2
Taff Up-Over part 2
Saturday.
And so the first week was over, a shame, but all good things must end. Our next venue was to be Sennen, the small village I’d lived in for the ten years before I emigrated to OZ. It’s right on the south western tip of the UK, near Lands End. It’s a good four-hour drive from Llanelli, but some idiot had forgotten this, so was a bit lackadaisical in his getting up.
We’d had a phone call from my mate Mark, who lives in Devon, the previous day; “Taff, seeing as you’re planning to go to the Eden project tomorrow, it won’t be too far out of your way to pop in and see us on the way through.” More a command than a conversation then.
We had planned to visit the Eden Project on our way down, this is a fantastic creation, an old clay pit had been massively restored, huge “biomes” had been built, and it now housed exotic trees and plants from around the world.
Go see for yourselves if you don’t believe me.
So I phoned Mark to let him know we were on our way, there was no reply so I left a message on his answer-phone, we bid farewell to my Mam and Llanelli, and set off down the M4. God, what a nostalgia trip.
I’d made this journey so many times in the twenty odd years I’d lived in Devon and Cornwall, and it was a great way of remembering past events. Like the time an ex-girlfriend and me had hitched back from Wales to college in Plymouth. The first three lifts we got, the two cars and the lorry that stopped all broke down. We ended up getting lifts in the AA breakdown service vans most of the way. We took a train back the next time.
Anyway, stopping only to buy vastly overpriced coffee and cakes at the Bristol services, we wended our merry way down. It didn’t take me long to realise that my predicted time for the journey was miles out. We had a quick confab, and decided we couldn’t leave Mark and Jenny down as they’d seemed so desperate to see us. So on we journeyed, we passed this bit of motorway art, which I quite like.
http://news.bbc.co.uk/1/hi/uk/943715.stm
Then after passing Exeter, the Moors rose up on our left….
I tell you it is all as new to me as it is to Dr. Watson, and I’m as keen as possible to see the moor.”
“Are you? Then your wish is easily granted, for there is your first sight of the moor,” said Dr. Mortimer, pointing out of the carriage window.
Over the green squares of the fields and the low curve of a wood there rose in the distance a grey, melancholy hill, with a strange jagged summit, dim and vague in the distance, like some fantastic landscape in a dream.
Well this day it was sunny and so the moors were looking quite pleasant, so stuff Conan Doyle.
So we tootled on down, now on the A38, a lovely road that skirts the eastern edge of the moors. I managed to find Mark and Jenny’s place after only getting lost twice, and so we pulled in, now knackered and badly in need of a cuppa.
And the tossers were out!
I couldn’t believe it, we’d diverted all that way, taking a chunk of our precious time, and the great nincompoop wasn’t in….
We hung about. Luckily for them their next-door neighbour was out mowing what laughably passes for a front lawn for those houses, otherwise I’d have done something quite foul, like set fire to their cats.
So we tootled off..
(We later found out that Mark had gone paragliding for the day, just to add insult to…insult.. I’d have loved to have gone out and borrowed his glider for an hour. I could have taken a knife to it.)
We didn’t have enough time left to visit the Eden project, so we headed straight down to Sennen.
God there was memories aplenty on that last leg, funny how you have to go away to realise what you had.
We stopped off at the supermarket I used to shop at in Penzance, Safeways. It had been taken over, and driven way downmarket, by Morrisons. Such a shame. Anyway, we filed up on easy to cook goodies, more Mc Farty pies and Quorn bangers etc, and vowed never to return.
We arrived at Sennen in the early evening, and found the house. “Riviera” is a stone built cottage that fronts onto the seashore, that has been converted into two flats. We had rented the upper one.
http://www.cornwallfarwest.co.uk/rivout.htm
The accommodation was wonderful, I arm-wrestled Bethy for the Bedroom with the sea views, and she won. Bugger. So we got ourselves sorted out, watched a bit of awful Sunday night TV, and I took a stroll along the seafront to blow out the cobwebs.
