village that was home to the founder of Pears – you know that oval glycerine soap we all grew up with.

The harbour on which the museum stands is the nerve centre of all action. From it the aforementioned narrow alleys radiate into cliffs hugged by the rows of cosy cottages. Now, drama unrolls with great lucidity before the eyes if you find yourself on the harbour. Courting couples, fathers dealing with tantrums of lads aiming to challenge fearless gulls strutting around for a nibble of your meal please, families sitting along the edges of the harbour with their large polystyrene boxes stuffed with fish and chips, the motley crew of sail boats waiting patiently in the inner harbour.

The end result of the tootling around Mevagissey is that your appetite works itself up, gunning for a huge pasty or fish and chips. You know which it would be. I would peg it on peer pressure (all those people dipping into the contents of their boxes) and a heady mix of aromas wafting out of the doors of the chip shop. For along with the salty smell of the sea hanging thick in the air, you have to cope with those whiffs, or just capitulate. The tang of vinegar and lingering notes of fish frying. Surely you can smell it…

Jan 31, 2018

Arundhati Basu45 Comments

Chasing Pasties and Pubs in Looe

During an Easter break in 2015, we arrived at a Victorian cottage called Sunnybank, positioned high above the village of Looe, upon a hilly road. It was in the late hours of night when we reached it and yet we were stumped by the quaint prettiness of the village strung together by festive fairy lights, the sound of the sea in the backdrop crashing against the rocks and emphasising upon the solitude of our cottage. In the morning, we found the windows of the living room opening out to views of the sea one side, and on the other, rows of cottages clinging to the sides of cliffs in a higgledy-piggledy manner. The river Looe split the town into East Looe and West Looe, and while it remained dry for the best part of the day, tidal waters would stream in through an inlet and the boats would start bobbing prettily. On the harbour stood the bronze sculpture of a one-eyed seal called Nelson who had adopted it as home for about 25 years. Here Nelson had lived a full life, entertaining locals with his antics and sunning himself upon the rocks, till he died in 2003.

In the village of Nelson the seal, we were in the more bustling quarter of East Looe. Everyday we would trudge up a steep road to our cottage from the network of streets below — where pubs such as Smugglers Cote and Ye Olde Jolly Sailor livened up things with stories of smuggling and privateering. While sitting at the Smugglers’ Cote one morning, we heard about an old tunnel that was discovered there, which lead all the way to the fishing quay.

A story goes that the landlady of Ye Olde Jolly Sailor hid a contraband keg beneath her petticoats during a sudden raid and knitted away with poise as her quarters were searched. Almost 20 per cent of the government’s excise duty was lost through smuggling and yet the Cornish smuggled away with impunity for the simple reason that they knew that the excise men from London were five days away by stagecoach from Cornwall.

There are no smugglers today though – just shark anglers, who operate on a policy of catching and releasing the shark, and avid crabbers. We did not catch shark angling, but we did notice little girls and their fathers crabbing away at the river while we hunted for ice creams and cakes.

To make the stomach rumble, because that is what holidays are meant for, we had a host of pasty shops to choose from. Bacon, cheese and leek; potato and leek; onion and pickle; steak and stilton… Life is pasty-some in Looe. You could lunch like a miner and feel rum about it. There are a smattering of creperies, Thai restaurants, cafés and bakeries too if you overdo the pasty aspect of the holiday. The idea for us was to eat our way through town and if we felt the need for more (which I always do), there was a bookshop up a hill where the books were beautiful, their pages yellowed by time, and the wonderful welcome smell of nostalgia hitting the right notes as you entered the shop. It was a treasure house of tomes — that old shop. The lady who sat at the till always had time for a natter, sharing notes on out-of-the-way authors like Anne Radcliffe who could infuse her tales with the supernatural effortlessly…why Radcliffe you might ask, because she is not quite popular, is she? Jane Austen poked fun at the tenor of Radcliffe’s Gothic novels in ‘Northanger Abbey’, if you remember. But the lady of the shop had written books on Radcliffe, as it turned out, and I was not about to pull an Austen on her. Plus I had found myself engaged by Radcliffe’s brand of electrifying novels which are difficult to lay aside even for a second.

East and West Looe on either side of the river

20150405_172428~2.jpg — The cottage that was ours that Easter

The only one who had a good swim in the icy waters of the sea

After days of mooching around the narrow alleys of Looe, exploring the other nearby villages of Polperro, Mevagissey and Fowey, solving puzzles lying around at Sunnybank, on our last night in Looe, we spent time on the sandy stretch of beach beneath a sky riddled with stars. Here smugglers would have unloaded their contraband goods decades ago. Off its coast stood the dark outline of Looe Island where goods used to be discreetly dumped too. I could picture it. The silhouette of a ship as it pulled in with 400-500 men on board – but mooring a little away from the shore. Then smaller boats would have been sent out to the beach with booties of brandy, rum and gin, men scurrying nimbly to get their goods under the cover of the night. And to the fervent mind came Rudyard Kipling’s ‘A Smuggler’s Song’:

If you wake at midnight, and hear a horse’s feet,

Don’t go drawing back the blind, or looking in the street,

Them that ask no questions isn’t told a lie.

