Today we were packed and away by 10 (the check out time) and made very good time, stopping a couple of times in motorway services. We actually had an enjoyable breakfast in a Little Chef! We ran into no major traffic problems and were home nice and early.
A very enjoyable holiday, if somewhat restful. We were captivated by Fowey and hope to return some day.
BBC says scuddering clouds and mostly sunny.
I decided that yesterdays walk was way too short so this morning I rose at 6am and was out and up the Saint’s Way by 7. The Saint’s Way is a long distance footpath which stretches from Padstow on the north coast to Fowey in the south. It runs directly outside the house we’re staying at. I wanted to get to Helman Tor, about a four mile walk. Which is why I left at 7am.
The first stretch is up the side of the valley towards the main road. A very sunken lane with a lot of erosion, leaving a deep gully in the middle of the track which makes walking a bit awkward at times. The lane ends in a farm yard full of dairy cows, mud and manure. It’s times like this that I wish my boots didn’t have holes in them.
Pilgrims cross on Saint's Way, Cornwall
The worst stretch was a stroll along the A390. As usual with these things, there is no footpath and you are dodging speeding cars – not very nice at all! It was for about a third of a mile and then it was a turn into an equally busy road. At this junction was the first medieval cross. These crosses are marked on the OS map, generally, and indicate spots where the pilgrims would stop and do whatever pilgrims do. Pray, I guess.
After this road, it was across a field and down a hill, passing the single standing stone of Pelyn Tor and up on up to the small village of Lanlivery. A magnificent tower attached to the church of St Brevita, is visible for miles around (I’d been seeing it whenever we drove down to Fowey) and the church was not a disappointment. Twin aisles, one with a wagon roof, dotted with beautifully carved bosses. Sadly there was no guide.
Apparently, nothing is known of St Brevita. Early histories claim the it is the parish of St Vorck, which is where the name of the village derives: Lan-le-Vrock became Lanlivery and means Holy Place of St Vorck. However, according to Nicholas Orme in his Saints of Cornwall, this is completely wrong and St Brevita was probably a Breton saint who could have been Brivet, Bryvyth, or any number of variations. The Latin name Briueta was recorded as early as 1423. Orme claims this could be a shortened version of the Latin phrase brevis vita, meaning short life. I guess we’ll never know! It’s not often I come across a saint who remains unknown which makes a welcome change from all the St Pauls, St Matthews, St Georges and St Marys!
After Lanlivery, there was a walk of about a mile and a half (passing what appeared to have once been a small chapel but was now employed as a chicken produce shed) until I reached the sunken lane, which leads all the way to Helman Tor.
It was a wonderful path. Both sides were very high – you could hear the cows munching grass just by your head – but every now and then you’d get a brief glimpse of the target. With each glimpse, the granite blocks grew larger, until I was standing in a car park, looking up.
View of Helman Tor from the car park approach
Like most moorland in the south west, the granite blocks atop Helman Tor were formed by the erosion (through weathering) of the hill over the last few million years. The granite originally formed during volcanic activity and is therefore very strong. For this reason it does not weather as fast as the surrounding rocks. So we end up with these hills, crowned by massive blocks of stone, as if some giant has placed them there like so much Lego.
The views were magnificent. 360º of beauty. I had to be back at the apartment by 11 so I could only manage a 15 minute rest on the summit, taking in the views and holding onto my hat – it was very blowy! It was then back down the sunken lane, back past the little chapel, back through Lanlivery.
I had decided, in the depths of my own stupidity, to try for an alternate route for my return. Marked on the map is a small path that passes through Pelyn Wood and comes out opposite the driveway of Castle. I decided to head for this, rather than walk along the A390. FOOL! There is no path through Pelyn Wood! It’s bollocks! Instead, I had to walk along the A390 for a few miles before turning into the B3269 (the narrow, scary road into Fowey) for another quarter of a mile before reaching the relative safety of the small single track down to Castle. It was bloody awful. Never again! Anyway, I walked into the apartment at 10:40, well within my time limit.
We decided to have a final day in Fowey today, seeing as we’ve fallen in love with the place. After a ridiculous excuse for a shower, we were off. We parked up in the cheap, puddle strewn, Caffa Mill car park and walked around to the main town centre.