Sunday:
I woke, having had not the most comfortable of nights, and leapt to action. I’m very much a morning person. LeeAnne isn’t, she’s Mrs Grumpy in the morning, I have to hide all the sharp objects until she’s been awake for at least an hour, and refuelled on coffee and nicotine.
Bethy went down the shop for the Sunday Times, and the News of the World, LeeAnne was now demanding we got this every Sunday we were there. Then I went down the shop as we had no toilet paper. Then I went back and got some paper towels. (I could have saved myself one trip by insisting we put the paper towels to dual use.) We were out of milk, so I went down to the shop. Then I went down the shop for some washing powder. Then I went down the shop for a tin of beans to have with breakfast. In total, I went to the shop six times that morning; I think the owners were starting to get suspicious of me.
I stopped off at my friends Col and Joy’s on the way, they’re scousers, but we don’t hold that against them, and there was no answer when I knocked in any case. Their cottage, a lovely, very old, thatched fisherman’s cottage is one of the most beautiful in the cove. There’s a window to their bedroom that, due to the cottage being made of large granite blocks, anyone of reasonable climbing ability can shin up to and peep in to. I didn’t do this as both Col and Joy are nurses, and were possibly just asleep after a night shift.
While down at the cove I bumped into Terry George, the coxswain of the Sennen cove life boat, therefore a man to be held in high regard, who’s also owner of the Sennen cove website. He seemed shocked to see me, either that or he’d forgotten who I was. He didn’t quite run away after I shook his hand, he just sort of edged away warily.
We cooked up a massive breakfast. The whole “English Breakfast”, the works; sausages, beans, toast, eggs, vege bacon, hash browns, boy does the sea air give you an appetite!
After a breakfast like that, and seeing as the weather outside was somewhat inclement, we decided to stay in and play card games. I still owe Bethy a small fortune, I’m sure she palms the cards.
We then took a stroll up to visit our friends, Howard, who is totally bonkers, and his lovely wife Janet. Much hugs and kisses were exchanged, and they very kindly invited us over for a meal the next night. After catching up on the news and gossip, who was shagging who in the village mainly, we said our goodbyes. We strolled down cove hill, and picked wild garlic to throw into our cooking, this grows in abundance in the hedgerows there, but remember, think of the tallest dog you know, and pick it from just a bit higher than that.
As it happens we decided to treat ourselves to a meal in the pub that night instead.
http://www.sennen-cove.com/oldsuc.htm
It was great to be back in my old haunt. The pub landlord, Martin, very kindly gave us the first round on the house, he’s a wise investor that man. The food was every bit as good as I remembered, and as well as my favourite pint, Doom bar bitter, they had a new real ale in, Heligan Honey, which was so good I was torn between the two beers.
Here’s some info on the beers…
Doom Bar is named after an infamous sandbank at the mouth of the Camel Estuary in North Cornwall. The Doom Bar is at it’s most dangerous between low and high tides when it is submerged just a few feet and unsuspecting mariners can easily become stranded or in extreme weather shipwrecked. Doom Bar embodies many characteristics, which makes it worthy to carry the name of this natural wonder. It’s distinctive aroma and very fine balance sets it truly apart from other beers taking unsuspecting first time drinkers by surprise. Doom Bar has achieved cult status across the UK and beyond and it’s delivery to a new or occasional outlet is often greeted by a flurry of text messages spreading word of its arrival. The aroma of Doom Bar is an accomplished balance of spicy resinous hop, inviting sweet malt and delicate roasted notes. The mouth feel is perfectly balanced with a complex blend of succulent dried fruit, light roasted malty notes and a subtle yet assertive bitterness. The bitterness remains into the finish with dry fruity notes that implore the drinker to go back for more
www.sharpsbrewery.sathosting.net
Heligan Honey Ale is a light refreshing bitter, pale amber in colour with distinct hoppy overtones and the subtle addition of real Cornish honey. Bottled. Pale brown colour, a bit hazy. Huge beige frothy head. Honey, hops and malt in the aroma. Also some citric hints. Sweet citric flavour with honey peak in finish. A bit bitter aftertaste. Very refreshing beer.