Watch the wall my darling while the Gentlemen go by.

Oct 9, 2017

Arundhati Basu110 Comments

To Daphne’s Fowey

The Cornish landscape in my mind is branded with swashbuckling smugglers, hidden coves, stormy seas and vast swathes of moors, ever since I got sucked into the vortex of Daphne du Maurier’s world. How tales of smuggling fill the imagination with romantic connotations.

Time has a habit of standing still in England’s south western county of Cornwall. The towns and villages retain a vibe of simplicity. This is how it must have been in the old days, you think, as you hear stories of fishing and smuggling that go hand in hand with the narrow, cobbled lanes of these hilly outposts of the Cornish southeast quarter.

Yet the picture was bleak during the 18^th century when an economic crisis had Britain in its grips because it was fighting the American War of Independence, and in the scheme of things, taxes were at an all-time high in the country. Quality salt, key to preserving pilchards in the fishing communities of Cornwall, and which was imported from Brittany and Spain was taxed heavily. Three hundred miles from Westminster, the scene was ripe for smuggling. It turned into a way of life for an entire community — vicars and teachers included.

A sparkling summer’s day of ice cream, coffee and a soul-satisfying breakfast in a café in Fowey was the perfect foil to my daydreams on a bank holiday weekend in 2015. Adi and I were on a four-day break with friends in the traditional fishing town of Looe near Fowey, putting up in a Victorian cottage, which is matter for another post.

Fowey itself is a picture painted with coves, old-fashioned country cottages trailing up and down steep roads, country churches and smart boutiques where prices make the eyebrows touch the scalp. We trawled the length and breadth of it, mooching around bookshops, (me) sighing over pretty ornaments in shops and Adi conveniently turning a deaf ear to those sighs. Nearby is the picturesque Readymoney Cove above which sits a former coach house. Daphne had sought refuge there during WWII to sort out her messed up life. You see, her husband was away at war setting up the country’s first airborne division, while she was taken in by a couple in Hertfordshire. But the fly in the ointment was Daphne herself. She was caught in an embrace with the husband of her hostess. Stories of unbearable loneliness, turbulent emotions, heartache…

Later after we had explored its nook and corners, we sat by the harbour. The waters hypnotised us under the mellow rays of the afternoon sun. Dangling my legs from the brick walls of the old harbour, I watched the machinations of ancient Fowey – bold gulls swooping across the estuary while wailing above our heads – as pretty coloured boats chugged in. And I thought of the young Daphne whose whitewashed cottage stood across the river. The 19-year-old who had noted fervently in her diary: ‘All I want is to be at Fowey. Nothing and no one else.’

The pretty turquoise roofs and spires of Truro on the way to Fowey

Curious residents of villages around Truro

IMG_20160610_141459 — To Readymoney Cove

Daphne’s cottage across the estuary. The one with the bright blue door.

Oct 7, 2017

Arundhati Basu59 Comments

Barmy Basset Hounds & Martins of Port Isaac

The thing with eating your ice cream on the sly is that you gotta pay for it later when your wife goes into an artisan fudge confectionery and arms herself with a sizeable waffle cone. Topped up by gigantic dollops studded with moreish caramel bits.

We had reached the village of Port Isaac (an easy drive from Padstow, Boscastle or Tintagel in Cornwall) when I needed to use the loo at the carpark facing the sea, the water guzzling cow that I am. FYI Cows can drink up to and over 90 litres of water on hot days. I came out of the loo and why there stood my husband quietly tucking into a mint chocolate chip ice cream. A sheepish look surfacing upon the visage as he spotted me. His supplier: the ubiquitous Mr. Whippy.

Then he offered me a lick. A Lick. It was your veritable ‘just you wait, ‘enry ‘iggins’ moment.

Providence is a sweet woman. She took me by the hand and led me to a fudge shop. Behind the till stood Mr Meakins, the owner who had played a part in Doc Martin, the British medical comedy TV series that was shot in Port Isaac. In the show, the village is called Port Wenn.

Martin. There you have the first name in the title of the post come into play. The show is delightful, I promise. You shall not and will not egg me. I would rather you make me an omelette.

At the fudge shop charmingly called Buttermilk – which made me instantly want to tuck into anything I laid eyes on inside its old interiors – I was urged by Meakins to lay my hand on a few fudges but my eyes sparkled at the thought of the half-eaten beauty you see below.

