Cornwall: Part One

We hadn’t visited Cornwall in eons, to be honest, since 2001. The main thing I had forgotten was that it was in a different financial zone to the rest of the United Kingdom, prices being closer to those in Dubai or Monte Carlo.

Although they appear to use the same currency as the rest of us, you easily forget that most products, especially beer, fish and chips, ice creams and afternoon teas cost a minimum of 25% over and above those at home.

A wallet full of cash, therefore, doesn’t last as long as it does anywhere else in mainland Great Britain. Except, probably, for London, where I think there is a fair chance your wallet will disappear faster than your cash, thus taking everything else with it, cards, stamps, and business cards, into the deft hands of a pickpocket. Don’t the signs terrify you?

Having said that, though, the last couple of visits to London have coincided with protest marches, about what I can’t remember, and I find that to be most intimidating. Unless forced to go, maybe for work reasons or something, I have no intention of ever visiting our capital again. Mind you, as a country boy, I don’t really need a second invitation not to go to any town or city. Even Swaffham and Fakenham can be a little overwhelming to me!

Our primary reason for ending up in Cornwall, Fowey to be precise, pronounced Foy for some reason, probably only known to the Cornish, was to meet up with our son, William, Will to everyone else, esteemed editor of this blog, so blame him, alright, if you spot any mistakes, and his family, for some quality time.

We in Norfolk can’t talk, though, can we? After all, we have Happisburgh, pronounced Haysborough, Wymondham, pronounced Wyndham, and Costessey, pronounced Cossie, among many others. Crikey, isn’t life complicated?

We had picked a hotel a few miles outside of Fowey and arrived the day before the rest of the party. It is quite usual to turn up at a hostelry, and they ask you to log your credit card details as security for anything you might use during your stay. This was different, and I don’t think I have experienced it anywhere else, we had to pay for the entire stay in full before we had even seen the room, even though we had already sent a sizeable deposit.

Then, there was no booking meals, drinks or spa treatments to the room, you had to pay as you went. I’d like to think that these rules applied to all guests and not just me because of what I looked like.

I have to say, the hotel has definitely been over-loved and, in my humble opinion, is due for some refurbishment, or at least a lick of paint. The room, though, was alright. It was high up in the building and boasted a grand balcony overlooking St Austell Bay, Cornish: Baya ti War Dreth. The weather was rather grand, and our first port of call was the sun terrace, positioned as it was below our room with the same magnificent view.

The staff recommended that we should not walk into Fowey from the hotel as the road was narrow, busy and dangerous. We heard what they had to say and didn’t pay a blind bit of attention to them, and headed off on a downhill stroll to the heart of the town, or is it a village? I think it seemed big enough to be counted a town. The walk really wasn’t that bad at all.

We headed down to the harbour for starters, and it is quite breathtaking. We are lucky in Norfolk to have some splendid coastal towns, Wells seems as close to Fowey as we can get, but nothing really compares. It is like the Atlantic Ocean has cut through the sea defences and created one of the most picturesque harbours anywhere in the world.

There were an incredible number of boats, yachts in the main, snapping to their anchor lines, moored within hail of the beautiful quay. There were more than normal, it was the annual regatta, and we were lucky enough to be in town at the same time.

We were both pretty hungry, having left out so early, a big shout out to Jane for her effort in getting us there in one piece with only two toilet stops. There is no sharing the driving for us. We were, though, a tad peckish, so went off in search of somewhere we might get a bite to eat.

We found a little place with seating for no more than about eight customers. The round of sandwiches and mug of hot chocolate we each had were first class, but we came away 25 quid the poorer for our experience. Money was beginning to flow through my fingers faster than an ebbing tide leaving the harbour.

Even with my limited vision I really could appreciate the natural beauty of the vista from a harbourside bench. I couldn’t think of anything more delightful to warm the cockles of one’s heart on a lovely summer’s afternoon.

We decided not to run the gauntlet of Fowey-bound traffic on the way back and took advantage of my disabled person’s bus pass, which allows me and an essential companion to travel for free on all local bus services across the country.

The driver had never heard of the scheme before but soon got on board with it when I threatened to turn him off his own bus and drive the thing myself! No, not really, just kidding! I do wonder if I might have done a better job, as we had a contretemps with a tractor on the way back to the hotel. The bus came off worse, losing its wing mirror to the brutish farm vehicle. Bloody farmers! What on earth is it with these people? They decide that the summer holiday is the best time to gather their harvests. Come, get real, there is nowhere near so much traffic on the roads in winter so why don’t you do it then? Some people, all self aren’t they!

One thing that makes my skin crawl is the death penalty. Despite some of the things I write about in my novels, and that I read in Bernard Cornwell, Julian Stockwin or Lee Child, the one form of death I hate having described to me is hanging.

