The forecast was wonderful and yet … once on the road … oh the wind and the rain. Aye aye aye.
So, after lunch, we just kept going, chasing the fleeting gleams of sun and blue sky.
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.
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.
And then, when the sun did finally come out … OMG … the light was beautiful.
So tempting. Last night … long after sunset. Spinning … dizzying … promising a cleansing dip into the whirlpool.
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.
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.
Spent the afternoon clambering around the post-apocalyptic scifi, giants’ legoland desolation of the St Just Mining District (a World Heritage Site).
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.
And thankfully there have been no attempts to prettify or sanitise anything.
It is hard and raw and grim and still wild and beautiful …
until it all disappeared into the gloaming and the fog.
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.
And perfect in the spring with rhododendrons, camellias and magnolias, daffs and crocus, views softened by the haze …
But there’s no getting away from the devil’s spawn who built this bastion of privilege …