2017-04-16 06.20.24 1.jpg — Ship Shape indeed

2017-04-16 05.55.57 1.jpg — Anchor on the slipway

The rusty old anchor which could easily challenge a gang of 40 beefy men to lift it is your introduction to Port Isaac. For this is a fishing village, aye, that traces its fishing roots back to the 13th century. Till the 19th century, men would have also been dragging carts of stone, ores, salt and limestone from the many ships that would have arrived at the small and busy harbour of Port Isaac — it was one of the few sheltered ones along the inhospitable Cornish coastline.

But here I get ahead of myself. Let me pause and retrace my steps to when we entered the village.

From the car park you walk down to the beach below and think this is it, but wait. Get out of that carpark onto the main road, then walk past The Angry Anchovy ensuring that you are not ensnared by pizzas and make your way down a steep and narrow road. Past weathered houses, ivy-caked stone walls and a parish church. At the bottom of the street an old school house pops up with a brooding slate exterior. You know you have hit pay dirt.

You are in Port Isaac, dear darling.

The home of British crabs and lobsters.

The main street winding into the town is flanked by 18th and 19th century cottages, some whitewashed with bright blue window panes and doors and others clad in dark slate fronts. A stone owl looked down imperiously at us from its perch upon dry stone walls as we we walked in the footsteps of the grumpy Martin Ellingham, who arrives in the village to be greeted by the likes of characters such as Bert Large and two grimy fishermen – they who almost drive him off the narrow country lanes after declaring him ‘Bodmin’. You would pounce upon that word if you are a Daphne du Maurier fan. The moors of Bodmin is where Jamaica Inn was (and still is) famously situated. If you were deemed Bodmin by a local it basically meant you were barmy (also that you could be a repository of murder and madness).

Opes, Cornish for narrow alleys between houses, issued warnings on signposts about big vehicles trying to barge their way in. Seriously, if you even thought of wedging yourself in a big car between those houses, I would say you deserve to sit inside while the rest of the world (like me) passes you by with ice cream cones held aloft as beacons of goodness.

Now if you gave me a house in Port Isaac, I would shut my eyes and take it off your hands. It is bustling and chirpy but there is an astonishing level of quiet that comes over the village as soon as you leave behind the harbour and start climbing up the opes where brooks gurgle by stone houses. There is a lifeboat shed in the village and a fisherman merchant’s smelly quarters where seafood is sold during the day but the real deal is as you climb up the hill. The village is spread out below you just beyond two breakwaters, pale turquoise waters and the coastline.

On our way up, we passed Martin’s cottage on the left, a little below which stood Bert Large’s whitewashed restaurant. Too many Doc Martin things in this post, you say? I would agree but that is because I am goading you into watching at least the first episode.

To come to the second part of this post’s title. We heard these baritone barks as we trudged up the hill. Not your average few barks. This was a remarkable volley that refused to stop. We peeked down through the gap between one of the houses and espied a podgy basset hound bent on playing Elvis for the day. Now people from Elvis country, hear me out. You had to meet Mr. Personality. After we had spent some time sitting on the hill and Adi had fooled around on the edges singing away so badly that I had to turn and run, we met this basset hound down at the harbour. He had a mate who was as quiet as he was mouthy. A few labradors ran around, but your guess is good enough to figure out who stole the show.

To agitate our basset boy, his amused master made a few faces and stooped to say a few things. Our ears ringing with his deepest of deep barks, the sight of his astoundingly droopy face, podgy body and pendulous ears carved into our minds, we left the village of Port Isaac with deep sighs. But wait, I can still hear his baritone woofs, can you?

2017-04-16 05.55.54 1.jpg — Opes of Port Isaac

2017-04-16 06.20.23 1.jpg — You see what I mean when I say that you should arm yourself with an ice cream and then work it off by just walking. These opes demand it.

2017-04-16 06.06.43 1.jpg — Climbing up the hill for a view of the village and the coastline

2017-04-16 06.06.41 1.jpg — The one. Who excels at pestering me.

2017-04-16 06.06.42 1.jpg — Between the breakwaters

2017-04-16 06.06.31 1.jpg — Taking a moment to savour the beauty of the moment…

2017-04-16 06.06.33 1.jpg — …before yodelling

2017-04-16 06.06.37 1.jpg — Caught in the act

2017-04-16 05.56.02 1.jpg — Port Isaac Harbour

2017-04-16 06.06.29 1.jpg — Bert Large’s restaurant is the whitewashed stone cottage on the left. Above it, the first stone cottage with the orange pipings was Martin’s cottage in the show, Doc Martin.

