Cornwall - Part 2

If you end up going on holiday, staying in the same vicinity as your grandchildren, you know that as sure as eggs is eggs, it will be your duty to take them out on an individual basis for some quality grandad and grandma time, well quality grandma time, or nanna time as this particular bunch call it.

I think grandad happens to be an unfortunate consequence of spending time with nanna. It must seem to them that she spends more time attending to my accessibility needs than theirs.

I do like to kid myself that it will make them all grow up to be incredibly well-rounded individuals and care for those less able than themselves, or does familiarity breed contempt? Well, not so far, all four of our amazing grandchildren are right on it when it comes to ensuring grandad doesn’t bump into things, I just wish they would remember that protecting the old boy doesn’t stop when we get home, try clearing your toys away after you’ve finished with them, standing on a Lego brick is the same as being shot in the foot.

Let me, at this stage, introduce the two sproglets in question. The older, clocking in at eight years old, is Alice, and the youngest of this batch is Bobby, six at the time of writing. I already have a love-hate relationship with him. I love him dearly, as I do all of them, but I hate him because he is so much better than me at parkrun. I have not yet broken the 30-minute barrier, yet as far as I am aware, he has only done two and already has a PB of 26-something. See what I mean! Fair play to him, he also knows how to rub it in.

Anyway, we let Bobby have first dibs at what he wanted to do as his special treat. He had loved standing on the edge of the harbour, watching the tourist boats plying their trade, in and out of the anchored yachts assembled for the regatta.

Having located the famous blue kiosk from where we could book a tour, Jane and Bobby parked me by a rubbish bin, told me not to go anywhere and went off to purchase our tickets. At least I kept the gulls from showing interest in the contents, but it did chuck up a wee bit.

First things first, having moaned last week as I did about the cost of fish and chips, ice cream and beer, crucial ingredients of a coastal holiday, I have to say that Fowey River Trips and Sea Cruises were incredible value for money, £10 for adults and only a fiver for children. Honestly, if they were double that I don’t think any of us could complain. They can certainly boost their prices now, especially now that I’ve been on them!

We took our seats on “Troy” under the stewardship of Captain Paddy, after the crew gave particular attention to my blindness in ensuring I didn’t fall into the water whilst boarding. I don’t suppose that would look awfully good on its resume, would it. They were equally diligent whilst disembarking, no standing back and waiting for the walking the plank bit to end in disaster. Well done, I wish everyone was like that.

The commentary was first class, not too much and not too little if you know what I mean. The skipper pointed out all the things that enhanced the experience but didn’t bore us with such detail as “Wow! Look at that, there’s another seagull diving into the water for another fish.”

The former home of Daphne du Maurier was pointed out to us, not a bad spot, which has made me revisit her work, all I can recall is “Jamaica Inn,” but I will be obtaining an audio book for our forthcoming cruise to the Caribbean. Have now checked out her listings in Apple’s audio books and had forgotten some of her other works. The standout one, I guess, is “Rebecca” but I like the sound of “Frenchman’s Creek,” and will be adding it to my reading/listening list to help while away the hours and hours on those dreaded seadays.

Jumping from that to the French woman’s house, quite the link, hey. The woman in question is Dawn French, and her former home had a commanding position overlooking this idyllic setting.

I say former but am not sure I took everything on board, but I totally get it why it would be former, I can’t think of anything worse than boatloads of tourists gawping at her pad.

Whilst many points of historic interest were pointed out to us, there are two that stick in my mind. St Catherine’s Castle, built by Henry VIII in the 1530s as part of a huge defensive chain of fortifications to see off the pesky French and Spanish.

I love it when pieces about old buildings suggest that they were built by this king or that Queen, I can’t imagine Henry donning a hard hat, hi-vis vest and toe-tectors and getting down and dirty with his trowel, saw and paintbrush, can you. I would prefer they used the word commissioned. There I go again, pedantic by the Atlantic.

The Polroan Block House was shown to us, there used to be two, one was on the Fowey side of the river, and they were constructed sometime in the mid to late fourteenth century to support a chain slung across the harbour entrance to stop the realm’s enemies, who were frequently raiding the main coastal towns of Southern England.

The enemies at the time were France and, not being able to deal with us on their own, Castille, one of the forerunners of Spain before they were joined in the Iberian unification. To have manufactured and installed such a magnificent feat of civil engineering, about 650 years ago, just fills me with awe, some of the chain’s links were 16 inches long, that’s 400mm in modern terms.

