The C Word

(This is actually the reflection of the sun in a puddle in case you're wondering and has absolutely nothing to do with this post.)

The other night I was wide awake (sleep is somewhat disrupted at present) thinking about the C word. Christmas. I’ve never been a great fan, to be honest – I’m not religious, I hate all the commercialisation and overindulgence associated with it, and not having children or grandchildren makes a mockery of much of the festive season.

As Pip died on Boxing Day last year, I am looking forward to Christmas less than usual this year, as you can imagine. But what to do?

Well, much though I love them, I feel very strongly that I don’t want to be with my family. They will be far too aware of This Time Last Year and I am aware that they could be treading on eggshells. I don’t want to be treated like porcelain. I want to be able to howl if I want, have a cuddle then go for a long walk and have a few drinks without worrying about anyone else.

There are a few people I would very much like to be with but most of them are taken up visiting their families. I’ve been invited by several other friends, so have a few possibilities and was reasonably happy with that until I met a close friend the other night for a drink. When I told her what I had vaguely planned she frowned.

“This Christmas I think you should get right away,” she said. “Do something completely different.” And as soon as she said it, I knew she was right.

The trouble is a) where to go, b) with whom (I don’t want to be on my own but I know instinctively who would be right and who wouldn’t, and c) there’s Molls to take into account. She either has to come with me or I need to find someone who can take her over Christmas.

This afternoon I was out walking Molls by the side of a field full of cauliflowers. I looked out over the grey winter landscape, at the blokes with battered coats picking muddy cauli after cauli. Rooks swooped in the distance over Rowland Hilder trees and I thought, “really, it’s only a few days. I‘ll get through it.” And I will get through it. But now that seed has been planted in my mind, I want to do more than just get through it. I’d like, if possible, to enjoy some of it.

What I need is a magic wand and a magic carpet. Failing that – any ideas?

Lastly – and this is connected, I’m not rambling - I’m reading Daphne du Maurier’s The King’s General. The plot is basically that some things in life have to be fought for – happiness, love and ambition in this instance, which reminded me that we all need to believe in what we are doing, and fight our corner, however hard this may seem.

And then I read this Cornish quote, as said to D du M, which I find very soothing: The sea is itself a symbol of the uncertainties of fate. “You will embark on a fair sea, and at times there will be fair weather and foul. Never lose courage. Safe harbour awaits you in the end.”

So regardless of what happens over Christmas – if I end up in far flung snowy wastelands, overheated houses or wave tossed beaches in Cornwall, I will think of the safe harbour awaiting me and those that I love.

Helford river walk

I did this walk back on a perfect summer's day (yes, we did have one) that will stay with me for a long while...

A circular walk in Daphne du Maurier country -
by the Helford river, St Anthony Church and Gillan Creek


The Helford river has great allure for me, mostly because of Daphne du Maurier's books, which I have read avidly since a teenager. While the pirates might be absent, and the traders be long gone, if you walk carefully and keep your senses alert, I swear you can catch the rustle of a crinoline, the flash of a sword and the rattle of an anchor.

With this in mind, Mollie Dog and I set off one morning with Deb, Viv and her effervescent terrier, Titch, left Falmouth and headed to towards Mawnan Smith. In the middle of the village we bore right past the Red Lion pub, following signs to Helford Passage. This road passes Glendurgan and Trebah gardens, and when it bears round to the right we drove straight ahead signposted to the Ferryboat Inn. Towards the bottom of a steep hill was a sign to the Ferryboat Inn and car park – we turned right and parked here (£1 per day). Down the hill was Helford Passage, where the passenger ferry operates over to Helford Village and back in the summer months.

Unfortunately a stiff easterly wind was blowing, and together with a very low tide, meant the ferry couldn't run, so we had to get back in the car and follow signs to Gweek, then Mawgan and Helford. Finally we arrived at the car park at Helford Village and headed towards the sailing club, took a Public Footpath sign and turned left through the woods. The path here is rocky and can be very muddy in winter, and leads down some steps onto a road where we turned right up the hill then left with a stream on our right, past a stall with an incredible selection of glass stoppered bottles in blues, greens and browns. Taking the next left into Bosahan Woods (dogs under strict control here) we followed this narrow windy path through the trees.

