Like entering another country:
to the north, over the moors
passed isolated cottages
bleak and windswept
like Jamaica Inn
or south, across the river
the panoramic bridge
beautiful houses and gardens
scenically situated
watchfully guarding
the Tamar valley.
Built for the prophets
and from the profits
of the industrial revolution.
Steeped in history and legend
a county with as many facets
as cosy coastal inlets.
Long before Doc Martin arrived
I turned up at Port Isaac
on the wild north coast
biking down from Tintagel
touring, via farmer’s fields
and cheap spartan campsites.
A hillside of simple stone cottages
a welcoming pub overlooking the harbour
smells of seaweed and rotting fish tails
competing with fresh lemon
squirted over grilled mackerel.
On sunny days
returning from the beach
as salty, sandy and bleached
as a Greek islander.
On rainy days
shivering around rockpools
running back to the pub
for a hot fire and warm ale
feeling more like a Scottish crofter.
Both equally rural,
materially poor and close to life:
precarious unpredictable.
Between Truro and Falmouth
there is a vast estuary
an area of stunning contrasts
called Carrick Roads.
My wife had holidayed in Restronguet
as a child near the Pandora Inn.
We waddled out after a sumptuous lunch
(fresh lobster and home-made rhubarb crumble)
to stroll along Quay Road towards Mylor harbour.
A few quaint old hillside bungalows
were overwhelmed by palatial villas
with their own boat houses
and views across to the Roseland Peninsula.
Through fine autumn drizzle
a peppering of anchored yachts
stippled an impressionist canvas.
Our clothes were steaming
in the humid maritime climate.
It could have been Rivendell
halfway between jungle and fairyland
But as we rounded Wier point
the spell was broken
by the giant dystopian hulk
of a container ship
as horrific as a slave carrier:
a stark reminder
of the true price
of our leisured lives
By the time our daughter started school
we had found a more placid inlet.
The Helford passage in spring
with its long, steep, south-facing
subtropical, sheltered valleys
was sublime.
Bracing mornings on the water
soporific afternoons at the Ferry Boat Inn
as Rozzi combed the pebbles
for those that looked like sailing ships
(triangles of dolerite
with a streak of quartzite
where the mast would be)
still too young and innocent to realise
that she held the building blocks
of the universe in her hands.
While far-away Bodmin Moor
was still beleaguered by gales.
Soft water in the bathroom
hard granite in the walls
poisonous and healing herbs
growing in the garden
mystical sculptures
hanging from the trees
our cottage was definitely
of the Celtic fringe.
And across the tidal flow
on the southern shore
in the quiet overgrown paths
of Frenchman’s Creek
(once famous for its fictional smugglers)
where ivy and other creepers
were swallowing up fallen trees
where, by the water’s edge
stones, skeletons and driftwood
lay gathered, like treasure
waiting for Rozzi and others
with the artistry to transform them
into icons of worship and worth.
There, creativity was once a trickling stream
where magic was at play
when Merlin was in charge!
Before modern science
made magicians of us all.
