“1970 meets 1670” is my affectionate description of the ancient stone house we’ve rented this week. Luckily it belongs to relatives, as otherwise we probably wouldn’t have found anywhere at all to stay, as like almost everyone else here, we are part of a mass lockdown escape.
Spring and early Summer this year have already felt unusually precious but in this more or less secret part of Cornwall’s central coast, with its wildflower meadows, high hedgerows and remote beaches it feels like we have discovered somewhere magical. Somehow we have entered into a time warp, a version of rural England which is often depicted by Hollywood but never found off a movie set. All of a piece perhaps with the singular strangeness of this pandemic, where nature has for a brief moment begun to heal our surroundings.
The Range Rovers of Rock are a mere half hour from here by car, but they feel like a world away.
A dwelling on this site is mentioned in the 11th century Domesday book and it hides unobtrusively behind the imposing mass of St Endellion church, whose foundations date back to the sixth century; so unobtrusively in fact that our satnav couldn’t locate it and we ended up knocking vainly on the door of another venerable house across the road from the church’s front gate, before being put right by the amiable vicar. We have time to kill before we can pick up the keys, so he happily shows us around, pointing out the memorial plaque to the poet and writer Sir John Betjeman, who worshipped here and loved the area.
For the first few days we have been content to enjoy the beauty of our immediate vicinity- hiking the switchback coastal path in both directions from Port Quin, a tiny seaside hamlet less than an hour’s walk through the wheat fields from the house, where my cousins used to swim in the rocky cove on family holidays.
But as ever, curiosity is getting the better of us and we have begun to explore outside our wild, windblown bubble. Travelling across the remoteness of Bodmin Moor we visit the weirdly named mining camp of Minions, where a cluster of Bronze Age stone circles and unearthly wind-carved granite formations sit cheek by jowl with the detritus of 18th and 19th century copper and tin mining.
Hungry for seafood we head south through Lostwithiel to charming Mevagissey, where we stock up on scallops, crab and whiting from the dockside fish stand. We will enjoy these this evening on a picnic blanket on the front lawn, having first found a sublime lunch of just harvested mussels and a crabmeat macaroni, overlooking the harbour. The seafood here is indescribably fresh and we ask ourselves for the umpteenth time why we have to travel so far to enjoy this country’s coastal bounty, unspoilt by the intervention of a deep fat fryer.
Moules: Serves 2
1 kg of fresh mussels (cleaned)
2 cloves of garlic, finely chopped
1 shallot, finely chopped
1 tbsp EV olive oil
50ml dry white wine
50ml double cream
Small handful of chopped parsley
Heat the oil in a large pan (the mussels should only half fill it). Add the shallot and garlic; when they are softened add the wine and the mussels, cover and steam for 3-4 minutes, shaking the pan now and then to ensure that all the mussels open up.
Add the cream and parsley then remove from the heat and serve.
Eventually we puncture the perfection and find the crowds on the ferry from Rock to Padstow and on the beach at nearby Polzeath. Shocked at this jolt of reality we quickly retreat back to the rose tinted past. It’s as close to a foreign country as we’re going to get to visit this year.
I think you have found the secret of Cornwall.....eat fresh seafood and avoid the crowds. The problem used to be the weight of traffic. Now you have to account for the width of traffic as well.
Still magical!
It is true that travelling in the west of England can be like going back in time. Sometimes you expect to bump into a lone Druid or a group of Saxon warriors on unkempt horses charging towards the skyline. The never ending sky just furthers the image of a land that is free of human permanence and the wildness of nature untouched.