I bumped into an old doctor mate of mine, Frank, in the pub, and he told me that Col and Joy had sold their cottage and moved into Penzance. Lucky I didn’t shin up to what I thought was still their bedroom then, or some one would have got a shock. He also told me Joy was heavily pregnant, so congrats to them two then, or possibly congrats to them three then.
I also got to share a beer and a chat with a group of mates from the villages, which was just like coming home for me. So after a good feed, and a beer or three, we wended our way home and watched one of those bloody awful “50 Greatest Comedy Sketches,” programs, and burped and farted the night away.
Monday:
We drove into Penzance, stopping at one of my favourite pasty shops, in Newlyn Coombe, to buy Bethy a pasty, (lamb and mint,) for breakfast. We called in to see our friends Kelvin and Claire, who run a book shop there. We did all the catching up things, and agreed to meet up on Friday at the Old Success to re-live our glory days as the pub quiz champions.
We bimbled around Penzance looking for my friend Sara’s surfy shop but couldn’t find it. (We late found out she’d moved to an unit out of town, thanks for letting us know Sara!)
So we bought more pastys, (cheese and broccoli & cheese and mushroom,) to fuel us up for the day, and drove down to Marazion to St. Michaels Mount.
http://www.castlexplorer.co.uk/england/st-michaels-mount/smm_photos.php#main
It wasn’t too cold when we set off so we didn’t take our coats. We caught the ferry out to the Island, it was very smooth on the way out. After a few cups of tea, and watching a bloody awful visitors video, well worth a miss if you get the chance, we strolled around the castle. It’s bloody lovely, well preserved and full of weird and wonderful features. I went wild with the camera, and we stopped on the highest battlement to take in the views of Penzance, Newlyn, Mousehole and Marazion.
What we also took in the views of were the bloody huge black clouds heading our way.
Ah well, with a coffee to fortify us we took the now sea-sick inducing ferry back, and legged it like buggery through the rain back to the car.
By the time we drove back to Sennen it was sunny again. LeeAnne and Bethy having done enough walking for the day, I decided to take myself off to Sennen cliffs, to take more photographs, and to see my old climbing haunt.
I scrambled down the cliffs to get some sea level shots. On the way down I overtook a couple who were decked out in ropes and all the equipment needed for a climb.
I took a load of shots, and then walked over to where the couple were setting up to do a route. We chatted about the climbs there, discussed the classic lines of the cliff, and just shared a few minutes chat as strangers drawn together by a common interest do. The sun was getting low in the sky by now, the rocks glowing orange in the light. So he set off up the first pitch. After a very short while he shouted down that he was on belay.
Her to me:
“What do I do now?”
“Don’t you know?”
“Well he did tell me but this is only my second day’s climbing, so I’m not sure.”
“Ok, take him off the belay plate, tie yourself onto the ends of the rope, and when your ready shout up, and he’ll take you up.”
“How do I tie on?”
This was brewing up to be fun!
So I tied her on, and shouted up that she was ready, he shouted ok, and started taking in.
“What do I do with the metal bits he’s put in the rock?”
“Just take them out, and take them up with you.”
So she got up about twelve foot or so, and then got stuck due to her leaving the gear dangling from the rope. So I shouted up to her to take it off and clip it to her harness. She looked a bit irritated at me for this, but did it and moved up.
At about twenty foot up she got her foot stuck in a crack, and couldn’t move it. He couldn’t see her, and I couldn’t see him, so we had a three-way shouting match. In the end I got fed up and soloed up the cliff. I gave her foot a good tug, which nearly ended up with hanging off her leg, and the pair of us hanging in space.
As I was already a quarter of the way up the bloody cliff I decided to solo an easy route to the right of where they were climbing, so I could take pictures of any more adventures they had, and take the piss under my breath. Half way up I took a photo looking down at my boot, to record the climb for posterity.
I got to the top just before he did, and got his e-mail addy off him to send him the photos. I didn’t hang around for her to get up as I’m sure she wasn’t going to be keen to get the snaps, and I didn’t want to be late for breakfast.
As it was I was late back for tea.