This path closely follows the shore looking over to Porth Saxon beach and Toll Point opposite. Out in Falmouth Bay we saw several tankers moored up, a couple of yachts with yellow and blue spinnakers billowing and St Anthony lighthouse in the hazy distance. Passing through a kissing gate we entered a field flanked by nettles, sorrel and clover. At this juncture we met a pack of dogs of various shapes and sizes with their owners and a friendly dog battle ensued. Thankfully canines were all rescued intact and unharmed and we continued round the edge of several fields, up a steep path, into a field at the top of the hill where the ground was scattered with speedwell and field bindweed. Looking down we could see the vastness of Gillan Creek, parched of water at low tide.

Passing through a wooden kissing gate we followed the path down the middle of this field. Knowing that I'm not keen on cattle, Deb waited till we'd got towards the end of the field before telling me that the last time she'd been here the field was full of cows and a bull, but thankfully this time there were just cowpats. This path led to a dusty track and we turned left down towards St Anthony Church.

The first mention of the church of St Anthony in Meneage is in 1170. This church, built on the bank of Gillan Creek, is said to have been built from Normandy stone by Norman sailors, as a thanksgiving for being saved from drowning. The carpeted church is beautifully kept, still lit by candles, has an old whipping post near the entrance and is well worth a visit.

Leaving the church we walked along the creek as it was low tide – otherwise take the lane bordering the creek inland for about a mile. Every Good Friday local families gather at the cockle beds at Bar Beach, Treath and Gillan to collect cockles and other shellfish. This tradition, dating from pre-Christian times, is known as trigging. People are encouraged to leave any undersized cockles (smaller than a 20p piece) and only take as many as they need for their own consumption, while still enjoying their traditional family day on the shore.

Tripping over a little spider crab, I saw a grassy knoll on our right with a wooden caravan on wheels, like a Victorian bathing machine. Incredulously we looked round, and set back in the trees was a smaller one, like a gypsy caravan, newly painted in cream and red trimming. Delighted, Mollie and I ran over to investigate and found, in amongst the bushes, several sheds and a picnic table covered by an awning. With a barbecue area out front, it was just like a scene out of Swallows and Amazons.
Leaving this area of paradise behind, we headed along the creek while a rooster crowed in the distance. Mollie scampered into what little water there was in the creek, and emerged with her tail wagging, all four legs covered in black treacly mud.
Scrambling further along the creek we came to a newly built stone wall, and just before this an almost sheer path which led back up to the lane. Hauling ourselves up, we were able to enjoy hedges full of dog roses and campion, and looking back at the creek through the trees was a bevy of swans, splashing and enjoying an afternoon siesta.
Turning sharp right inland we headed through a wooden gate (if you're under a size 10 you can squeeze past the gate post) and into woods up a long steep hill. It was stony and damp underfoot but ahead was a wall of tumbling wild roses, almost obscuring what looked like a studio in amongst the foxgloves. All we needed was the fox and we could have stepped into a Beatrix Potter book.
The path bore round to the left, past some restored barns and a sign to Manaccan. Past a churchyard on the left, we walked ahead through a lych gate and stopped in the churchyard, where an empty wooden seat awaited us, in the shade of a fig tree growing out of the church wall.
Restored by biscuits, apples and water for us and the dogs, we left the churchyard and turned right up the hill, past Manaccan Primary School. Wild sweet peas billowed out from the wall on our right and passing a cafe on the right, we took the first left signposted to Helford.
This field led over a stile, crossed the road and into another field, then downhill and into more woods. Looking up on the right was a beautiful white (grey) horse, so perfect it seemed unreal. Dazzled, we headed on through more woods ignoring waymarks to the right or left, continuing ahead where we passed a row of whitewashed cottages. Heading down a steep concreted path, this led to another row of cottages which we kept on our right, up the hill past several painters, eager to capture the beauty of Helford Village, until we arrived back in Helford car park. At the entrance is Down by the Riverside cafe, and we settled on seats outside for very welcome tea and slabs of home made cake.
As I lay awake that night, I knew that this day and this walk will remain with me forever. I relived the white sunlight sizzling the ivy leaves, the welcome easterly breeze as we rounded Dennis Head, and the silent, peaceful mystery of Gillan Creek. I can't wait to do it again.

FACTBOX
OS Explorer 103, The Lizard, Falmouth and Helston
Length: 5.5 miles
Duration: 2 ¾ hours
Grade: moderate, some steep hills; walking through the woods can be muddy and slow
Helford Passage ferry - www.helford-river-boats.co.uk.
Ferryboat Inn, Helford Passage - 01326 250625.
Shipwrights Inn, Helford Village – 01326 231235
The beach at Helford Passage is not dog friendly in summer
Down By the Riverside Cafe at Helford Village car park. There are also public toilets here.
New Inn, Manaccan

Ch-ch-ch-ch-chan-ges.....