Bobby said that he really enjoyed his afternoon with Nanna and Grandad, and he proved this by persuading Mummy, Daddy and Alice to go back for another go after we had taken our leave and headed back to East Anglia. This time they were on “Bonita” skippered, rather appropriately, by Captain Bob. We all thoroughly enjoyed our boat trips around the harbour, and they certainly have more strings to their bow, so I recommend you give them a go if you are on holiday, but if you live in the south-west, why have you not tried them out already. Details of the website can be found below.

The day after dawned grizzly, yesterday had been glorious. It is almost impossible to conceive that two so different days can be attached to one another, but this is England, where we can have all four seasons can make an appearance in one day.

Today was Alice’s turn. We were to follow in the cart tracks of William Wyatt’s prison wagon, as it headed to Bodmin Jail, with a brief stop at Launceston’s Lent Assizes, and, eventually, the execution chamber of the prison.

As soon as we stepped up to the counter to pay, the lad spotted my white cane and asked if we would be considered a visually impaired person with companion, plus a junior as well, of course. Isn’t that impressive? It would be really nice if all venues were so observant and, in turn, accommodating. I am so moved by such instances that I feel like saying that there is no need for the discount and that we are happy to pay the full price. Then my hereditary tightness kicks in and contemplates the couple of bonus pints of local ale I can have at the hotel later instead. Not sure if the teller pressed a magic button at all, but as we walked through the turnstile a lady appeared from the darkness and offered me assistance and a lift ride down to the exhibition. So proactive, hey! Ten out of ten!

We emerged from the lift into the last bit of a tunnel appearing, as it was, to be hewn from Cornish rock, eventually passing into a cavernous interactive hall. I wondered what was in store here. The lights dropped from dim to dark, I held onto Alice, pretending that I was protecting her, although it was really me who was terrified!

A booming voice cut into the stygian gloom. Alice didn’t miss a heartbeat. We were given a brief history of how hard it was for a working man to make his way in the harsh landscape, and seascape, of Kernow, Cornish for Cornwall, in the last three or four hundred years.

It is a Celtic word, although in later times the Anglo-Saxons referred to the peninsula as West Wales. That was fair enough, after all, the Romano-British had been forced to the edges of the land by the invading Germanic tribes from across the sea and Wales, to these marauding invaders meant foreigners. Isn’t that poppycock, it is the Welsh who were the true Brits whereas the Saxons and Angles along with all that followed were the Johnny-foreigners, if you like, the illegal migrants of their time.

Not sure anyone had the front to point that out to them except, of course, for King Arthur, but he couldn’t do it on his own. Never quite understood why we hold Arthur up as this paragon of British triumphalism, after all, he lost but, hey, we love an underdog in this country, don’t we? Can you imagine the actual ending of 60 years of hurt if our men’s football team wins next year’s World Cup? Truth is, we wouldn’t be able to cope with winning, it is so not us.

Anyway, back to the matter in hand, life across the centuries, desperately trying to make a living in Cornwall. Tin mines, fishing, farming on the moors and digging the China clay from the ground. It was all backbreaking work so no wonder many were tempted by the other profession synonymous with this part of the world, smuggling.

If it paid off a man, or woman for that matter, could become very wealthy. If it didn’t work out, though, it was, more than likely, a hemp collar for you. And if you were to don that attire it would be, just as likely, the scaffold at Bodmin Jail where you would put it on for the first and last time.

When going through the smuggling bit it was like we were standing on a beach waiting for the illegal merchandise to be brought ashore. The wind was howling, the timbers of the ships were creaking and the spiteful rain, mixed with vicious spindrift, was battering our faces. There was a video to accompany the sound and touch effects which, according to Jane, was incredibly realistic. Alice was spellbound.

For the narrative we were following, it wasn’t ever going to be a happy ending was it, along come the Revenuers, the Excise Men, to spoil the party. They rounded up the smugglers, and it was off to clink for them. Most would never see the light of day again. Every now and again there would have been a stinking rich ne’er-do-well with influential friends in high places who would keep them away from the hangman’s clutches.

At least in these days of equality we can be sure that sort of thing doesn’t go on any longer, can’t we. If it does, maybe all you have to do to get away with it is change your name, perhaps a prince, for example, could drop the title and assume a common name, maybe ditch the double-barrelled bit, though, that’ll throw them off the scent.