After a brief visit to a boutique, arty crafty type shop to make sure Mirinda really wanted to buy the cormorant, we headed back to the Quay Hotel for lunch again. It’s really very relaxing sitting back, an arm stretched across the low wall that separates you from the harbour, listening to seagulls screeching, boats putt-putting, eating a leisurely lunch. Genius.
Speaking of the gulls, it’s about time I discussed the wonderful gull guards that dot the outside walls of most of the houses in Fowey. In the South East, we have problems with foxes invading our rubbish and strewing it all over the road and paths. It’s not that we mind them getting a free meal from our scraps but it would be really nice if they’d put the bits back they don’t want, rather than litter. Anyway, putting your rubbish in the big Otto bins helps keep the foxy litter bugs at bay.
In Fowey, they have a similar problem with the big scary seagulls. Some genius came up with the idea of these gull guards. The idea is to put it over the top of your rubbish to keep the pesky birds out. They are easy to attach and detach so the garbos don’t mind them and they store away in these cute little metal cylinders to which they’re tied. Much better having a load of these things on the wall than miles of rubbish along the street.
Gull guard in Fowey
Anyway, back to the hotel…once we’d supped sufficiently, we were back to the cormorant, having it bubble wrapped and carefully packed. I carried it, as delicate as a babe in my arms, back to the car while Mirinda wandered slowly back to the quay. Having deposited the new infant and secured it beneath my raincoat, I hit on the excellent idea of hopping aboard the small harbour taxi back to the main quay. What a brilliant idea. As we pulled into the main quay, I waved frantically at Mirinda who was peering out at Polruan. My feet were very happy. Mirinda was upset that I’d had an extra adventure but it couldn’t be helped.
We booked onto the next harbour tour, making sure it was on a normal boat and not the stinky, smoky one we’d watched from the Quay Hotel terrace. It was gross! I can’t imagine why anyone would want to take a tour of the harbour in this obnoxious craft. It was really very smelly! And that was from the shore. We had a spare half an hour so we popped into the Ship Inn for a pint and a half before boarding the Beef’r tour boat.
Tour boat belching out smoke on the River Fowey
The tour around the harbour was excellent on such a calm and sunny day. For 45 minutes we were motored around, learning all sorts of things about Fowey and the surrounding area. I spotted quite a few boats I’d like to own and Mirinda was checking out the houses.
One of the big things that Fowey is known for is the set off point for China White Clay which is mined from near St Austell. Standing at the main quay and looking out at the boats and greenery does not prepare you for the site a little way down the river where the ships are loaded. The reason it is on the River Fowey is because the river is naturally deep making it possible for ships to come and go without gouging out the bottom of the river. During my walk into Lostwithiel, I spotted what I thought was a disused railway line but, no, it was actually the Mineral Train Line, which brings the clay into the factory on the dock.
There was also a big old tall ship parked in the river. According to the guy driving the tour boat, this has been used in countless films and TV shows. Production companies pay to have it painted different colours and change the sails and flags in order to make it look different. For one particular production it was painted two different colours (one each side) so it could be two different ships in the same program!
Tall ship on the River Fowey
Arriving back at the quay, we were just in time for the Fowey version of the Petit Train! We hopped on for the land equivalent of the boat tour. Through the tiny little streets, round the tight turns, up the steep hills we went. Our guide was good and entertaining. Apparently (for he told us) Lenny Henry & Dawn French have purchased Point Pelican House and are doing it up. They are wishing to be anonymous. I can see that happening!
We were finally deposited back at the main quay where we popped into the deli for some dinner (pasties and salad) then some beer and cider, before walking back to Sidney for the journey back to Castle. A perfect day though I must admit to a very sore pair of calves and delicate feet.
I not only had my folk concert tonight but my favourite was played. Yay!
The BBC said no rain but overcast.
I’d decided that if I woke up early enough, I’d go for a walk this morning. I did, so I did. I left Castle and walked down to the viaduct at the bottom of Milltown. From here it is a lovely little track (muddy in parts) to Lostwithiel. It only took me 40 minutes to walk the entire way! The countryside was beautiful and empty…apart from a few sheep in the distance and three railway guys working on repairing a railway retaining wall.