2017-04-16 05.56.05 1.jpg — Master in a conversation with Mouthy One

2017-04-16 05.56.07 1.jpg — The image we left Port Isaac with

Before I leave you for the day, here’s Episode 1 of Doc Martin. Humour me?

May 22, 2017

Arundhati Basu75 Comments

Elvis Legs: Boscastle to Tintagel

The path of less resistance can lead to Elvis Legs. This is how. My husband was never much of a one for walking-hiking holidays (even though he used to love climbing mountains as a teenager). His idea of holidays were more in the realm of lazing and packing in the good grub. But then I happened to him. The day that took place he had signed himself up for legs that would shake like The King’s. A shout-out to Bruce who introduced me to the term.

Getting back to Adi, he is a hiking convert, and boy he gets attached to things in a pretty solid way. For instance, when he had change to classes as a wee boy, he turned down the prospect flat on its face. He would have nothing to do with leaving Claudette behind. She was the teacher and why I believe wee Adi had a crush on pretty Claudette. They had to wait three months before he agreed to leave her behind.

From Claudette to Cornwall is a leap alright, but may I ask you to do that? Last time, we had exchanged a few words over Boscastle and swooned over Hardy. Now I am going to swoon over Red Devon and Friesian cows, gorse bushes, meadows of blue bells, saw-wort (those pretty purple thistle-like flowers) and daisies. Stop sniggering. I see you.

Now we had chosen the hottest day of the week to go for our hike, which meant four hours under a sun that threatened to (and did eventually) peel the skin off our nape. There are a few warnings you have to keep in mind when you are passing through the pastures of our bovine friends:

Do not show threatening behaviour towards calves (approaching them in close quarters, making loud noises or walking between a calf and its mother) as you may provoke the mother to defend her young. The best plan is to walk along the hedges.
If cows approach you, do not run away as this will encourage them to chase you. Stand your ground and stretch out your arms to increase your size.
Avoid taking dogs into fields with cows particularly with calves. If you must and cows charge, release the dog from its lead as the dog will outrun the cows and the cows will generally chase the dog rather than you.

With no dog friend to distract the cow, you can imagine how tough it was on the animal talker in me. I did wave at the Red Devon cows lazing on the ridges, who you shall see in a bit, but there were young, cute Friesian calves in a field without their mothers, and That I could not resist. Adi, on the other hand, is a bit wary of the gentle girls and boys — ever since a whole herd gunned for us with alacrity during a stop at a random field on the way to the Lake District. The menace writ large on their faces made them look like anything else but creatures of bovine gentility. Five years have passed but Adi has not been able to shake off the trauma of it.

2017-05-06 07.56.21 2.jpg — Forrabury Stitches behind us. It is like looking back upon a maze of stitched-up greenery. A historic concept of open field farming that is part and parcel of Cornish country.

2017-05-06 07.56.25 1.jpg — The kind of views that line the length of the hike

2017-05-06 09.50.52 2.jpg — Lazy Red Devon cows

2017-05-06 09.50.51 1.jpg — Thankfully a few hand waves did not ensure a charging mum. Adi dragged me away before she became a larger entity in the picture.

2017-05-06 09.50.52 1.jpg — Islets along Trevalga that are home to seabird colonies

2017-05-06 09.50.55 1.jpg — Gorse and husband under the midday sun

If you choose to do this hike, the good news is that for the most part, it is of moderate intensity. Expect to climb up and down meadows filled with wild flowers and gorse bushes in bright yellow clumps to contrast startlingly with the waters of the Celtic Sea. The changing hues — from gentian to aquamarine, sapphire to turquoise blues — are mesmerising. Each stitched-up pasture is crossed via stone steps and then a leap across dry stone walls that network the length and breadth of the trail and throw in some serious climbing in bits and pieces. But it is the length of the walk and the hot sun that conspire to make you fantasise about chilled beer aplenty.

When we espied the silhouette of Hotel Camelot a few cliffs away, we whooped. The thought of draining vats of beer was a wonderful reprieve. We could have also had vats of mead instead but then we would have to go down to that fantastic Tintagel Castle, birthplace of the mythical King Arthur. And our legs, I fear, would not have made the steep climb back to the village from the castle. Instead we tucked into pasties from the pasty shop in town that was selling them at half price since it was closing time. Amusingly enough, they do things the old way. The woman from the shop hollers out in a hefty voice about a half-price offer a few times till old men come streaming in.

At the end of our pub stop for ales to wash down the pasties with lay another 3 hours of walking because we had not taken into account that the bus from Tintagel to Boscastle is not that frequent. So there we were with 10 miles of hiking and walking at hand to reduce our legs to columns of jelly and flop down at The Wellington Arms in Boscastle for another round of ale. Come to think of it, what would we do without ale? As our good man Franklin put it so sensibly. Beer is proof that God loves us and wants us to be happy.