Some years ago, and I have to thank the brilliant historian, Ian Mortimer in his book, “The Time Traveller’s Guide to Regency Britain,”, for this, I learned of a character from Fowey who went to the gallows. Having said what I did earlier in the paragraph it is sometimes possible that you won’t have any sympathy for the condemned man, not because of the crime he committed but the stupidity he betrayed in getting caught. Listen up.

There was a Jewish man, no idea what that has to do with anything, surely just a man will do, Isaac Falk Valentine, of Plymouth who was well known for carrying huge rolls of cash around with him. Now, Isaac had a friend, more a business acquaintance actually, a fellow named William Wyatt, an innkeeper who moved to Fowey to take on the “Rose and Crown.”

Once established in town, Wyatt sent a message to his rich friend to come and visit him. When I say he sent a message, you need to realise that we are talking 1811 here, so it wasn’t through WhatsApp or SMS; why? There was no such thing in those days, but I assume the more alert among you knew that anyway but keep this in mind as you read on.

Valentine had been charged by the government to collect as much gold as possible. Britain was in the middle of an expensive war with France at the time, so needed as much of the precious metal as possible to raise much needed cash from wealthy continental bankers to conclude the hostilities with old Boney.

The cunning Wyatt said in his message that he knew of someone in Fowey who had a fortune in gold sovereigns, so Valentine packed his bag and made his way to the Cornish coast, with £260 cash about his person. He went missing. When a friend of Valentine rocked up to ascertain his mate’s whereabouts, he called in at the pub to speak with its keeper. He was informed that Mr Valentine had drowned.

Shocked as he was, Valentine’s pal went off to inform the authorities only to find out they were unaware of anyone going missing. Eventually, a body was washed up in the harbour and identified as Isaac. What was Wyatt thinking of? How did he know the victim had died from drowning even before a body had been found?

Then, to cap it all, the investigator took a look around the pub and discovered a wad of cash, £260 as it happens, behind the pub soaked in seawater. If that wasn’t enough, the victim also had Wyatt’s original text in his pocket. Hook, line and sinker. Off to the gallows at Bodmin Jail for you, old chap. How stupid can one criminal be? It makes you wonder if he even operated the trapdoor on his own, it seemed that he wanted to be extra helpful to the authorities. I was later to walk in his footsteps.

We took part in the Eden Project parkrun, which allowed six of us, four adults and two children, in for no charge, worth a total of £200. Talk about value for money, that’s all you have to do to gain entry, run, walk, Geoff 5km or volunteer. It really is that simple. Quite incredibly, the Eden Project predates parkrun, so I am not even sure that the inventors of parkrun had thought up their plan when the Millenium Commission put its hands in its pocket for this landmark millennium scheme. It is my believe that both organisations complement one another in today’s world of ravaged biodiversity, fitness and mental wellbeing.

I recall that when the Project was first opened to the public, back in March of 2001, it was heralded as a magnificent tourist attraction of the future. They weren’t wrong there. I am not sure I realised at the time, but we must have been counted among its first visitors, gaining admission within a month of the doors first opening.

The work in converting the defunct China clay quarry began in 1998 but, almost immediately, was hampered by horrendous weather that caused the pit to flood at a crucial time, it is 15 metres below the water table. Back then, when I could see a lot better than now, the biomes, striking as they were in sparkling sunshine, were the main attraction, I remember being blown away by their glorious construction.

It was probably helped by the low-level shrubs that had been planted along the paths leading down to the entrance, including multiple switchbacks, Alpine pass style. They were all shiny and new. Nowadays, the shrubs have grown into adult hedges, obscuring the amazing glass building from sight for much of the approach. I think this adds to the mysticism of the Mediterranean and tropical glasshouses, as you do not realise their cathedral like presence until you walk through the door.

Whilst the rest of my party were aware of the biomes well before we left the car park, I am afraid to say that my sight, having left for somewhere better, was now letting me down. It is moments like this that bring it home to me that my eyesight has deteriorated so much over the past 24 years.

Situations similar to this can make the inside tears start to flow. Externally, though, I hope that I am not showing anything. I still have hearing, so can listen to running water, touch, so can feel the exotic plants, smell, so can take in sweet floral fragrances, and finally taste, well, not sure what good that was, except for enjoying the post-parkrun bacon roll and coffee. I am sure that it is where they want it to be from a development point of view now, and its founders should be proud of their achievement, they have created a brilliant botanical delight, which is, I think, incredibly accessible to all, especially the visually impaired.

I can’t get over how one man’s dream can lead to such a stupendous contribution to educating the rest of us about such biodiverse genera and species that are under continued threat from predatory farming methods across the globe.

