The country side in England is
exactly as I imagined it, and more. I cannot help but be utterly enchanted by
forests that come straight from a fairy-tale, with falling leave and thick
brambles running through. The roads are exquisite; so small and narrow, with
hedges and stone fences guiding the car along as we drive. Tall trees are
overhead. Leaning in to cover the road over. Even the clouds seem closer than
in Australia.
This morning we are on an excursion
with Chris, Hugh’s father, to the ruins of Tintagel castle.
I am fascinated as we pass
Moorlands, so desolate and beautiful, past slated rocks, and past green
pastures.
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| To Tintagel! |
Cornwall is simply natural. One of
those rare places where fresh air actually exists. Fences aren’t fences here –
they are overgrown bits of nature that seem to be used to mark where territory
begins and ends. Houses are more organic – wooden, stone or with thatched
roofs; if no-one was to interrupt, the natural world would creep over and
consume dwellings effortlessly. Technology doesn’t seem to have wriggled its
way into this corner of the earth.
Tintagel too blends in to the earth. Old and rugged stones seemed to sprout from the cliffs; the remaining roots from a haven that had fallen into the ocean. The cold ocean has won, relentlessly beating against the land until it ceded and fell.
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| Castle ruins, sprouting from the grass |
Tintagel was a place for the farmlands
to meet the ocean, marrying the bounty of the sea with the bounty of the land.
A small stone church and graveyard lost
in a sea of grasses held steady against the windy ocean air. A quiet place of reflection.
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| Church at Tintagel |
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| Post office in Tintagel |
In the village itself, an old stone post office stands with roof sagging but still preserved and finding itself fit for a purpose. Strong against the ravages of a cold wind. The small town is silent and with no movement.
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| Hugh walking Lettie in the village |
Only the bakery shows signs of
life, with a welcoming and pleasant aroma wafting out the doors. A hot Cornish pasty
and butterscotch steamer spreads warmth from my fingertips to my mouth and to
my stomach. The texture of stewed meat and vegetables bliss. I lament that I
probably won’t ever be able to find one of these in Australia. I would move to
England just for the pasties.
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| Pasty & Butterscotch Steamer |
It’s no surprise that Cornwall is
now my favourite place in the world. A place where no matter which direction I
turn my head, my eyes can drink in a visual treat. Where the food is so good my
brain seems to shut down to focus on the flavours.
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| Tintagel |
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| Waterfall from a stream into the ocean |
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