2017-05-06 10.00.57 1.jpg — Midway between Boscastle and Tintagel is the Rocky Valley where the footpath plunges into a gorge-like valley to take you ahead into the open bay of Bossiney.

2017-05-06 10.01.06 1.jpg — Bossiney Bay

2017-05-06 10.01.46 2.jpg — Oh hello, my beauties! There was a long conversation with no watchful mother at hand nearby to spoil the party.

2017-05-06 10.01.07 1.jpg — Bossiney Bay

2017-05-06 10.01.49 1.jpg — And finally, Hotel Camelot

2017-05-06 10.01.51 1.jpg — Pints of Doom Bar at The Cornishman Inn – an ale named after the Doom Bar of Padstow

Camelot Castle Hotel viewed from Tintagel Castle

The ruins of Tintagel Castle are tricky to climb especially when it has rained because those steps are quite weather-beaten.

When you reach the top, it feels like a misstep would mean a dash into the rocks but that view. It does make you want to make a home for yourself among the ruins and dream about Lancelot and Guinevere.

2017-05-06 10.43.26 1.jpg — The walk back to Boscastle and meeting curious ones along the way.

2017-05-06 10.01.54 1.jpg — Stone cottages in Bossiney

2017-05-06 10.40.45 1.jpg — Reaching Boscastle after two and a half hours

2017-05-06 10.40.41 1.jpg — Then sighting The Wellington and losing ourselves to ale. Highly recommended.

May 12, 2017

Arundhati Basu73 Comments

Hardy’s Boscastle

“I found her out there

On a slope few see,

That falls westwardly

To the salt-edged air,

Where the ocean breaks

On the purple strand,

And the hurricane shakes

The solid land.”

Looking at those mesmerising opal-sapphire hued waters, just like the view that glistened in the midday sun below me, Thomas Hardy would have contemplated upon his chance meeting with the love of his life in the village of Boscastle. Dramatic environs such as these must surely serve as an elixir to seal in young love.

Hardy, if you are not acquainted with the man, wrote Tess of the D’urbervilles and challenged the traditional notions of morality in Victorian England. I have always wondered about it: How is it that Hardy could empathise so with his heroine? Here was a writer, far ahead of the times that he was a product of. I can almost hear Hardy echo Butch Cassidy: ‘Boy I got vision and the rest of the world wears bifocals.’

But the post is neither on Hardy (really, you might say with some disbelief, given that the woman has waxed upon his love for two paragraphs and shall devote another to it), the strain of realism that pervades his writing, nor is it about Tess. It is to take you into the quaint fishing village of Boscastle where Hardy arrived as a young architect in 1870 to work on the restoration of the church of St. Juliot. His prize in the North Cornish village would have been to chance upon a pair of blue eyes (you know who that novel was inspired by) and a swathe of blonde hair that would have his heart for a long time even after the owner of those attributes, Emma Gifford, had died and he had married a second time. Hardy’s heart is buried with Gifford in her grave in a churchyard in Dorset, although his ashes were buried in Westminster Abbey.

When he arrived in Boscastle, he would have come upon the three pubs in the village, a lime kiln and the stonewashed cottages which are said to have been built from stones culled from the ruins of the Botreaux Castle (the village derives its name from the castle).

A lane past Cobweb Inn winds up the village. Now names in the English countryside are literal. You know when you come upon a Two Turn Lane what lies ahead, so when you come upon a name like Cobweb Inn, you can safely expect cobwebs hanging from the eaves and ceilings. Or so you could till the early ’90s when some namby pamby Health and Safety inspectors decided that thick, matted cobwebs hanging to keep flies away from kegs of wine and spirits was not hygienic. They were questioning decades of cobweb-wisdom of men who had run the pub as a wine cellar and flour store dating back to the 1700s.

The passing years have meant that we, as modern-day travellers, got the extras without the cobwebs such as clutches of charming boutiques, a National Trust tearoom and a museum on witchcraft at the entrance of which is the grave of a ‘witch’ called Joan Wytte. That poor 18th century woman’s skeleton had hung for years at the museum till they decided it was not quite okay. The river gushes alongside and if you follow its path up the cliffs above the harbour, you can go on long walks (as we did and it turned out to be so long that our legs would not stop trembling, but more about the trembling later in the next post).

After the quintessential tea & cake stop at the pretty tea room, once you are up on the cliffs, you can spot the Elizabethan harbour, a powerful reminder of times when privateers, wreckers and smugglers carried on thriving business with alacrity. Then you can sit on the cliffs and cast your mind back in time, that is all. Bung in a gale, a stormy sky and turbulent waters lashing against the cliffs. Maybe even imagine the Devil’s Bellows at half tide spouting out water below from the small hole at the bottom of the cliffs, and yes, you will be in another time and age with the necessary ingredient that is at the essence of every wild imagination, the ‘willing suspension of disbelief’.