We then went through to the dressing up section, where it was, sort of, possible to experience life as a prisoner in olden days. The clothing, the punishments and the food. None of it was very attractive. Try on a prison uniform, fortunately ridded of lice and other less desirable critters to share trousers and shirts with.

The punishment usually consisted of repetitive hard labour exercise, which I never got the point of, why not put the villains to some useful tasks; there was the heavy weights that had to be repeatedly lifted up and down until every muscle in your body ached, it produced nothing at all. Then there was the treadmill, something we do for enjoyment these days. The food was not very appetising, talk about a diet of bread and water: the bread was at least a couple of weeks old, rejected by everyone else, whilst the water was dragged from the nearest river.

Many prisoners were not necessarily sent here to be executed but many would die before their sentences had run their course as disease was so rife that death would often result. Prisoners were incarcerated for as little as pinching a loaf of bread from the market, children as young as eight years old would be hanged on a regular basis. Rough justice indeed.

Finally, I realised we were walking the final steps of William Wyatt’s life, we were shown into the execution chamber. We stepped up onto the wooden scaffold, the tension built as we led up to the convicted man being brought in, placed into the noose, praying for the last time with the prison chaplain, before he was ready to meet his maker. And it really is quite surprising how many were ready to meet their makers, the overriding belief in God meant that many took their final plunge down to eternity with joy in their hearts as they would be freed from the mortal burden that had taunted their every waking hour in an exceptionally harsh environment. It is very hard to envisage in 2025 isn’t it.

We waited for the moment, all sound ceased, breath caught in our throats. Then, the lever was thrown and the floor dropped away beneath us. I think it only fell away a few millimetres but it was enough to make people gasp.

William Wyatt was not fortunate enough to have the private suite send-off that others received later but was despatched via the new short-drop scaffold in front of the Jail. His case had attracted a huge crowd, people coming from near and far to witness the attraction.

That is exactly what it was back in the day, a huge event, and probably drew in a larger audience than many modern-day concerts or sporting fixtures. Children played between the rows of adults, all barging one another for a better view, it really was good wholesome family entertainment, pie sellers would be hawking their wares so that you would not go hungry awaiting the main event. Finally, of course, after the condemned man was cut down, the rope would be sold off as a memento of the day’s excitement, hence the term, “Money for old rope.”

Now just before we move on from Cornwall, I would like to leave you with a little food for thought. I am sure that you are all aware of the discussions ongoing around the subject of slavery reparations. There is no question about it, slavery should be abhorrent by anyone’s standards, no matter how low, and as I touch on in “Wish Dead List,” it continues to this day in the most heinous of ways, modern slavery.

Would it be fair, therefore, if the southern coast counties of England, Wales and Ireland would receive compensation from some modern-day African nations. It is estimated that in excess of 25,000 British and Irish were abducted and sold in the African slave markets. I often find it amusing to hear reactions from some of the reparation advocates that Brits were sold into African slavery.

I do admit, though, the scale does not seem to have been ratcheted up until Europeans bought and sold Africans into the markets of the New World. Two wrongs don’t make a right, and I accept that. When it comes to the reparation stone, I say let he who is without sin and all that sort of thing.

Talking of sin, it appears that the only nation on the face of the Earth not to have ever traded in slaves is Vatican City. This statement is a little on the erroneous side, though, as the papal state wasn’t established until the 1920s. Prior to that, however, there were many Popes who didn’t mind a slave or a hundred. To them, at the time, they didn’t see anything wrong with it, as long as they were only taken from heathen and pagan lands, Christians were not allowed to be enslaved by other true Christians, under the threat of excommunication. My word! Doesn’t God move in mysterious ways.

Reparations, you what, stop picking on the poor old British, as discussed above, take your complaints to the Saxon, Danish, Jutish and Norman parliaments. Nowt to do with us, guv, we are as much the victim here as the rest of you.

Just before sending this blog to press, I was lucky enough to attend an audio described performance of “Titanic the Musical.” That is where we shall start next week. I certainly collected tonnes of material and am looking forward to sharing this with you.

Find Out More
Eden Project: www.edenproject.com
Harbour Cruise: www.foweycruise.co.uk
Bodmin Jail: www.bodminjail.org

White Cane Ratings
Eden Project: very good – 🦯 🦯 🦯 🦯 (4)
Harbour Cruise: very good - 🦯 🦯 🦯 🦯 (4)
Bodmin Jail: excellent - 🦯 🦯 🦯 🦯 🦯 (5)