Tuesday:
Off to Padstow, the place I proposed to LeeAnne, for some romantic memories. Ok, so I got us spectacularly lost on the way there, as I’m sure LeeAnne would want you to know.
The plan was to go for a healthy cycle ride up the Camel trail, then eat at Rick Steins Seafood Restaurant, followed by taking some photos on the quay where I proposed.
Very fortunately we called in to the restaurant first, and got one of the last tables available for the lunchtime sitting. Then it started raining lightly. As we had our lunch sitting in an hour, and none of us fancied cycling in the rain, we abandoned the idea of cycling the Camel Trail.
We had a wonderful lunch at the restaurant, it really is the most fantastic food ever there, if a tadge on the expensive side.
http://www.rickstein.com/restaurants_theseafoodrestaurant.htm
Each course was bloody wonderful, even the sodding bottle beer I had was perfect. It makes me wonder, how can people cook such bloody good food, I mean do they put drugs in it or something? I had a starter and a main, the girls had a main and desert. I had the vegetarian vindaloo. How the hell can they make a curry that had my tastebuds reeling in shock, but still able to taste each individual vegetable? Voodoo I reckon. The couple on the table next to us ordered crab. I don’t know where they get their crabs from, but from the size of the bugger they got I’d say Sellafield would be a good bet.
The girls let me try their deserts, the passionfruit Brule was so good I almost cried.
We took a stroll down to the quay following lunch, a wobble down to the quay would be more accurate. We took some shots of the place where I asked the big question, and flubbered about a bit.
So seeing as it was raining, and we were full of grub, we thought about rehashing our plan to go for a couple of hours of uphill cycling, for a few seconds, but dismissed the idea as dumb, and chose to do something more sensible.
We went for a speedboat trip around the estuary.
It was a great hoot, if a bit cold and very wet.
After we got ashore Bethy wanted an ice-cream, as she wanted to do a cross cultural study of the relative merits of Devon and Cornwall’s clotted cream ice-creams. So we hit a cafe, and while LeeAnne and I defrosted ourselves over the best coffee’s we were to have in the UK, Bethy ate ice-cream.
We bought some pastys for tea, (cheese and leek) from Rick Stein’s delicatessen. He really does have the town in his pocket that lad, several restaurants, a chippy, a seafood school, the delicatessen, a nick-knack shop, hotels, B&B’s etc. Some of the locals are now calling it “Padstein”.
After a slow and sleepy drive back to Sennen, we had the pastys for tea, and I strolled down the cove to get some pictures of the lifeboat coming back in from an exercise.
LeeAnne wanted to bliss out in front of the idiot box that night, so me and Bethy went for a beer down the pub. It was nice for the two of us to chat over the holiday so far, and to think about the coming events.
After an hour we got back home and kicked back with LeeAnne.
Then Bethy said; “something just ran across the floor over there.”
“Yes dear..”
But then to my amusement, a mouse not only ran into the centre of the room, but proceeded to do a little dance on its hind legs for us. I was weak with laughter, which got even louder when I saw LeeAnne was now stood on the sofa clutching at her cardi, like someone out of a fifties sit-com.
Of course LeeAnne is used to one mouse being followed by several thousand mice, as happens here when they breed like buggery after a drought breaks.
The mouse became a regular feature and a cause of great amusement. It must have been a domestic one that had escaped, as it had a bright white chest. Cute little bugger he was.
Wednesday:
We took a stroll around to Lands End in the morning, the wonderful cliff scenery spoiled only by the bloody awful complex that is Lands End.
http://www.landsend-landmark.co.uk/
We stooped off at Maen Castle, a bronze age hill fort, and Bethy and I debated how the fort would have been best defended. I won.
At the horrible sprawl that is Lands End Bethy had an ice-cream, and a million goes on a cable slide, while we waited for the Last Labyrinth to start. This is a very pricey, “audio visual experience”, or some such tripe. Unfortunately its very good. It tells the tales of lands End, the shipwrecks, the storms, the myths, the legends, the tales of dastardly deeds and daring do, all using a mixture of holograms, movie, video, marionettes, sound effects and smoke, water, and dry ice, and is a truly magnificent experience. I love it, I just wish it was somewhere else.