2017-05-05 08.07.53 1.jpg — Behind Adi is the lime kiln, the third stone structure from the right with the hint of an arched opening. The white cottage next door is the National Trust Tea Room. The kiln points to Boscastle’s quarrying past.

2017-04-16 10.12.24 1.jpg — Temptation awaits the unwary inside the National Trust tea room

2017-05-05 08.08.02 1.jpg — Luna and Remus. Psst: Potter fans. Transfiguration happened. We got two giant Leonbergers playing in the waters with their mutt mate. However they were kind and they allowed two strange muggles to shower them with the customary cuddles and coos.

2017-05-05 08.07.58 1.jpg — Bridge in Boscastle

2017-05-05 08.08.11 1.jpg — The harbour put in place by the English sailor and explorer, Sir Richard Grenville, in the late 1500s. A popular hangout for smugglers and wreckers.

2017-05-05 08.08.15 1.jpg — Penally Point, below which is a blowhole that spouts up water in a gush and with a boom (the Devil’s Bellows) during low tide.

2017-05-06 07.56.12 1.jpg — That spot of white sticking out above the cliffs is Willa Lookout coastwatch

2017-05-06 07.56.17 1.jpg — Looking back at the cliffs of Boscastle from Forrabury Common

May 11, 2017

Arundhati Basu38 Comments

Ed Has a Little Bottle-Fed Lamb

If you have been dreaming of Bruges, a guest post by a fellow blogger, dream on, and then may I bring you back to the Cornish climes? This post is about Meg, a border collie, her master Ed, a farmer, and new-born lambs.

Now The Byre is an atmospheric barn conversion in Lostwithiel, Cornwall (you can book it through Cornish Cottage Holidays). We had a fantastic bargain. For 8 nights we paid up £385 and Ed threw in a free night. Now no one in all our years of renting cottages in the countryside has been ever so kind as Ed. A free night! Egad. We had one more day of exploring the countryside in Cornwall which we cannot resist even if it means that we have to return home to Northampton bleary-eyed, post a long day of walks, and then 5-odd hours of driving.

Ed lives with his vet wife Nicki in Lostwithiel in a rambling farmhouse. They have a menagerie of sorts. A tabby cat who likes to lie flat on their guest bed and luxuriate in the fact that Ed’s son and girlfriend has just vacated its quarters, and then there are the two dogs, Meg and Gizzie. Meg is a border collie who does a fair bit of work in rounding up the sheep. Gizzie is a Jack Russell Terrier who was rescued by Ed and Nicki because he had too many brothers too deal with in his previous home and had therefore started to exhibit signs of aggression. You would not suspect his troubled past from his mien now. He is just a typical Jack Russell, as curious and friendly as they come. You have met both Meg and Gizzie, in a face off, in my previous post.

Then there are the couple’s flock of Shropshire sheep which seem to tick off on all counts attributed to the 1929 heritage description of the Shropshire sheep: “Alert, attractive, indicating breeding and quality, with stylish carriage and a symmetrical form, showing the true characteristics of the Shropshire.” I do not know about quality but they certainly possessed style *I hear your sniggers

In the lead photo, you see Ed feeding the lamb. That is not because he is trying to domesticate him. In reality, the little one’s mother had refused him milk so Ed has become his de facto mum and dad. When we left, Ed was trying to get him to join the flock who have 9 acres of land for their grazing and pooping pleasure.

Ed’s father owned a huge farm where he kept a herd of 200 cattle but dairy farming became a part of his history to be talked about because of the change in times, inflation and the fact that his son and daughter were carving out their own niche in life.

“Plus all my conversation was going to be centred around cows, you know,” said Ed.

The son is a communications press officer with a cricket board and the daughter is a psychologist. By and by, Ed sold off his farms and bought the farmhouse with Nicki where they lead a quiet life with their menagerie. They even keep bee colonies, where on a cold grey and windy day amidst a patch of berries, rhubarb and leeks, we heard about the intelligence of bees, how they can figure out ways of stinging you, apart from gazing at an ewe who had just given birth to twins. She was busy licking them clean even as red trails of placenta hung down her behind. You see, the placenta is not snipped off as in humans because they have their own ways of dealing with. They often eat it up if they are wary of predators around their babies. Nature surely equips her creatures.

But beware of Meg’s charms. She is no less of a Madonna. Everyday before leaving the cottage and after our return, we used to have a session of squealing and whining and crooning. There were long conversations between Adi, Meg and I. She had a fairly unladylike comportment, I have to admit, and about which I did berate her but to no avail. Having identified Adi as the Belly Rub Guy, every time she spotted him, she would start crooning, raise her hind leg, and in a brief second or two, lie upside down for her quota of rubs. If you do meet her, carry a big batch of belly rubs for her, will you?

