“You’re in Cornwall now, it will get done when it’s done” – Anonymous
How to describe Cornwall for those who haven’t been there, without recourse to stereotypes? I’d never even thought about visiting the county prior to meeting Jo (whose immediate family reside there) – the closest I’d ever come to the South West was three years in Portishead and even then I was dimly aware of Cornwall’s existence, in the same way that I was aware of Antarctica, or Alpha Centauri. I’ve since visited three or four times and have gradually fallen in love with the place, not just because Falmouth is about as far away from London as you can be without either being in Scotland or in the sea, but mainly because of its attitude.
Time slows in Cornwall. There’s no rush, no anxiety, no smog, no skyscrapers, no Tube, no pressure, and no desire to have to be in three places at once. The biggest decision you might have to make on a particular day is whether your pasty will come from Rowe’s, Philps’, or Warren’s (but not obviously from Oggy Oggy), or whether that beach on the south coast is more attractive than the one on the North. Falmouth itself is a beautiful seaside town packed with cobbled streets, and boutique galleries, and yet even on weekends and evenings the pace is palpably slackened, with people’s minds more on a peaceful picnic at Pendennis rather than which glamorous superclub they might want to be spotted in that night. It’s impossible to feel anything other than relaxed – even the Cornish tongue, a tripping, sing-song brogue, slips out more slowly than any other English accent I can think of.
Having arrived late on Friday, I slept peacefully, the window open to let in the clear Cornish air, and woke early on Saturday. The plan was to take a boat ride from Falmouth docks, across the Carrick Rhodes and along the River Fal to the county town of Truro, for lunch and a wander. The comfortingly Cornish pilot chugged the boat slowly through the August morning, past gigantic cargo ships marooned in the water, and platforms of ropes mysteriously dangled silently in the water (I later learnt they were mussel farms). Unlike the Hampton Court Palace river trip, we were the only tourist boat in sight, surrounded by endless water and trees and sky, bouncing from small coastal Cornish villages where small groups of tourists embarked and disembarked.
At one point we passed the grandly named King Harry Ferry, a chain ferry that takes twenty minutes to haul its cargo of cars one mile across the River Fal, to cut out a twenty-seven mile journey around the coast. More than a hundred years old, it is a traditional part of Cornish history and completely embodies travel in the county – slow, gentle and with affinity for the landscape. In London, we’d have just plonked a steel bridge over the banks, no doubt sponsored by some corporate giant, and charged a tenner a journey.
And so as we wandered around the lovely town of Truro – I’ll write more about the town in a later post, but as a summary it’s kind of South-West version of York with more pasties and cider – I once again to feel at home in this strange county. As far as Cornwall is from my home town, I feel its spirit and its attitude to life is far more in harmony with my own. Sure, Cornwall can do excitement just like anywhere else, but right now I’d take a beach, a cider, and a Roskilly ice-cream any day of the week.