The Rover Fowey at Lostwithiel, Cornwall
I had thought I’d pop into St Bartholomew’s in Lostwithiel but found that it is only open from 11am! I wasn’t hanging around that long so headed back. A lovely short walk.
Back at the apartment we eventually set off for Fowey to catch the ferry to Mevagissey. Of course we arrived ages early so we sat at the main quay and watched people while we had a coffee.
Lots of dogs, lots of people with sticks, frames and other walking aids, lots of kids who I’m assuming, have been taken out of school for their own holidays. A few odd people. The usual waterside characters – a loud woman with a purple streak in her hair drumming up business for a tour of the river by standing outside her little booth and yelling, the guy who will sketch your portrait in 15 minutes who has a board advertising his skill where ALL the faces look the same…the usual sort of thing.
At the quay it is possible to hire self drive motor boats. The guy that runs this business has a dog. When he hires out a boat, he takes out the customer (presumably to give them a quick lesson) and gets a lift to an empty boat for him to return to his seat by the booth of the purple haired woman. Nothing remarkable here you may think. But the dog goes with him. It’s quite something to watch a dog that doesn’t appear particularly agile, leaping courageously from one boat to another, eagerly barking commands to his master. Maybe I’ve got it wrong. Maybe the dog owns the business and he really is ordering the guy around.
We wandered up the Esplanade and stood by a low wall and enjoyed the view across the mouth of the River Fowey towards Polruan. Sitting old and folly-like is the Blockhouse (in the picture below, right hand side), mirrored on the Fowey side. It was build sometime around 1380 and had a big chain that could be stretched across the water to the opposite shore. This was to stop the Spanish attacking the harbour. They swapped the chain for a submarine net during WWII.
Polruan and the blockade, Fowey, Cornwall
The time ticked round and we ended up boarding the small Fowey-Mevagissey ferry. The trip is about 35 minutes and feels like you’re on the open sea! Actually, you sort of are. There was a stiff old breeze hitting us to port and the deck hand (John) had to put down the plastic sheeting else we all get soaked. A jolly good bouncy trip it was.
Mevagissey is a fishing port with a lovely harbour. It is described as ‘captivating’ in the King’s England I have (printed in 1937). It was certainly pretty around the harbour with the colourful fishing boats and squawking of seagulls. The tourists milling around the benches outside the pub are nice too. But you only have to get one street away from the waterfront and anything captivating takes a swift holiday to Sweden.
There was a time when this place was a thriving pilchard-rich harbour. To the point where they had a power station, fuelled with pilchard oil, providing electricity to the town. And we mustn’t forget that the guy who founded Pears Soap was born there and the Wurzels wrote a song called Mevagissey.
Signs (and a fake seagull) in the council estate at Mevagissey
It may once have been mighty but now it is awash with dusty bygones and smog smeared walls. Very narrow streets, crammed with an endless queue of cars. An old woman directing cars to reverse and manoeuvre in order to avoid serious denting (“I’ve been doing this for 50 years,” She proudly proclaimed). A hideous council development that reminded us both of a Russian gulag, complete with signs declaring everything you couldn’t do in the open space and the inclusion of a very odd fake seagull. A ghastly place. You have to cross this horrid, dried up little set of houses in order to see the model train exhibition. We didn’t bother.
We didn’t manage to find the church or a school or a supermarket or…actually the place reeked of being very poor. It was interesting putting it up against Fowey which seems a lot wealthier. And prettier.
Mirinda tries to match her hat to a house...and succeeds
Anyway, we went to the pub and had delicious fish and chips and lots of lovely peas, thankfully not mushy. Actually, it’s remarkable how many opportunities to purchase fish and chips there are in Mevagissey. We ate, we wandered, we returned to the lighthouse and waited for the ferry to take us back to Fowey.
Lighthouse at Mevagissey harbour entrance, Cornwall
The return journey was a lot smoother and drier – no plastic sheeting this trip! The ferry was pretty full as this was the final trip to Fowey for the day. Opposite us was a woman with a look of permanent surprise on her face. Rather disconcerting, I have to say. She also bore a remarkable resemblance to Harpo Marx. Without the harp.