2017-04-26 10.35.46 1.jpg — Meg the Madonna

2017-04-26 10.35.44 2.jpg — Who wants to be a lady?

2017-04-16 09.49.01 1.jpg — Some stylish Shropshires

2017-04-16 09.48.58 1.jpg — Ewe are looking at an ewe so please do not go ewe once you spot what we’ve been talking about

2017-04-18 08.57.02 1.jpg — Bottle-fed boy. He had a soft and springy feel to him.

2017-04-16 09.25.21 1.jpg — Ed’s bee colonies

2017-04-16 09.48.59 1.jpg — ‘Did you say, you cannot see us seeing you? Take your rude self off our pasture.’

May 3, 2017

Arundhati Basu39 Comments

Portloe

Atop the cliffs of the Roseland Peninsula, I sit on the ledge with the wind in my hair and the Celtic Sea below me. Had I taken a few hefty steps back in time to let’s say the mid 1800s, I would have peered and spied upon smugglers at work. And wondered if I might claim a share of their loot of French brandy. That is the kind of contraband these smugglers – who doubled up as fishermen – stored in the cellars of their farmhouses in the village of Portloe.

The scene was serious here on the Roseland Peninsula so much so that Customs had to maintain a strict watch here. I like the ring of the name Portloe which seems to have been a variation of the Cornish word, Port Logh, meaning ‘cove pool’. When you climb down the steep cliffs and reach the valleys, you see the protected cove that gave it its name and you will see how it is one of the most charming villages in Cornwall. Once a busy pilchard fishing village, it has now been reduced to a quiet one where just about three boats work the seas, returning with a haul of crabs and lobster.

We sat in the old Lugger Inn for a while before we set out on the coastal walk to Portholland. The bummer is that we did not complete the walk because we were a bit late for it, so we quit after halfway up (even this took the better part of an hour with some steep stretches thrown in). Someday we shall do the entire stretch and more.

But the walk just gives and gives.

If you are singing aloud thinking there is no one to hear your hollering, apart from the husband who signed up for it when he married you, look out for the old lady sitting quietly around the bend on a bench hidden from plain sight by overgrown foliage.

Besides the occasional old lady, we saw a man fishing from his perch upon one of the cliffs that meet the shore at some point, and possibly his partner resting on the rocks above him. It made for a peaceful picture.

You can well imagine then that Portloe remains one of my favourite hideouts in Cornwall. I visit it often in my mind’s eye when I crave for the sight of those blue waters, the feel of the wind in my hair and some solitude. For there, you can wander lonely as a cloud.

2017-04-18 09.19.41 1.jpg — The protected cove in the village

2017-04-18 09.19.43 1.jpg — The thoughtful man in the cove

2017-04-18 09.19.44 1.jpg — If you are not staying at the Lugger Inn, do drop by for a coffee or even a lovely high tea with Champagne. But that view makes anything taste like Champagne. Even cappuccino.

2017-04-18 09.19.38 1.jpg — In his elements. Going down steep edges of cliffs.

2017-04-18 09.19.27 1.jpg — The beautiful stone cottages of Portloe. Give me a room in one of them and I will never want for anything again.

2017-04-19 02.52.15 1.jpg — Flowery meadows

2017-04-18 09.19.36 1.jpg — Those blue and yellow-paned cottages can be rented for holidays

2017-04-18 09.19.17 1.jpg — Views on the coastal walk

2017-04-18 09.19.15 1.jpg — I would go for such an epitaph. Would you?

2017-04-18 09.19.14 1.jpg — The mermaid keeps a watch upon the shore

Where to Stay:

Lugger Inn (www.luggerhotel.co.uk). A room at this 17th century inn will cost you upwards of £147 per night. But it has gorgeous views and a restaurant where you can tuck into the local produce.

Cove Cottage. You can book this beautiful cottage with the blue panes by the harbour through Cornwalls Cottages (www.cornwallscottages.co.uk). Prices start at roughly £110 per night for the three-bedroom cottage. But they are booked chock-a-block, so consider booking in advance. The early bird here catches the proverbial worm and what a worm this is.

What to do:

Circular walk from Pendower Beach to Veryan. The story goes that you will pass a spot in Narehead where lived a fisherman, not quite happy in his marriage. Once a week he used to lower his boat into the waters to visit his wife in Veryan and take her a booty of fish.

Walk the coastal path to the cove at Portholland.

Circular walk from Narehead to Portloe. On the path you will spot a Cold War nuclear bunker and a reef called The Whelps because many a ship met its untimely end there.

