Marazion, Inspiration and Alkatraz

Himself took this photo on Monday when I was interviewing a limner (someone who paints miniatures) in Marazion. The weather was perfect, and on the way down it was so still and clear that the two tankers out in Mounts Bay seemed to be suspended in the sky - a truly unforgettable sight (and one alas not recorded on camera).

Two dog walking friends of ours have recently lost their dogs which is always very sad. The first, Maggie, has at least got another, younger dog to keep her company which is some comfort. But Margaret, an indomitable Scot of hardy breeding and great cheer, greeted us the other day minus dog and explained that she'd had to have her Dougie put down as he had bone cancer. We expressed commiserations (in my case, tears already starting to dribble down my face like unwanted snails) and she continued brightly, “I wasn't going to get another dog but my family have said I should, and so have The Girls.” (The Girls are aged 69 and 82.)

“Good idea,” said Himself. “And there are lots of dogs in need of a good home.”

“Yes,” Margaret continued. “I thought I'd go to the Cinnamon Trust and perhaps the Rescue Centre at Hayle and see what they've got – I want an older dog, that doesnt need too much exercise.” She paused and looked at me with her head on one side, like a robin. “The thing is,” she said, “I'm 89. The dog could well outlive me!”

On that note we parted, still reeling from her announcement of her fine age. To meet her, you'd think she was in her late 70s. But 89?

She is a true inspiration.

And on another note – we had our first night camping in the van last Saturday. On Sunday morning, desperate to buy something for a picnic, we found ourselves in the hinterland of Newquay and were forced to go to a Costcutter supermarket in the middle of a holiday park.

Neither of us had ever been to one of these places before and lurched round it with an increasing sense of panic and despair, dodging the Bar and Tavern, the train rides, the Bingo hall and somewhat unhygienic looking pool.

Having shopped, I was (as ever) desperate to find the public toilets which involved further negotiation of the site, Himself getting increasingly ill tempered.

“My God,” he breathed. “It's like Alcatraz. Do you think we'll get out of here alive?”

Thankfully, as you will have realised, we did.

Carn Marth

Another Cornwall Today walk - taking in one of the highest hills in West Cornwall,
home to an open air theatre built in a quarry

On a grey Friday Rebecca, Mollie dog and I set off to Carn Marth, a childhood stamping ground of Rebecca's. Carn Marth lies a couple of miles southeast of Redruth and is 771 feet high; one of several ancient hills that runs down Cornwall's spine, providing perfect sites for beacons to warn of impending attack, mark victories and celebrations of all sorts. I was keen to explore this walk, having heard much of the open air theatre and of the view from the top of the hill: on a clear day it's one of the only places in Cornwall from where both coasts can be seen.

So we headed off on the A393 from Falmouth towards Redruth, going through Ponsanooth, then Lanner. Climbing the hill out of Lanner, we took a turning on the right called Pennance Road and continued along here until we came to a traffic calming section with a notice saying Priority Over Oncoming Traffic. Just past here is a layby on the left where we parked and took the footpath leading uphill.

I'd been told that there are cuckoos, warblers, swallows and occasionally peregrines to be seen, and as my knowledge of birds is limited, I took my Christmas present of an RSPB book (thanks, Mum). With my bird book in my pocket, we set off, the path curving round to the left, past Carn Marth House and Carn Marth Barn. A young springer spaniel appeared to say hello and saw us off along the lane with high hedges on each side, encrusted with emerald moss. Growing out of the hedges were gorse bushes and young saplings intertwined with ivy.

We climbed higher, where the path grew sandy, and looked down over sparse moorland to Lanner on our left. It reminded me of a scene from Wuthering Heights – remote granite farm houses loomed out of the mist. A dog barked, then a child screamed in the distance. I shivered and pulled my imagination away from moorland ghosts to my immediate surroundings: vast clumps of granite strewn by the side of the lane, like a giant's discarded toys. A row of fir trees sheltering a house; bright orange fungus growing from a dead gorse bush. Gnarled moorland hedges, windblown and sparse - and then, to our right, a huge white and grey cat, dozing high in the hedge, like the Cheshire Cat. It glared at Mollie who hiccuped with excitement but nothing fazed this magnificent creature who yawned and closed its eyes firmly.

Wondering if we'd strayed into the land of fiction, I looked ahead and there was a beautifully restored mine engine house. On closer inspection this turned out to be Baronet's Engine House, built in 1866, formerly known as Wheal Amelia and part of Pennance Consols Mixed Mine.

Past Rockfield Farm we turned sharp right uphill past another farm marked by a huge Camellia bush with blowsy pink flowers. The concrete path led to a sandy track and soon we came to red gates on our left marking Carn Marth theatre.

In 1986, when plans were proposed to reopen a granite quarry on Carn Marth and remove 1.5 million tons of granite, there was fierce opposition. The Carn Marth Protection Group was founded and with the help and support of thousands of people, near and far, the hill was saved and a portion of the top was bought by the Carn Marth Trust.