As we arrived at the Whitehouse Quay, John, the deck hand, told us that last week they held the annual little kids swim across the river day. Apparently before the Polruan primary school kids can catch the ferry each day to attend the high school in Fowey, they have to swim the width of the river. At this point it is about half a mile wide. And they not only have to swim to Fowey, they then have to turn around and swim back. It gives the parents the peace of mind to know that their 12 year olds could swim to shore from anywhere the ferry sinks.
After stepping ashore – no sissy planks or boards for this little ferry, John just holds the ferry with one hand and the dock with the other and we all clamber off – we wandered back through Fowey and eventually back to the apartment.
I had no folk concert tonight! Sorely missed.
OK, so we didn’t go to the Eden Project. We lay in bed last night debating whether to set the alarm or not. ‘Not’ won the day and we slept in. Maybe tomorrow.
Today the weather report is for a cool, breezy, overcast morning with rain starting around 11am, continuing until around 5pm. I told Mirinda this and she thought it was a bit too precise, even for the BBC. As I sit typing this at 10:50, the clouds are closing in and it looks like rain at any second. The rain arrived at 11:35. It stopped at about 5pm. We didn’t leave the apartment.
Except to go for dinner. Tonight we ventured out to Fowey to dine at Nathan Outlaw at the Marina Villa Hotel. But first we popped into the King of Prussia for a pint and Mirinda tried the pear cider which she now wants all the time. Then on to the restaurant.
It has one Michelin Star. It was fantastic. We couldn’t fault a thing. Mirinda thought it was one of the best meals she’d ever had. I thought the dessert WAS the best I’ve ever had. It was a sort of deconstructed strawberry trifle with the unlikely addition of black olives. Truly delicious. And I discovered a new dessert wine, which tasted like caramel. We were celebrating my 2:1…as if we need an excuse for a brilliant meal.
We’d parked at the Caffa Mill carpark so there was no big scary walk back to Sidney, just a lovely post-meal stroll around the narrow streets, glimpsing the water between the odd houses. The perfect end to a perfect meal.
I should explain the photo below. Having parked at the Caffa Mill car park before dinner, we decided to try the footpath that meanders along the top of the houses and emerges at St Fin Bar’s church. It was very interesting seeing Fowey from the rooftops. It was also very hard going. It was very steep and the stones quite slippery in places. Here’s Mirinda on our final downward stretch. Her face is easily readable – we were never going to walk that way again.
Walking the back streets of Fowey, Cornwall
We were a bit undecided about what to do today so we left it in the lap of the gods. If we woke up early, we’d head off for the Eden Project, if we slept in, we’d go and find the Lost Gardens of Heligan. And so, at 9:30, we hit the road for Heligan.
We travelled through the mysteriously named London Apprentice, which seems to overflow with caravan parks and camping grounds. There is one, not very big, combined shop and about three houses. And lots of brown tourist signs with silhouetted images of tents and vans. Mirinda thought it was because London Apprentice is close by to a beach but a glance at my OS map indicates this is not the case. I thought fishing but there isn’t much of that in evidence either. Maybe it’s just a place for apprentices to escape the hustle and bustle of London and relax amongst the trees and grass and hills of southern Cornwall.
I have found a few possible explanations for the name. The most likely sounding one is that it is named after a pub which was so named because of a folk ballad. This ballad featured a sailor who landed in Cornwall but was unable to find work. He went off to London where he learnt a trade (possibly blacksmith) and then returned to set up a business near St Austell. Neither the pub nor the smithy are there any longer; just the mysterious name. I’m still not sure why people choose to go there for a holiday. Anyway, from London Apprentice, it is a mere hop, skip and jump to Heligan.
Entrance to Heligan gardens, looking out
The beginnings of Heligan start way back in 1603 when the building of the main house commenced. From then until 1970, the Tremayne family lived there continuously, creating the estate and gardens. It was at its grandest during the Victorian era as scientists and botany collectors went out into the wide world in search of new and rare species. Some of these found their way to Heligan and it continued to grow. And then the two world wars happened.
Because of the wars, men were in scarce supply and money was used for things other than gardening. Sadly for places like Heligan, the beautiful landscapes gradually became engulfed by nature. The gardens were lost. Presumably this wasn’t sad for nature.
That was until 1990 when Tim Smit (who now runs the Eden Project) and John Willis (a descendant of the Tremayne family) rediscovered them. Since then, there has been a lot of work to return the gardens to the height of their heyday. Work continues but there is a lot to see, as 250,000 visitors a year will testify.
