June – July in Cornwall and procrastination

I’ve been quite busy with a longstanding work project lately, hence the lack of posts for a while. The other reason for the hiatus has been procrastination: I finished Anthony Trollope’s Phineas Finn a couple of weeks ago, but haven’t summoned the energy to post about it yet.

Meanwhile I’ve almost finished Elizabeth Bowen’s novel Eva Trout. I chose it as a contrast with the Trollope, but it turned out to be something I’ve not enjoyed much, so I’m not sure I have a post in me about that one, either. Maybe next week I’ll feel more energetic or inspired.

So today some updates on recent walks. Now that the UK lockdown has been relaxed a little we’ve continued, Mrs TD and I, to take walks a short drive away (but the local ones have continued too).

Poppies at PentireLast week the sun shone for two whole days in a row – this hasn’t happened much since May. We took advantage of an afternoon at one of our favourite beaches: Polly Joke. The poppies on the headland above are just coming out; soon the fields there will be a blaze of scarlet and gold (the meadow marigolds). It’s a spiritually uplifting sight.

The surf in this north coast cove was fairly wild after the unsettled weather earlier in the week – and month. It wasn’t exactly a glorious June for weather. The water was very cold.

Surf

 

 

 

 

 

 

Spaniel swimming

Spaniel about to emerge after his marathon swim

Yesterday we went to the Roseland peninsula on the south coast. There the sea is always more sedate – not so good for surfing. Also not quite so cold. After a cloudy start, the day turned beautifully sunny about four o’clock. We sat and had a picnic lunch on Porthcurnick beach (near the famous Hidden Hut café). A young man in a wetsuit walked into the water near us followed by his black-and-white spaniel. We thought the dog would turn round and swim back once the guy had swum so far, but he didn’t. We watched in amazement as the pair swam further and further. Right across the bay – and back. A distance of about a mile each way. The owner told us they do this a few times a week. The dog loves it, he said, but not when he was a pup.

PortscathoWe walked back along the coastal path to the nearby village of Portscatho. By this time the cloud was starting to disperse and the water was crystal clear.

We drove on to Carne beach. Like Porthcurnick, it was almost deserted. Two children played in the shallows, watched by their grandmother and parents. No doubt this will all change after Saturday, which our media insists on calling Super Saturday. Hospital EDs are bracing themselves for carnage similar to what they experience usually on New Year’s Eve, as the pubs officially reopen that day. Our doughty prime minister has helped to calm the situation by exhorting us all to go out and enjoy ourselves. Hibernation is over, he crowed. Yaroo.

We no longer need to keep two metres apart: the virus is beaten, defeated. Even though we still have over a thousand new cases a day. The ring of steel around our care homes has done the trick – maybe the virus is just running out of people to infect in them. Pubs and restaurants are safe to open, but not schools, yet. Makes sense, in the minds of our PM, and his Rasputin chief aide, the rule-breaker.

I won’t indulge in another rant. Here’s a picture of Carne instead.

Carne

 

 

Cornish ramblings again: Portloe, Portholland, Caerhays

My latest posts have resulted from my end-of-holiday travels in this beautiful county of Cornwall as I strive to make the most of my fortunate location before work resumes soon.

Portloe clifftop

Portloe clifftop

On Sunday we went to the Roseland Peninsula, named according to one source after the Cornish for ‘heath’. Its bulk mirrors the landmass around Falmouth, across the Carrick Roads/Fal River estuary that forms its western boundary. Most of Cornwall’s coastline forms part of an AONB, of which the Roseland Heritage Coast forms part.

I recently wrote about my excitement at seeing a chough at Cape Cornwall; I didn’t see any on this trip, but there is apparently a pair that has successfully hatched three chicks in the area this year – the first time since the 1820s: link to the story HERE and for the RSPB Cornish Choughs project and further info see HERE.