So we trekked on after that, past Ynys Dodnan, past “The Armed Knight”, past Pordenack point. All these are on the coast path, that within two minutes of leaving Lands End, brings you into beautiful countryside, and away from the ugly hordes of day trippers at there. This is a fact, someone did a survey on it, 97% of visitors to the Lands End complex do not set foot outside its environs. This despite it having some of the most spectacular and beautiful coastal scenery in the UK within half a mile of it. Twats.
We followed the path around to the beautiful Najizal bay, where we saw a seal playing in the surf, then headed uphill and inland back towards Sennen.
The path passes the back of my house, so I had a look around, it’s still standing, so the lodgers must be looking after it. It was funny standing in the shared courtyard of the four houses, one of which I had lived for ten years, and still owned, and to not be a part of it anymore. Strange and sad.
We passed through the farm the house is on, and LeeAnne got to look in awe at the depth, richness and quality of the soil thereabouts. Having lived in Oz, where the soil is a thin scrape on the clay, I now know why she found it so amazing.
That night we went down to Howard and Janet’s for a meal, taking the traditional tribute of a couple of bottles of plonk with us. We had a great meal, bloody top grub, and Howard again amazed us with how bonkers he is. We shared tales and caught up and just had a wonderful evening. Janet, who’s a bit of an amateur archaeologist, got out her trays of finds, mostly bronze age arrow and axe heads, skin scrapers and other basic implements with a few curiosities. One of her best finds was a holed stone that had been worn as a tribal decoration, it had been verified as genuine by the Cornwall archaeological trust. Bethy was overwhelmed when Janet said she could keep it! We made halfhearted protestations, and vowed to keep it safe and secure. What a wonderful gesture by her.
Late in the evening we staggered off, having promised to meet them for a trip out the next day. Getting down cove hill, by the dimly lit back path was an adventure in itself, made even more exciting by a gale blowing up.
LeeAnne and Bethy crashed out when we got back. I stayed up very late, part watching “Die-Hard II” on the box, part listening to the storm and the sea outside the window, and wholly consumed with watching the bloody mouse, which came out and danced at irregular intervals.
Thursday:
The next morning was cold but dry, and after the now traditional twenty or more visits to the shop, we drove off to the Minack Theatre.
For those of you who don’t know it, the Minack is a theatre carved into the cliffs of Penwith. It’s all the work of one woman, Rowena Cade. Bloody awe inspiring place, I’d love to play there. In fact we did play there, to an audience of ourselves and one old man. Fun, but not quite the staring role I have in mind.
We then drove to the “Merry Maidens’ stone circle. These, so legend would have it, are a group of young ladies who were turned to stone for dancing on a Sunday, that’ll teach them then. There’s also two large menhirs nearby, who are supposed to represent the pipers who played the tune.
http://www.stonepages.com/england/merrymaidens.html
I tried getting some decent snaps of the stones, but a couple of mad hippies were determined to get into every shot I took, and when they pissed off, it hailed on us.
This reminded me of the time I took my old dog, Jake, for a walk around the stones. When we got there a couple of hippies were dancing around the stones naked. Jake, being a dog, decided to piss on the stones. Unfortunately for the hippies, the first stone he pissed on had their clothes next to it. They got sodden. I couldn’t stop laughing at the look on their faces when they watched him do it. I did apologise, out of curtesy. When the dog that just pissed on your clothes weighs more than you do (Jake weighed in at over ten stone / 65 kilos / 140 pounds, all muscle) your chances of getting an apology out of its owner relies heavily on the owner’s good nature.
We picked up Howard and Janet, and headed up to see the “Men an Tol” holed stone, which is supposed to cure rickets, if you pass through it three times widdershins. (Look it up yourself.)
http://www.bath.ac.uk/~prsrlp/kernunos/england/menantol.htm
So we passed Bethy through it, and pointed at things and moved on to see the “Men Scryfa”. (Find your own bloody link!)