We’ve seen a lot of grand scale gardens but this one is really fantastic. It perhaps doesn’t have the extraordinary skills of a Capability Brown vista or the neatness of a Victorian garden, but it sweeps over hill and dale, floats from pond to pond down a jungle vale and has an amazing array of plants from everywhere you could imagine. We loved it. We saw most of it! We exhausted ourselves.
South summer house garden and pond, Heligan, Cornwall
Highlights included
Of course, there were so many more things…I could write for hours. The guide book titled The Lost Gardens of Heligan Guide Book is well worth the £3.50 and has an excellent personal written journey around the gardens by the managing director, Peter Stafford. There are two other guides (one on the history and the other about the wildlife), which I assume are also very good. The guide book has a small section dedicated to the history but the bulk is about the experience of a journey through the garden and an excellent read.
On the way out we bought a load of groceries from the farm shop including some delicious local cheese (smelly, crumbly and smoked) and fresh local sausages (pork, tomato & basil and lamb & mint). This was our lunch and dinner. And very nice they were too!
After our exhaustive day wandering the 200 acres of Heligan, Mirinda decided it would be nice to go for an evening stroll down the very steep hill to the viaduct near our apartment. Although we are in a valley, it is quite high up compared with the real bottom of the valley, which we ended up walking to. Down there is a dribbly tributary of the River Fowey, flowing around a small house and under a massive viaduct where trains clatter overhead at regular intervals, disturbing the otherwise very tranquil setting. We wandered a little way into the Milltown Woods then started back in order not to miss Sarah Beeny and her Snakes & Ladders Property Game.
Ok, so we’re going to try for the Eden Project tomorrow…
So, this morning I braved the ‘shower’. It’s actually a sexy hand held hair washer, if you ask me. There is nothing to stick it on. In fact the bath is sitting in the middle of the floor so short of a skyhook, nothing would work. But I persevered, seeing as I detest having baths more than a dribbly shower. It was a case of get wet, soap up, then rinse. That was it. The temperature was ok, the water pressure not very. Not high on my shower scale.
The BBC informed us that heavy rain was due in the South West by the early afternoon so we figured we’d head off to Fowey early. Ah, Fowey. You will find it described as “…the little grey sea town that clings along one side of the harbour”, by the sea rat in Wind in the Willows. You may hear the French talk about the evil, marauding Men of Fowey who persistently sailed across the channel and beat up the inhabitants indiscriminately. Actually, even the king, Edward IV, didn’t have control over these guys. When he declared peace with France, he went as far as to send Fowey a special note to acknowledge that they were no longer at war. It didn’t work. They continued their marauding ways. This dislike seems to have stemmed from an incident in 1457 when the French popped over and burnt Fowey.
A narrow main street through Fowey, Cornwall
Apart from the aggressive townsfolk, an important thing to know about Fowey is that it is surrounded by car parks and there’s a handy bus that runs every 15 minutes, so why anyone would drive down the very narrow roads is a mystery…but they do. Later in the day I saw a car rudely toot an old lady, almost giving her a heart attack! Not that the driver was bothered. He just zoomed off as she hopped, painfully off the road. The roads in the centre of Fowey are not as wide as most normal footpaths!
We parked Sidney in the City Car Park and walked down the steep lanes and steps onto the Town Quay. The main part of Fowey is a square with the St Finn Bar church on one side and the King of Prussia pub on the other, the Fowey Museum within the town hall to the right and a lovely blue bookshop to the left. Walking around the town hall and you are standing on the quay, looking out over the River Fowey. In the sunshine of the morning, it all looked lovely. Even the old drunk outside the King of Prussia looked like he belonged there.
It was time for some breakfast so we popped into the Brown Sugar, which I was very happy to see, served Scotch Pancakes with Bacon and Maple Syrup! It also had a fairly nice coffee.