PortloeWe started at Portloe, a tiny cove with pretty cottages clustered round its small natural harbour and clinging to the steep valley slopes around. Its name comes from the Cornish for cove pool: ‘porth logh’ (presumably Scots ‘loch’ is their Celtic equivalent). From the 17C it was a busy fishing port, but like most of the Cornish fishing industry (and mining, as I’ve written often before) it declined sharply in the 19C and early 20C. Now just a handful of small working boats survive.Portloe

Overlooking the slipway is the Lugger, a fashionable hotel/restaurant; the Ship is a more homely, less hip pub a few yards up the hill. Smugglers would have landed their contraband in tiny inlets like this, and the Lugger is said to have played its part in the past.

In fact the whole Cornish coastal path, which winds its way all round

Portloe

Looking east towards Dodman from above Portloe

the county peninsula, was originally made by the coastguards and revenue men who tried to intercept the smugglers. It’s a struggle much romanticised in fictional and film accounts; in reality it reflects the hardship endured by many of the people who lived (and still live) in this impoverished rural area, striking a harsh contrast with the privileged minority who owned and managed the mines and harbours.

Watchouse

View from the watchhouse on the coastal path above Portholland

The light in my pictures shows

Portholland

Looking west above Portholland: light changing

typical Cornish summer conditions. Dark, rain-threatening clouds blow rapidly over, pierced at times by bright, hot sunshine. It’s like several seasons passing in just a few minutes. Two miles away it can be raining while we bask under glorious blue skies.

Portholland

Lime kilns at Portholland

On to Portholland, with its tiny cluster of buildings, remnants mostly of lime kiln workings. Typical Cornish granite crags and cliffs loom around the tiny cove.

A few miles on we stopped at Porthluney beach, below the grey ramparts of Caerhays Castle. This curious building sits within a huge estate which passed to the Trevanion family in 1380. The gardens, which cover some 140 acres, were developed by the Williams family since the Victorian period, and are famous for their collections of magnolias, camellias, rhododendrons and daffodils.

The estate’s owners have long been associated with mining (and also smelting and banking); the castle displays the remains of what was once a much larger collection of minerals, collected over the generations from their local mining interests in places like nearby Gwennap, from their overseas mining interests, and from other collectors.

Caerhays Castle

Caerhays Castle

I don’t suppose the men and women who spent their working lives toiling above and below the ground – the hard rock Cornish miners I’ve written about recently – were much concerned with collecting samples of the rocks for the extraction of which they risked their lives and limbs. If they did they would doubtless have been arrested for theft.

With a new series about to air on the BBC based on Winston Graham’s Poldark novels, we’ll soon be invited to marvel at Cornwall’s breathtaking scenery and reinvented heritage.  It’s worth remembering that there’s far more to Cornwall in reality than the chocolate-box charm and the picturesqueness represented on GWR advertising posters and soft-focus historical fiction (‘The Camomile Lawn’ was filmed partly at Portloe). From the hills above Caerhays one can see the spoil heaps of the clay area of Hensbarrow Downs around St Austell, a landscape so scarred by the industry that sci-fi film crews (like those who made Dr Who) have used it for alien world locations.

Just inland from the nearest city, Truro, lies the Mining Heritage Trail, about which I’ll write soon. Crumbling engine houses and ruined industrial buildings dot these landscapes, a visual reminder of the long-gone industries on which the Cornish people once depended. The landscape itself there is pitted and scored, discoloured and ravaged by centuries of mine working.

Webster could see ‘the skull beneath the skin’. Cornwall’s metaphorical skull isn’t even concealed beneath the land: it protrudes everywhere – in the granite outcrops and the hollow engine houses, the thronged beaches and the congested summer arterial roads. It contains Du Maurier’s romanticised Jamaica Inn (and the garish tourist site that has become) and the man engine disaster at the Levant Mine in 1919 when 31 men were killed.

These post-industrial sites (more on them next time) are in many ways more authentically Cornish than the honeypot locations beloved of TV crews and audiences.

And then there are the choughs.