Next on this tour of antiquities, we visited Zennor Church, to see the famous “mermaid” pew carving. The church itself is lovely too.
http://www.pznow.co.uk/locplace1/zennor.html
Just by the by here, I’m writing a symphony at the moment, (you can stop laughing now, thank you), and basing it around the legends of Lands End. It features some of these places mentioned, or relates to them. It should be finished in about four to six months, I’ll keep you posted. I’m sure you cannot wait to buy a copy.
Then we dropped into St Ives for pastys. (Curried parsnip, unusual but very good.)
We looked around the sights, visited our favourite galleries, St. Ives is an artists enclave, and generally behaved like the tourists we now were. Howard insisted I took a photo of an old cinema there, as it was of unique heritage value. It looked like a shoddy old shit hole to me, but Howard is Howard after all.
We treated Howard and Janet to dinner at the Old Success as a thank you for all they had done for us. I had the legendary “cheesy chips,” but both Bethy and LeeAnne had the “Thai Vegetarian Curry” which was becoming the dish of the week despite Rick Stein’s best efforts.
I caught up with my old mate, and favourite barman, Andrew, (who is now a dad, congrats to him and Helen.) LeeAnne and Bethy retired to the flat, and I drank on with Janet, Howard, Andrew, and some strange bloke and his “bought-in” Russian wife, who spent the whole evening angling for an invite to Oz for herself.
Friday:
Our last day in Sennen, yikes!!
I went to the shop, it was becoming embarrassing by now, and found they had some CD’s on sale there. I saw a couple of “Celtic” ones there and chose the ones that looked interesting. They turned out to be not that interesting, but I’m a sucker for stuff like that.
We took a drive into Penzance, and I went and did some dealings on my mortgage. We bought some pastys, (cheese and mushroom,) from Lavenders a local deli, but they turned out to be too salty, yukky!
On the way back, I remembered a place I hadn’t taken LeeAnne to on her visits, very remiss of me. So charging down narrow country lanes, the hire car touching both hedges at some points, we drove to Carn Euny.
http://www.themodernantiquarian.com/site/231/Carn+Euny+Fogou+&+Village
This is an iron age “fogou” and medieval village, or at least what’s left of them. The fogou is very well preserved, the whole site has a wonderful air of mystery and history and other things ending in “ry” about it. LeeAnne was enraptured by the whole place, I half expected a belting for not bringing her there before. Bethy explored and we took many, many, photos, and I could have happily stayed all day.
But time was pressing, so we drove back to “Riviera”, so that LeeAnne could pack our ever-expanding suitcases, and I could watch and offer advice.
We ate at the pub again, as there is a village tradition on Fridays of eating at the pub, then getting very drunk while participating in the pub quiz run by Andrew. The grub was wonderful again, I ran the list of the “extra’s” menu rather than the set meal, and ended up with piles of food, more than was warranted by my hunger, but none of which went to waste. Us three, Kelvin, Claire and my old mate Paul made up our team, and we battled out against our old rivals. We won one round, which got us a round of drinks from the cash prize, so we were happy. The night got more and more boisterous and culminated with Bethy accidentally knocking over the coat stand onto an old friend, Tracy’s, head, which came up with an egg. We then spent a great deal of effort consoling a distraught Bethy, and ignoring poor old Tracy…
The coat stand is always falling on people, or them onto it. One Friday after getting rather ‘worse for wear”, I fell into it and came out wearing three different coats.
Say farewell to everybody, promising to come back in the not too distant future, getting all emotional and stuff we left for home for our last night in Cornwall.
Saturday:
We cleaned up the flat which had been our home for the last week, and I left a little treat under the sofa for the mouse.
We called in on our mates Rob and Linda, who had been to knackered to make the quiz the night before. We had a cuppa and a chat with them, caught up on their family news. After the inevitable photo’s and promises, we drove off to Penzance to buy more pastys for the trip. (Cheese and veg, cheese and broccoli, and something called a “vege roll,” a sort of vege sausage roll, quite nice too.)