St Fin Bar's church, Fowey, Cornwall
We spent some time wandering around the church of St Finn Bar (c560 – c610). Or St Fimbarrus – there are many different spellings of his name. (It should be noted that this is also true for Fowey.) The church boasts a 15th century tower and a Norman font. The ceiling bosses are something, too! Actually, it’s doubtful whether the Irish, St Fin Barr ever came to Fowey. The whole rumour of his visit probably springs from the fact that he supposedly made a trip to Rome when he was young. This may seem odd but, Fowey was on the most direct route to Rome from Ireland. It has been suggested that while waiting for transport from Fowey harbour to Brittany, Finn Barr may have built a small brushwood church where the big one stands now – I assume he had no tent. Moving forward to the Middle Ages, a lot of people came to Fowey from Cork and would have maintained the name of the Irish saint, keeping his memory alive. He founded a monastery in Cork around which the town developed so they would have been a tad influenced by him.
There was a story spread in 1478 by William of Worcester who spent a Sunday in Fowey visiting his cousin, that Finn Barr was buried in Fowey but this is just plain rubbish. Everyone knows he died and was buried in Cork! Anyway, after the church was burnt down by the French and was rebuilt completely, it was re-dedicated to St Nicholas of Bari! Not that anyone seems to have taken a lot of notice. It’s still known as St Finn Barr’s church.
We spent most of the day wandering around the town, admiring the houses hanging from the sides of impossible hillsides, and stopped at places like the Villa Marina Hotel for morning tea (on a lovely balcony overlooking the river) and the Quay Hotel for lunch (on a terrace overlooking the threatening black clouds that spread ever closer).
The Quay Hotel restaurant, Fowey, Cornwall
Lunch was delicious and we fully recommend the Quay Hotel restaurant. The fish of the day was bream and was perfect. Mirinda had the calamari, which was also perfect. The crème brulee, on the other hand, was about a 7.5 on the GazScale.
We finished our first (for there will be more) visit to Fowey by buying some books, some mugs and an iron doorstop with a mouse on it. It was then a queue for the town bus (a ten seater mini-bus) under thundery skies and a ride to the top of the hill to a waiting Sidney.
The clouds started spitting as we headed off and then there was a torrential downpour, the likes of which is normally reserved for more tropical areas of the planet. The roads were saturated. It was like driving through fords. By the time we reached Lostwithiel, the rain had stopped and we managed to do a bit of shopping while remaining dry. It was then back to Castle.
And the water wasn’t hot. Mirinda wanted a bath. I went and complained and the wife of the guy who showed us around reset something. 20 minutes later, the water was piping. There is another problem with the bath. The plug is a push type. Because of this, if you sit on it, the water starts running out. The other problem with this type of plug is that it doesn’t create a perfect seal so the water is gradually leaking out as you lie back and enjoy your bath. Mirinda, ingenuity to the fore, utilised an old plastic bag to form a more accurate seal.
And then we decided to watch a dvd. There was a big bag full of them in the apartment – an excellent assortment, I should say, for all ages and tastes. It wouldn’t work. As with the Battlestar DVD, it was apparently, the wrong disk. I tried a few others but none of them was the right disk. I ended up watching the football and Mirinda managed to ignore it.
By the way, I should also mention, Fowey is pronounced Foy.
After a very long sleep (9 hours for me, 12 for Mirinda) we lazed around the apartment, listened to the Archers Omnibus at 10am, and generally chuckled at Mirinda’s attempt to warm up a croissant. She blames the fact on her long absence from the kitchen.
The bath is a disappointment! One of Mirinda’s joys when on holidays is a long leisurely bath of a morning, preparatory to the days rigours. The bath in the apartment looks all very good, the bathroom is long and lovely but it’s all a bit form over function. Expensive bathroom furniture does not necessarily mean it’s going to work. The bath, while deep and long enough, is a stupid shape, which means one can’t keep one’s head above water. The water pressure is pretty dire as well, so the bath takes a day to fill up. And the water isn’t exactly hot either.
Just across the corridor from our bedroom there is a door. This leads into the other top floor apartment (obviously it’s locked this week but the two can be hired as one and be opened up if the group is big enough). In this part of the house, Rudolph Hess was held and interrogated when he arrived in Britain during World War II. Apparently officials moved him around a lot and this was one of the places, it being so nicely secluded.
The morning was drifting away into a slumbery Sunday afternoon as we strolled around our holiday grounds. An old, neglected yew tree lined walk beckoned with its gushes of rhododendrons, so we walked the length of what turned out to be a ‘not-used-in-an-age’ farm track. At one point we chatted amiably with a Shetland pony.
