Holiday Day Five - A ProsWatcher's Guide to Cornish Slash
Woke up to the bluest of blue skies...
...which meant it was the perfect day to go Prosfic location spotting - A Birdwatcher's Guide to Cornish Ghosts spotting, of course! So off we went, down Cornish lanes and into Cornish villages, one of which is called St Just, and is home to a particular pub...
Pushing open the door, Bodie strolled into The Star's dark interior and approached the bar. Several men were already seated there, old codgers having a yarn, as the locals called it. Their version of a good gossip, as Bodie had discovered very soon after his arrival in the area. As he waited to be served, he could hear Old Will in full flow behind him.
"So this 'ere young curate, bit wet behind the ears like, looks at the drowned sailor on the beach and says to Granfer ' What is the procedure? ' And Granfer says, quick's a flash ' Sarch 'is pockets!'"
There we were, in the table beside the door where Bodie went to sit when he realised that the person listening to the story was Doyle... *sighs happily* I really liked The Star too - olde but not done up, friendly barman and locals and good beer and all... *g* But no food, so we had to move on for that, and a wee mooch around St Just, including to a secondhand bookstore where I just happened to pick up a copy of The Supernatural of Cornwall for general reading... *g* I could so live in St Just, it seems like the perfect village - got all its shops and a bookshop and various galleries, and... just yes. (Also - look, that's a Manx flag in The Star! There were flags from all over the British Isles on the ceiling, and any pub that remembers the Isle of Man is part of the British Isles gets a big yeay! from me... *g*)
But we had to be off eventually, and our next adventure was down more gorgeous lanes to find Nanquidno:
Surely this must be Bodie's Nanquidno!
The village of St. Just was easier on his backside and he relaxed a little, waving to several acquaintances as he passed row upon row of miners' cottages. Once through the village, he turned onto the Land's End road - on the home stretch; he could almost smell the fish cooking. He turned again into the lane that led down to Nanquidno. It veered to the right at the bottom and he careered around it, past his housekeeper's cottage and on towards the very end of the lane and home.
He turned in at the granite farmhouse he was proud to call his own. The erstwhile owners had built themselves a brand new home and had been only too glad to sell their 18th century house to the gentleman from up country who wanted to watch birds. The gentleman, being a natural hoarder, had promptly filled every conceivable nook and cranny with books and objects of curiosity; it was no exaggeration to say that he loved his home of five years to distraction.
(It seems so perfect - I'm hoping Lizzie will read this and let us know, especially cos we've also now found somewhere else that it might be and we might have to go and explore further! *g*)
We did, however, completely fail to find the public footpaths that the maps said were there, so we didn't wander around much, and eventually found ourselves off looking for Carn Euny, where Doyle fell down the fugou and was not-rescued by Bodie (but since they spent the night huddled together for warmth, that was okay too... *g*)
We had to walk past a Butterfly Tree (well, a Buddleia) on the way - covered in butterflies it was, they were everywhere, enjoying the sunshine and the pretty Lacewing Hydrangea bushes too... But eventually we made it to Carn Euny settlement itself (not needing to brave the grumpy cows this time!) and down the tunnel (which didn't exist in Bodie and Doyle's time, of course *g*) to the fugou...
He awoke from a doze a while later, annoyed at having allowed himself to drift off. Checking on Doyle, he found him sleeping. His hands and face were still cold but his breathing was even and untroubled and to his relief he appeared to be fine.
Having been completely focussed on Doyle, nothing else had penetrated his consciousness. When it did he received a severe shock. People. A fire. Activity all around him. He watched mesmerised as children played, women cooked and men strolled in and out of the picture. No noise or sound, just a silently moving tableau. From what? How could these people be in here? They must know of another way out. He sat up to shout for help - and was plunged, once again, into darkness, the whole image dissolving instantly in front of his eyes.
Doyle stirred and Bodie lay down again. Taking him into his arms he kissed his face and gently reassured him. Was it his imagination or had the temperature risen? The air from above didn't feel quite as cold now. He huddled into his sleeping partner and lay contemplating the future until falling eventually into a deep sleep.
*sighs happily some more*
At this point we suddenly realised that it was just after five o'clock, and that the odds of finding the Cornish Cream Tea place still open were fairly low - but we made a dash for Lamorna anyway, only to be proved absolutely right... Although it turned out that the cafe at Larmorna Cove had just three cream teas left - perfect, right? And with tummies more than replete, we went searching for candidates for this location...
They found a sheltered hollow on the other side of the headland and settled down in the grass to eat lunch. Mrs. Trembath had eyed Doyle up and down and put in an extra slice of Heavy cake, which Bodie ate with relish. Doyle watched, amused.