Fish and chips, the traditional staple of any British coastal holiday, allowing labourers to eat with lords. You can forget that in Fowey, for it is now only the lords who can afford it. 4 portions of haddock, they didn’t have cod, two large servings of chips and, bizarrely, a couple of pots of mushy peas, I would need to be paid to eat those, not shell out my own hard-earned, came to £53.00 Cornish, which I think in the rest of the UK was around forty quid at August’s exchange rate. Still sounds pricey to me. On top of that we had to provide our own plates and cutlery, before washing it up ourselves, we did not eat in.

I think that sets the scene. Next time I will feature a boat trip around the harbour and a visit to Bodmin Jail, which I want to call Gaol, but my screen-reader pronounces it so badly, like gull, I have done away with that idea. We can’t leave the area without mention of the Beast of Bodmin Moor, can we? A great way to keep the grandchildren to heel.

Pathmakers

When Jane and I visited Wild Ken Hill recently we were very fortunate to have been introduced to two representatives, Lisa Krockel is the Wellbeing Project Co-ordinator and Ellice is the Social Content Lead, of an amazing group. Pathmakers is a charitable organisation that has been set up with the sole intention of improving access to the Norfolk countryside. Many folks, including those with mobility and accessibility issues do not enjoy this incredible cure-all that sits on our doorsteps, across the road or round the corner from where we all live.

It is purely by coincidence that I bring Pathmakers into our thinking at the same time as The Eden Project and parkrun. As mentioned above, both of these organisations go such a long way to repairing the ravaged biodiversity, fitness and mental wellbeing that has afflicted many of our fellow citizens. Whilst Pathmakers cannot do much about the biodiversity bit, it can certainly help mend the fitness and mental wellbeing parts. I am lucky as I usually walk everyday except Fridays. I leave Friday to one side so that I can ensure I am at peak fitness for parkrun every Saturday morning. Biodiversity is not part of the organisation’s remit to improve, but it can definitely highlight some incredible projects in Norfolk that benefit from intensive efforts by many volunteers and professionals alike, hence the visit to Wild Ken.

There is no doubt about it, as we saw in last week’s blog, Wild Ken Hill is a leading proponent of this march toward an improved world, its rewilding schemes are so important from a practical point of view as much as educating the rest of us in ways to improve our blighted landscapes. I am fortunate in that there are two of these schemes very near to where I live. Massingham Heath, overseen by the landowner and an amazing individual by the name of Tim Baldwin, is slowly but surely returning to the ways of centuries past. It recently featured in one of the best artwork projects I have ever known. The Society of Wildlife Artists are about halfway through a year in recording the habitat for the rest of us to enjoy for posterity. Even though I can’t see the drawings and paintings I have been told by so many people that they are the match of any such works in the world.

On Sunday 9th November Jane and I sought out a walk that wasn’t the norm, that is walking around the beautiful maze of country lanes that emanate from our village, so drove over to Castle Acre to walk a short section of the Nar Valley Way. We parked just outside the gates of Castle Acre Priory and walked along as far as the West Acre Stag public house before turning tail and heading back. Along the way, we stumbled across the West Acre Wilding Project, a rewilding section which, like Ken Hill, has introduced cattle, pigs and ponies along with deer to rough up the ground to allow a more diverse nature to re-establish itself.

Both of the above are the types of walk you can find yourself on with Pathmakers, allowing you to get up close and personal with biodiversity projects and learn about their importance to rewilding.

I really hope to do more with Pathmakers and parkrun in 2026 and can see a huge benefit to both organisations should they join forces to promote fitness and mental wellbeing for all.

Many people with a disability, including visual impairment, think that a diagnosis can mean the end of their lives. This simply isn’t true, and I would urge you, if you are in such a mindset, to get out there and search out parkrun and groups such as Pathmakers. They will take you on such a journey that will open your eyes, metaphorically as well as physically, to all the beautiful things that go on in nature in our forever giving countryside.

The first words on its “About Us” page states the following, which I think sums the organisation up most succinctly: “Pathmakers are are a charity dedicated to improving access to the Norfolk countryside for people of all abilities and backgrounds.” I realise that this is not a strapline but easily could be. They do exactly what it says on the box. The fantastic “Walk Norfolk Festival” has now become an annual fixture, inaugurated in 2022, and held for the entire month of October each year since. Many of the organisation’s events are led by skilled and enthusiastic volunteers under the guiding hand of a magnificent Board of Trustees, all giving their time for free as well, as far as I can tell.

Find Out More
Pathmakers: www.pathmakers.org.uk
Massingham Heath: www.massinghamheath.com
West Acre Wilding Project: www.westacre.info