Horrible Humans

click to enlarge

Humans are uniquely crap — unique in the natural world — we alone deplete our habitats to the point of our own destruction … errr … or not.

gull rocks
click to enlarge

This week’s high point was Penhale Point looking at the uniquely-named Gull Rocks … errr … or not. I have noticed a certain lack of imagin­ation or perhaps just a plain liter­alness in Cornish nomen­clature.

antenna 1
click to enlarge

One of the many beautiful engin­eering install­a­tions in and around the army camp.

click to enlarge

Purposeful, beautiful and Brutalist. Bond villain lair cum power station. I could live there.

antenna 2
click to enlarge

Looking back, North East, to Trevose Head.

click to enlarge

The wild thyme was covered in hundreds of gorgeous cinnabar moths … which are not as easy to catch on camera as you might think.
Their stunning yellow and black hooped cater­pillars infest ragwort — I remember them from childhood summers in Wales — and infest is the word — to such an extent that few survive to adulthood as they rapidly exhaust their food supply and resort to canni­balism. Charming.
How quaintly human of them.
So we’re not unique after all? I’m shocked. We’re as natural as cancer.

Trebarwith Strand

The forecast was wonderful and yet … once on the road … oh the wind and the rain. Aye aye aye.

click to enlarge

So, after lunch, we just kept going, chasing the fleeting gleams of sun and blue sky.

gull rock
click to enlarge

The lovely day eluded for an age and miles and miles … but we were exploring by now … there’s something almost maniacally addictive about un-mapped cruising, choosing the smallest road, the steepest hill, the darkest vale … the un-signed fork in the road. And so we “discovered” Trebarwith Strand and Gull Rock. Another hidden gem … honestly. Well, it was new to us … and early in the season — wonder­fully quiet.

click to enlarge

The great thing about Cornwall is that you can never really get lost. You can get quite anxious, feel as though you’re in the middle of nowhere and then you see the sea. Facing North; turn left — south; turn right … sorted. There’s only a couple of places you really wouldn’t want to run out of fuel. I would never say where. But … they WILL eat you. Seriously.

We declined even to dip our toes in the water and, as the tide was high and rising, we scaled and clambered around the shattered rocks and cliffs.

click to enlarge

And then, when the sun did finally come out … OMG … the light was beautiful.

sun and sea
click to enlarge

And so … from the Top

click to enlarge

So tempting. Last night … long after sunset. Spinning … dizzying … promising a cleansing dip into the whirlpool.

click to enlarge

First day back on shift — man cold has wiped me out for nine days — sheesh.
And a short walk is as much exercise as I can handle.
Wandering along forgotten paths … spring already lush even without rain.

click to enlarge

Sorry, couldn’t resist …

What do you do?

click to enlarge

Cape Cornwall and the Brisons towards the end of a beautiful day — appar­ently “Britain” is going to get this weather tomorrow, whatever.

But, as N says: did people hear that WWII had been declared … and then just carry on frying onions for dinner? I suppose. Everyone just got to, try to, live. Fuck. I dunno. Take peace where you can find it, hold the line and keep the torch burning and all that shit, and fight a bit, where you can, and then go for a fucking walk, and make some food and think and feel and … you still got to go to work in the morning shit … take it where you can and don’t forget how lucky you are, I suppose. And don’t forget. And live.


click to enlarge

And this week’s high point is Willapark Lookout Station above the entrance to Boscastle Harbour, looking WSW back towards home.

When they’re not here you can see why the tourists come.

click to enlarge

Looking the other way, NNE, over Penally Point and the harbour entrance, across the bay to GCHQ Bude between Coombe and Morewenstow.



Up country and down the Roseland peninsula to the other, the posh soft, St Just for lunch in the sub-tropical church yard and then a tranquil, soothing wander round to Messack Point and back.

Origami unfolding.

click to enlarge

Dragons tiptoeing into the stream.

dragon paddle
click to enlarge

Penny pies in a shambling Cornish hedge.

hedge pies
click to enlarge

What you lookin’ at? Come on then … think yerr ‘ard enough? A sort of Waitrose Rack of Lamb farm full of beauti­fully cared-for sheep, all with shaved arses like a maternity ward.

mother and child
click to enlarge

And finally to Messack Point itself looking across the Carrick Roads to Falmouth harbour.

fal trees
click to enlarge

With its own spontaneous, emergent art install­ation.

click to enlarge
click to enlarge
click to enlarge

And then back through the woods along the Fal.

click to enlarge

And a spectac­u­larly crippled oak, broken-backed but still immensely powerful … posit­ively majestic.

broke back oak
click to enlarge

The weather was sublime and I totally failed to catch the little pod of dolphins we saw, porpoising upstream on camera … bugger … ho hum.

The Desolation of Capital

click to enlarge

Spent the afternoon clambering around the post-apoca­lyptic scifi, giants’ legoland desol­ation of the St Just Mining District (a World Heritage Site).

click to enlarge

Must have been hell on earth as men delved far out under the sea, digging for tin, copper or whatever was profitable this week, and men women and children processed the stuff up on the cliffs above, smashing rocks and scraping arsenic with their bare hands … at the edge of the world … spending their lives making money for scum.

click to enlarge

And thank­fully there have been no attempts to prettify or sanitise anything.

click to enlarge

It is hard and raw and grim and still wild and beautiful …

until it all disap­peared into the gloaming and the fog.

Bodmin’s House of Pain

house of pain
click to enlarge

Lanhydrock … hmmm … carceral monstrosity that it is.

National Trust Central for Cornwall … Busy with people (heaving in the season) entranced, seduced and deluded by the Downton Abbey life of the previous owners … let’s be honest: the weird, sickly, devout and yet totally bent Agar-Robartes. Creepy bunch of fuckers.

The Jacobean home of the Earls of Radnor, acquired in the dissol­ution, was razed by righteous fire in 1881 and rebuilt as an insane asylum for their feeble bug-eyed children.

But, if you avoid the grim house they built, the gardens and estate the NT have created are actually quite beautiful … and quite free just at the moment, if you sneak around the proscribed routes — pay and display soon to demonise, crimin­alise and fuck up that particular bit of sharing with the community.

click to enlarge

And perfect in the spring with rhodo­den­drons, camellias and magnolias, daffs and crocus, views softened by the haze …

click to enlarge

But there’s no getting away from the devil’s spawn who built this bastion of privilege …

click to enlarge

A lovely wander in fact … ho hum.