...
"Anybody much come up here? Apart from us mad foo... er, intrepid explorers?" Doyle carefully put the glasses back where he had found them.
Bodie sniggered. "Hardly. The locals think anyone who comes up here has too much time on their hands. And in the depths of January the place is not exactly alive with tourists. So it's all right to have a nap," he relaxed into the grass, smiling contentedly, "no-one's going to catch you."
"Wasn't exactly what I was thinking about." Doyle's voice was quiet.
Bodie's eyes snapped open to find he had moved closer and was leaning over him, propping himself up on one elbow. Before he realised what was happening , the man had rolled over on top of him and they were lying together, staring into each other's eyes.
But we were distracted by the fabulously close-to-the-edge cliff path, and me by my still-slightly-dodgy-feet (stoopid feet) and we got as far as this...
(That's CornishCat all painted-out-but-really-sitting-on-that-rock-up-there... *g*)
Looking out from Lamorna Cove itself:
The small harbour looked as though it had been there since time immemorial, forming a protective arc, as it did around several unoccupied fishing boats. Today the sea wore its benign face, the slight swell washing against the stone and surrounding rocks and causing the boats to bob gently up and down.
The two men propped their bicycles against the wall. Bodie groped in his saddle bag for his binoculars and Doyle sauntered off towards the harbour wall. He watched as Doyle, like most new visitors to the area, stood hypnotised by the motion of the waves against the shoreline. The bright sun made the water sparkle like a thousand diamonds, its colour reflecting the vivid blue of the sky. The cries of the ever present gulls filled the air; their raucous screams were, somehow, necessary to complete the scene. How could this be Cornwall without the omnipresent seagulls?
I so want to go back so that I can go rock scrambling properly around the path, cos it was absolutely gorgeous, even without thinking about our lads!
That was the end of our Pros-y adventures for the day (though we did a quick drive-by of the Old Rectory at St Buryan, which we've decided must have been where Doyle bought his infernal machine from the vicar... *g*), though we paused to look at a Neolithic burial chamber, and the Merry Maidens stone circle on the way home...
And now here we are, drinking wine and thinking Pros-y thoughts, and chatting quietly into the night about how we could be completely wrong about all those locations, but how fun it is to try and work it out... *vbg*
...which meant it was the perfect day to go Prosfic location spotting - A Birdwatcher's Guide to Cornish Ghosts spotting, of course! So off we went, down Cornish lanes and into Cornish villages, one of which is called St Just, and is home to a particular pub...
Pushing open the door, Bodie strolled into The Star's dark interior and approached the bar. Several men were already seated there, old codgers having a yarn, as the locals called it. Their version of a good gossip, as Bodie had discovered very soon after his arrival in the area. As he waited to be served, he could hear Old Will in full flow behind him.
"So this 'ere young curate, bit wet behind the ears like, looks at the drowned sailor on the beach and says to Granfer ' What is the procedure? ' And Granfer says, quick's a flash ' Sarch 'is pockets!'"
There we were, in the table beside the door where Bodie went to sit when he realised that the person listening to the story was Doyle... *sighs happily* I really liked The Star too - olde but not done up, friendly barman and locals and good beer and all... *g* But no food, so we had to move on for that, and a wee mooch around St Just, including to a secondhand bookstore where I just happened to pick up a copy of The Supernatural of Cornwall for general reading... *g* I could so live in St Just, it seems like the perfect village - got all its shops and a bookshop and various galleries, and... just yes. (Also - look, that's a Manx flag in The Star! There were flags from all over the British Isles on the ceiling, and any pub that remembers the Isle of Man is part of the British Isles gets a big yeay! from me... *g*)
But we had to be off eventually, and our next adventure was down more gorgeous lanes to find Nanquidno:
Surely this must be Bodie's Nanquidno!
The village of St. Just was easier on his backside and he relaxed a little, waving to several acquaintances as he passed row upon row of miners' cottages. Once through the village, he turned onto the Land's End road - on the home stretch; he could almost smell the fish cooking. He turned again into the lane that led down to Nanquidno. It veered to the right at the bottom and he careered around it, past his housekeeper's cottage and on towards the very end of the lane and home.
He turned in at the granite farmhouse he was proud to call his own. The erstwhile owners had built themselves a brand new home and had been only too glad to sell their 18th century house to the gentleman from up country who wanted to watch birds. The gentleman, being a natural hoarder, had promptly filled every conceivable nook and cranny with books and objects of curiosity; it was no exaggeration to say that he loved his home of five years to distraction.
