It's been three years since I left the shire for more than a day and the journey, or the descent into Cornwall was full of joy and some sadness as familiar roads reminded me of past holidays, places we might stop, views we all marvelled at. In particular, I felt the absence of our dog, our brown lab Morti who died at the start of the Covid pandemic. All that long journey it was as if he was with me, dogs came up to me tails wagging and I could sense his nose pressed to the car window as the air changed from chalk dusted seed filled Wiltshire through Dorset - old fossils, heathland and London Clay through to Devon - the greensand of the Blackdowns, heathy grassland and shale, a tang of iron from the red oxidising sandstone, to the greying granite of Dartmoor where the air has settled from the collision of tectonic plates leaving an acidic taste on the palate. We holidayed in South Devon nearly every year and these smells and traces on the tongue resonate the most, along with the sense of lush greens and folding in of hill and valley from the more open plains and valleys of Wiltshire. The rich geological patchwork is largely untouched by the ice age scouring of the spiny ribs of Wiltshire and Dorset. We are unhurriedly heading towards the Tamar having decided to dip into Plymouth where copper and arsenic were once shipped from the Devon mines and now, this ocean city sings of Navy, culture, and a wealth that papers over poverty, aspiring to create a grand gateway to Cornwall.
And so we cross the Tamar duly heading towards Bodmin and the swept, granite moors of Jamaica Inn before dipping down to St Austell in search of sea glimpses and that wet, loamy fern-filled, tree-arching comfort of cornish coast roads. We weave between coast and sub-coast before diving down the zig-zagged roads to Mevagissy (Lannvorek) an ancient fishing harbour, where the houses and cottages cling to the hills like limpets and the fifteenth-century Fountain Inn snuggles under the cliff, and a maze of streets wind around the harbour guarded by a small lighthouse. A boat trip from here might afford you a glimpse of dolphin. We ate at the street food van beside the harbour, salt and pepper squid with frites - freshly cooked and delicious. Then having been on-track in terms of our planned three hours to Cornwall - typically, our schedule fell apart as Cornish time and tides crept like a sea-mist upon us and having chatted with the man in the Yarn shop (aptly named) mourned the retirement of the Potter over the road whose lovely mugs and pots and plates seemed to sadly display themselves in the shop window we then meandered to the Lost Gardens of Heligan to subject our calves and feet to the constant delight of beautifully rescued vistas of planting, landscapes, woodlands and jungle! It was too much for one visit and the Burma Rope bridge finished off my travel-weary feet, so it was time to go. My senses overloaded with scents floral and more exotic we headed out through the shop (as is the way of all things) via the Farm shop and set our course for Falmouth.
I am an adventurer and the eldest is an excellent navigator, so it was only a short while before we found ourselves 'off the main track' again in search of those uplifting sea-vistas and weaving along single-track lanes, submerged in sunken clay and stone, tumbled barns and leafy ferns creating magical secret ways to hidden kingdoms. I have learnt from my Devonian adventures that there is no shame in reversing, don't moan, don't panic - if you meet another car (or tractor), reverse to the nearest passing place. Hence, as I drove and marveled at the old roads, the valleys and old farms, my inner monkey frequently cried "passing place!' as we circumnavigated a small stretch of coast passing Gorran, Caerhayes and Veryan before heading through Tregony and onwards to Truro, the southernmost City. Cornwall's only City. A glossy, traffic-congested centre of commerce and leisure where two rivers merge into one.Truro always seems like a sausage mixer, you are squeezed through it and emerge the other side, forever changed. Our progression to Falmouth and then Maenporth was mercifully direct and straightforward. The sandy beach at Maenporth after a typically wide-then-narrow-wide-then-sharp-bend-narrow-then-narrower was a welcome sight, and my Sea Fever instantly becalmed by the gentle rolling surf and the open aspect of this once important harbour turned hang-out beach. After locating Wave Watchers (our apartment on the rising hill, leading out of Maenporth towards Glendurgan) we finally stopped, and settled in for the night, the waves lulling our travel-weary selves into a state of expectant sleep, where pirates marauded and miners mined and fishermen set sail, ever hopeful of a 'good catch'.