This is Frenchman's Creek, made famous by Daphne du Maurier in her novel of that name. In it, the heroine, Donna, undergoes a huge life change by running away from London to the obscurity of Cornish life and falls in love with a pirate. Which makes the novel sound like a trite whimsical affair - if you read it, it's anything but. This is someone who knows her creeks and tides, knows the way the wind russles in the trees. She knows her boats and her birds, she can write about tension, love, suspense and escapism, and all of this is evident in her writing.

On Monday a group of us got together for a meal, and everyone there is undergoing change. One of us lost her partner in February. She has been struggling through the necessary change in living without him, discovered she has far more friends than she had dreamt of, and has now decided to work for the Samaritans. I take my hat off to her - the training sounds very hard but I think she will be brilliant at it; furthermore, I'm sure she will gain a lot from it.

Another friend is struggling with a part time course, a part time job and trying to paint. You know those days when you feel you're sinking? I think that's how she feels at the moment. Looking at it objectively, she needs to either give something up, organise her time better or get up earlier. Putting it into practise is the bit that requires discipline, as we all know...

My change is continual, but I like having a life where every day is different. This week I've met a wonderful fellow who started collecting vintage gramophones when he retired, and has now had to go back to being self employed, he's so successful. I've struggled with family problems (still unresolved) and tussled with the novel. The novel is the hardest of all - I love doing it but it's so difficult to know if the edits I'm doing are enough. But all writers are insecure and I'm no different from the rest. It's learning to live with the fact that my writing is never good enough - or to look at it another way, it could always be better. That's either depressing or a constant challenge. I prefer to see it as the latter.

Yesterday we did the Frenchmans Creek walk for Cornwall Today magazine on a day of such intense brightness that the sunlight was almost white. These days are the ones I will hold onto in the grey murk of winter (which let's face it isn't that different from the grey murk of summer in the West Country). These days make me so very glad to live here.

My third friend has met a new man, is incredibly stressed at work and is struggling to cope with all that. She knows the work side of things will calm down and being a philosophical person, has accepted that she will go through sleepless periods when she's so stressed she can't think straight, and that very soon she can give it all up. Hooray!

Her new man sounds lovely if shy and so she's suggested a topic of conversation for when they next meet. The fact that she's chosen polygamy is perhaps unfortunate, but that's what the wine and sex diet does for you...

What changes are you going through, and how are you dealing with them?

Flowerpot's Moments of Fame Part Two

Mum rang at six o’clock last night.

‘In my paper it says something else is on at 7.30,’ she said. You could hear the panic bubbling down the phone. ‘Are you sure?’

‘Well, that’s what Dermot said and I guess he should know,’ I said. Thinking, well, there’s not much I can do about programme timings.

‘You will tape it, won’t you, so I can see it when I come down?’ bleated poor Mum.

I reassured her – Himself had spent some time making sure that the video would tape, and all went well up until 7.20 when I dashed next door to put the tape on.

It wouldn’t work. I hollered to Himself who grunted, abandoned the last of his meal and hurried down the corridor, saying, ‘Don’t be silly, Pop, it was working this afternoon.’

Ten minutes later, it still wasn’t working so I ran back to the snowy screened telly in the kitchen, shouting at Himself to come and watch.

He emerged, nearly in tears of rage and threw the remote onto the floor. It broke.
He was past caring.

‘****ing thing,’ he said – and other words in a similar vein.

Then we sat down and watched my fleeting glimpse of fame together.

I can’t tell you what a relief it was not to come over as some idiot who couldn’t string two words together. Then Mum rang for her debrief – she approved, saying, ‘you looked almost intelligent.’

Thanks, Mum.

Then my mate Deb rang to offer congratulations and Himself kissed me and said, ‘I’m so proud of you, Pop.’

By this time I was so excited I was running up and down the flat, saying ‘Mollie, Mollie, Mum’s famous!’

Mollie looked at me quizzically and jumped up and down as well, and after about half an hour, Himself said, ‘Careful, Pop. You’ll burst.’ And sent us out for a long walk.

I'm glad to say that a friend has taped it for me, so I can relive my moments of glory over and over and bore myself rigid (I won't inflict it on anyone else, never fear).

But The main reason I was so pleased was that the object of the programme was to vote for your favourite Westcountry author. The others on the panel voted for Thomas Hardy whereas I was torn between Daphne du Maurier and Mary Wesley.

I was glad to see that they opened the programme with my first soundbite on Mary Wesley and sex, (yes they did keep that bit!) and closed it with mine on Daphne du Maurier’s gift for writing. So I had my say.