We called in to see Kelv and Claire at the book shop. Ben, their lad was upstairs sprawled on the sofa, sprawled as only a teenage boy can sprawl.
Me: “Hi Ben, haven’t seen you for three years. Wow! Have you grown or what? Hows life?”
Him: “Uggh.”
So I left it at that.
We had a couple more stops to make before we left Cornwall proper, the first Tintagel!!
http://www.time-scapes.co.uk/Arthur%20in%20the%20Southwest/tintagel.html
Tintagel has a beautiful ruined castle on an Island which is linked to the shore by a narrow causeway. It’s an awe inspiring position, and if the castle isn’t exactly well preserved, it’s more than compensated by the whole Island having a wild and windswept majesty about it. And it certainly was windswept today, there was bloody gale blowing. Unfortunately for Tintagel, a some idiot started romanticising it and linking it to Arthururian legend, and so now the whole village is nothing but tat shops, (more on this later.)
We first had a look around the “Old Post Office” which is incredibly old, being housed in a 14 th century house. It’s lovely inside, all preserved and decked out with period fittings, the garden at the rear is a quintessential English garden. Having said all that you wouldn’t want to live there, as it must be a bugger to heat in the winter.
We then took the long walk down the hill to the causeway. Some enterprising person had set up a taxi service, using a long-wheelbase Land Rover, taking those too old, weary, or lazy to walk, up and down the hill. We walked as we’re not any of those things, or at least we’re too mean to pay the quid each way he was asking.
So we paid the entrance fee for the castle, and bought the guide, and went and got all fascinated by the place all over again It’s so easy to fall in love with the place, it could turn you hippy if you weren’t careful. Bethy was fascinated, she absorbed the history, and climbed the cliffs, and posed for photos in the ruins. Her dad’s into medieval recreation, so she’s got a good grounding in things medieval, and a strong love of them too. (We spent ages investigating every book shop in every place we visited for a book on armour for her dad, found bugger all though.)
We took some photos of us on the cliffs; Bethy does a mean impression of the man on the “Dangerous Cliff Edge” warning signs. (Is there any better incentive for going to have a look at a cliff edge than putting up a “Dangerous Cliff Edge” warning sign?)
After being dragged away kicking and screaming from the castle, we took a stroll along the beach to “Merlin’s cave.” Long, dark and spooky, with the beach at one end, and the sea entering unseen at the other end, which was somewhere far away in the dark, we had great fun there. A pigeon or dove kept flying in and out of the cave while we were exploring, and I spent bloody forever trying to catch a photo of it.
Then we strolled back up the hill, disdainful of those that were driven up, and spent more time goggling at the sheer awfulness of the tat that was being sold there. However, a saving grace for the shops there was the ice-cream shop, which Bethy pronounced as having the best ice-cream ever.
The sheer bloody awful exploitation of King Arthur’s legend reached its ultimate when we saw that the “King Arthur’s Arms” pub was selling, and I kid you not, “Excalliburgers!” This was more than our Celtic souls could stand, so we pissed off to Boscastle.
Boscastle, which I’d taken LeeAnne to on her first visit to the UK, is, or rather was, one of the prettiest of the many fishing villages along this part of the coast. Unfortunately last year a flood swept through the village devastating it.
http://news.bbc.co.uk/1/hi/england/cornwall/3570940.stm
Opinion is divided as to where the cause of the flood was god being pissed off with the village for having a museum of witchcraft, god being pissed off with the village for having a female vicar, or just too much rain. My money’s on the latter.
Anyway, even though the flood was last August, the effects are very visible, and the devastation immense, such a shame.
However, we were glad to see that the Museum of Witchcraft had reopened its doors for business, and so we went in.
http://www.museumofwitchcraft.com/about_mow.php
It’s a fascinating place, very feminist and also, as you can imagine, very pro the old religion and witches. The spooky thing for me was how well LeeAnne and Bethy seemed to absorb themselves into the arcane, the knowledge and the feel of the place.
Anyway, we had to leave eventually as it was off to Devon for us, first stop the Harnesses!! (Dog howls in the distance, clouds cover the moon…)
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