Apr 28, 2017

Arundhati Basu85 Comments

Giants and Saints of St. Michael’s Mount

On an April noon when an army of clouds invaded the blue sky and cast a black and silver sheen upon the landscape, we arrived in Marazion. Captivated by its name the first time I visited it about four years ago, I fell in love with the ancient market town. You will see why, by and by.

Before I gather steam, here’s a brief note. If you are in Mousehole, Marazion is just a few miles away. Marazion has a ringside view of a fairy-tale island that juts out of the Celtic Sea – St. Michael’s Mount (the silhouetted rocky outcrop you see above). The tidal island is a sister counterpart of St. Mont Michel in France. In the 11th century, it had even been ceded to the Benedictine order of St. Mont Michel till in the 14th century it became the property of an abbess in Middlesex.

Many moons ago, a giant by the name of Cormoran (you will remember Robert Galbraith’s gruff detective has the same moniker) lived upon the island. When he got hungry, the cattle of Marazion were his meal. He was 18 ft. tall and his girth spanned a humble figure of three yards, so crossing the causeway was no big feat for our beef-loving giant. He became a blasted curse upon the town. Who should pop up to be the hero of this town? Jack the Giant-Killer of our childhood stories. He is Cornish, yessir, and he lived in Marazion. Our notable Jack not only killed the giant, but he also went on to slay many more giants, was appointed a Knight of the Round Table by King Arthur.

Now ye of deep faith, you might want to put St. Michael’s Mount on your list of pilgrimage. Sailors on the sea from the 5th century have maintained that a saint appeared on the island to guide them to safety from alluring mermaids and storms. This was the patron saint of fishermen, the archangel St Michael, who is supposed to have delivered a few miracles during the 13th century.

I crossed over the causeway four years ago, leaving behind Adi in the car at Marazion to sleep off his tiredness for a good hour or so. The tide was low and I felt like I was in a dream, walking across the granite cobbles of the causeway, as the waters swirled in and out in a hypnotic rhythm to a fairy-tale castle upon a tidal island. Bells tolled in the old priory and apart from the cawing of a few seagulls, the island was deserted. The castle loomed high above the few stone cottages, home to the staff who work in the castle. Entry to the castle however was closed because it was a Saturday. I spent my time treading through the alleys in the island, exploring the charm of the cottages clustered around it, sitting on the pier and watching boats passing by. Also, I did not have the privilege of meeting either the giant or the saint. My wuss-y heart, I fear, would not have been able to bear the glorious sight of either.

2017-04-20 08.41.22 1.jpg — The tidal island. You cannot spot the causeway because it was high tide at the time the photo was taken.

2017-04-26 01.05.59 1.jpg — This is how the man-made granite causeway looks during low tide. A photo from four years ago when I crossed it to explore St. Michael’s Mount.

2017-04-26 01.05.58 1.jpg — Worker’s cottages and the castle on St. Michael’s Mount

2017-04-26 01.05.56 1.jpg — Nazi foreign minister Ribbentrop had plans to live on the island after German plans for the conquest of Britain were successful. He was a frequent visitor to Cornwall.

2017-04-26 10.37.10 1.jpg — The castle has been the home to the St. Aubyn family since the 1650s. One of the Lords of St. Levan, descendants of the St. Aubyn family, donated it to the National Trust in 1954 but it shall be the family seat for a period of 999 years.

2017-04-26 10.37.44 1.jpg — Into the ancient market town of Marazion

2017-04-26 10.37.51 2.jpg — The town hall (with the red pipings) of *Marghasyewe,* as the town was deemed in Cornish

2017-04-26 10.37.43 1.jpg — On a nippy noon step into the King’s Arms for a pint of Cornish ale

2017-04-26 10.37.45 1.jpg — And a pile of onion rings. All eyes were on our table.

2017-04-26 10.37.47 1.jpg — Spot the cocker spaniel?

2017-04-26 10.37.46 1.jpg — Let me make it easier. Now do you see the cute spaniel watching life go by beneath him?

Getting to St. Michael’s Mount:

Barring Saturday, it is open all other days. Cross the causeway on foot during low tide or take a boat from Marazion to the island for the fares of £2.00 for adults and £1.00 for children.

Entering the Castle:

Tickets cost 9.50 quid for an adult, garden entry is priced at 7. A combined ticket costs 14 quid. If you are a National Trust member, you get in free. Timings: 10.30am-5pm.

Where to Stay:

The Godolphin Arms (www.godolphinarms.co.uk) offer standard double rooms at about £160 per night on bed & breakfast basis. Some offer spectacular views of St. Michael’s Mount.

Rosario (www.rosario-marazion.co.uk), a bed & breakfast in Marazion, with views of the sea too, offers more modest prices at £90 per night.

Apr 26, 2017

Arundhati Basu72 Comments