Shetland pony at Castle
At some point, as we wandered along a road that was gradually heading upwards, Mirinda decided we should, maybe, head off somewhere for lunch. We reversed direction, collected Sidney and headed off for Lostwithiel. The name, by the way, means the place at the end of the woodland.
Sunday in Lostwithiel is not very exciting. We wandered along the River Fowey, admiring the Tudor bridge and other buildings attractively lining it, while passing by many a closed eating establishment. To be fair, the burnt out fish and chip shop wasn’t going to open any time soon but it did seem a bit odd for everything to be closed while all available (and some not so available) car spaces were filled. Mind you, a lot of noisy revellers were attending some sort of rock ‘n roll event at the Working Men’s Club so perhaps they owned the cars.
Fortunately, just as Mirinda was starting to get a bit terse, we discovered the Royal Talbot, which served lunch until 4. A roast chicken and ham and eggs later, all was well as we sipped our Cornish ale and cider, overlooking the busy road that sweeps many cars right through Lostwithiel.
We found this amazing sign in the middle of Lostwithiel. At first I thought it said “Ha Ha! Lease for three thousand years…” but, sadly, not. It says “Hath a lease for three thousand years, which had beginning the 29th of September 1652.” So, this means, that the lease (which was given to a chap called Walter Kendall) will run until the year 4652. It gives pause for much thought and many questions arise from this thinking. What was the point, being the one uppermost in our minds. I have found a few references to the assignment of the lease in the National Archives but the facts are a tad dry and not nearly funny enough to repeat here.
Lostwithiel sign
We slowly returned to the car via St Bartholomew’s churchyard – the church closes at 3:30 – and returned to Castle where I was serenaded by Mirinda’s guitar practice.
We had intended to watch Battlestar Galactica (we had brought along our boxed set just for this purpose) but the DVD built into the TV said it wasn’t right. Annoying. Instead we watched an awful Sherlock Holmes thing, which we easily worked out. The most interesting thing was my translating the Italian at the beginning.
Mirinda went to bed while I watched an awful documentary about Silbury Hill and an excellent documentary about Ida, the lemur-like 47 million year old fossil. Then bed.
A bit of a late start as Mirinda was busy finishing up some work stuff well into the early hours and she needed the sleep in. Eventually the poodles went up to the kennel – though I feel I should mention that Mirinda was so busy chatting to herself that she drove straight by the road and ended up almost at Haslemere – while I mowed the lawn and generally left the house in a state I’d be happy to return to. We managed to leave by 1:30.
The drive is becoming somewhat automatic these days as we head south west. M3 – A303 – A30 etc etc blah blah blah. All endless and for about 200 miles. Actually, the Gary route is shorter than the preferred route suggested by Google Maps. Actually, the Google journey would have taken a lot longer as the A30 was closed after Launceston! Anyway, we went via Tavistock. Naturally we had to stop and visit the original Cornish Pasty shop – still yum and still in the same place – for a short break before ending up in the lovely little town of Lostwithiel.
Apparently, Lostwithiel was the medieval capitol of Cornwall. It’s very lovely but not what you’d call huge. Lots of narrow little streets and lovely granite blocked houses. It sits on the river Fowey (pronounced ‘Foy’) and has an interesting looking museum that I will have to visit. But this evening we just raided the Londis for supplies before driving on to Castle.
What a lovely, quiet, secluded place! Down a massive single lane hill, banked up on either side by ancient hedges. We went down a long way before coming across the driveway into the house. It’s like a little chateau. Originally there was a mill here. Well, in 1086, anyway. The existing house was built in the 1800s and the garden is quite famous. It obviously fell into some sort of disrepair as the present owners are renovating it and try to bring it back to the splendour it once, no doubt, had.
Side entrance to our apartment at Castle
Our residence for the week is half the top floor. It’s nice and big! The entrance is up and around the side of the house so we’re quite secluded although the owner lives just downstairs and next door. He is a very nice chap. Introduced himself – we were shown into the apartment by a French fellow – and told us all about Cornwell. He arrived from London 10 years ago and loves the silence although it gave him nightmares at first.
Only one sad note…there appears to be no shower. Just a big bath. Although I have yet to spend any length of time in the bathroom. Maybe it’s hiding. Fingers crossed then.