(It seems so perfect - I'm hoping Lizzie will read this and let us know, especially cos we've also now found somewhere else that it might be and we might have to go and explore further! *g*)
We did, however, completely fail to find the public footpaths that the maps said were there, so we didn't wander around much, and eventually found ourselves off looking for Carn Euny, where Doyle fell down the fugou and was not-rescued by Bodie (but since they spent the night huddled together for warmth, that was okay too... *g*)
We had to walk past a Butterfly Tree (well, a Buddleia) on the way - covered in butterflies it was, they were everywhere, enjoying the sunshine and the pretty Lacewing Hydrangea bushes too... But eventually we made it to Carn Euny settlement itself (not needing to brave the grumpy cows this time!) and down the tunnel (which didn't exist in Bodie and Doyle's time, of course *g*) to the fugou...
He awoke from a doze a while later, annoyed at having allowed himself to drift off. Checking on Doyle, he found him sleeping. His hands and face were still cold but his breathing was even and untroubled and to his relief he appeared to be fine.
Having been completely focussed on Doyle, nothing else had penetrated his consciousness. When it did he received a severe shock. People. A fire. Activity all around him. He watched mesmerised as children played, women cooked and men strolled in and out of the picture. No noise or sound, just a silently moving tableau. From what? How could these people be in here? They must know of another way out. He sat up to shout for help - and was plunged, once again, into darkness, the whole image dissolving instantly in front of his eyes.
Doyle stirred and Bodie lay down again. Taking him into his arms he kissed his face and gently reassured him. Was it his imagination or had the temperature risen? The air from above didn't feel quite as cold now. He huddled into his sleeping partner and lay contemplating the future until falling eventually into a deep sleep.
*sighs happily some more*
At this point we suddenly realised that it was just after five o'clock, and that the odds of finding the Cornish Cream Tea place still open were fairly low - but we made a dash for Lamorna anyway, only to be proved absolutely right... Although it turned out that the cafe at Larmorna Cove had just three cream teas left - perfect, right? And with tummies more than replete, we went searching for candidates for this location...
They found a sheltered hollow on the other side of the headland and settled down in the grass to eat lunch. Mrs. Trembath had eyed Doyle up and down and put in an extra slice of Heavy cake, which Bodie ate with relish. Doyle watched, amused.
...
"Anybody much come up here? Apart from us mad foo... er, intrepid explorers?" Doyle carefully put the glasses back where he had found them.
Bodie sniggered. "Hardly. The locals think anyone who comes up here has too much time on their hands. And in the depths of January the place is not exactly alive with tourists. So it's all right to have a nap," he relaxed into the grass, smiling contentedly, "no-one's going to catch you."
"Wasn't exactly what I was thinking about." Doyle's voice was quiet.
Bodie's eyes snapped open to find he had moved closer and was leaning over him, propping himself up on one elbow. Before he realised what was happening , the man had rolled over on top of him and they were lying together, staring into each other's eyes.
But we were distracted by the fabulously close-to-the-edge cliff path, and me by my still-slightly-dodgy-feet (stoopid feet) and we got as far as this...
(That's CornishCat all painted-out-but-really-sitting-on-that-rock-up-there... *g*)
Looking out from Lamorna Cove itself:
The small harbour looked as though it had been there since time immemorial, forming a protective arc, as it did around several unoccupied fishing boats. Today the sea wore its benign face, the slight swell washing against the stone and surrounding rocks and causing the boats to bob gently up and down.
The two men propped their bicycles against the wall. Bodie groped in his saddle bag for his binoculars and Doyle sauntered off towards the harbour wall. He watched as Doyle, like most new visitors to the area, stood hypnotised by the motion of the waves against the shoreline. The bright sun made the water sparkle like a thousand diamonds, its colour reflecting the vivid blue of the sky. The cries of the ever present gulls filled the air; their raucous screams were, somehow, necessary to complete the scene. How could this be Cornwall without the omnipresent seagulls?
I so want to go back so that I can go rock scrambling properly around the path, cos it was absolutely gorgeous, even without thinking about our lads!
That was the end of our Pros-y adventures for the day (though we did a quick drive-by of the Old Rectory at St Buryan, which we've decided must have been where Doyle bought his infernal machine from the vicar... *g*), though we paused to look at a Neolithic burial chamber, and the Merry Maidens stone circle on the way home...
And now here we are, drinking wine and thinking Pros-y thoughts, and chatting quietly into the night about how we could be completely wrong about all those locations, but how fun it is to try and work it out... *vbg*