It was then decided to convert the lower quarry into an open air theatre, forming terraces for a seating area, and installing electricity. The first production of The Three Musketeers, by Cornwall Theatre Company, was a great success, and generated much needed funds. Enthusiastic audiences of over four hundred brought cushions, blankets and food and drink.

Since those early days the Theatre Quarry has seen productions and performances every year by groups including Shiva, Kneehigh, Miracle, Hammered Steel, Carharrack & St Day Silver Band and Doreen Fiol’s influential Children’s Theatre. It has also been used for wedding and birthday celebrations.

The auditorium is an impressive sight, hewn out of vast walls of granite that tower over the grassy stage. In the drizzle it had an other worldly feeling, compounded by a few jackdaws that cried and circled above. Walking along the grassy tiered seats, I felt as if we were waiting for ghostly spectres to jump on stage and recite Shakespeare. As we looked around, a sudden burst of sunshine broke forth, lighting the auditorium. If I listened hard enough I felt sure I could hear the applause, see the actors bowing and smiling. Then the sun disappeared behind a cloud, and Mollie rushed onto the stage, did a lap of honour and disappeared stage right. We found her, nose down and paddling in a nearby pond full of what looked like loofah sponges. It turned out to be frogspawn, so when she moved on, her legs were covered in mud containing hundreds of potential baby frogs.

Reluctantly we left the theatre and walked out to our left, passing another flooded quarry, and climbed higher and higher, until the land levelled out and we reached a small obelisk. From here we had the most incredible view – looking east past St Agnes Beacon to Bodmin Moor, we could just see Rough Tor and Brown Willy (the highest hill in Cornwall at 1375ft). To the north was the Bristol Channel and to the south the English Channel. Rebecca (who has much better eyesight than me) – pointed out St Anthony’s Light at the entrance to Carrick Roads with Pendennis Castle and Falmouth opposite. Well, that's what she said they were – to me they were blurs, despite my glasses. Turning further west was the reservoir at Stithians, then Carnmenellis and Carn Brea, with views across the Great Flat Lode and its engine houses.

We drank in the view while Mollie played chase in a field containing a donkey, three ponies and the woolliest sheep I've ever seen. Slowly we walked back the way we'd come, and at the next junction marked by blue waymarks, we headed down the hill, while a lone kestrel hovered above (I checked the book and it definitely wasn't a peregrine). As I looked up, it swooped down into the field and emerged, clutching something small and struggling in its beak. I closed my eyes, glad I wasn't a mouse, and shut the bird book firmly.

At the next waymarked junction, by a derelict house, we turned right along a grassy track that led into a rocky path leading downhill. At the next junction, marked by oak apple trees on the right, we turned sharp left which led us back to the path that we came in on.

I can see why the Carn is so popular. Even on a misty day it is full of atmosphere and there is plenty to do: walking, fishing in the flooded quarries, enjoying the wildlife, flying kites, drawing, painting, photography, or an evening at the open air theatre.

Apparently this is a place to recharge your batteries. Having had weeks of flu-like symptoms, I read this with some scepticism. But you know what? We got back to the van and I realised, with amazement, that my ongoing exhaustion had eased. So next time you need a pick me up, go to Carn Marth.

FACTBOX
OS Explorer 104, Redruth & St Agnes
Length: 2 miles – approximately 1 hour
Grade: Steep in parts, rocky paths.
More information on the Carn Marth Trust and open air theatre: www.carnmarth.org.uk
Refreshments: The Fox and Hounds, Comford.
Lanner Garden Centre
Pennance Consols Mixed Mine – you can walk around the restored Baronet's Engine House which is on the southern slope of Carn Marth

Hot sweats

My sister in law sent me this piece, written by Lonnie Schlein in The New York Times.

Having a husband on hormone treatment for prostate cancer, and going through the menopause myself, this rang more than a few bells....

As my wife and I sat on the couch one night this past winter, reading and half-watching the inevitable HGTV, I started sweating hard and my face got so fevered and flushed that I felt as if I were peering into an oven.
I turned to Deb and said, “Man, I’m having a wicked hot flash.” And she said, “Me, too.” Then we laughed. You laugh a lot — unless your hormones are making you cry — when you’re having menopause with your wife.

"I was in the middle of treatment for an aggressive case of prostate cancer last winter, and it included a six-month course of hormone therapy. My Lupron shots suppressed testosterone, which is the fuel for prostate cancer.

When your testosterone is being throttled, there are bound to be side effects. So, with the help of Lupron, I spent a few months aboard the Good Ship Menopause with all the physical baggage that entails. It’s a trip that most men don’t expect to take.

The side effect that surprised me most were the hot flashes — not that I got them, I was expecting that, but by how intense they were. They often woke me in the middle of the night and made me sweat so much that I drenched the sheets. In midwinter I’d walk our miniature poodle, Bijou, wearing shorts and a T-shirt. I sometimes felt as if Deb could fry eggs on my chest. (It’s also a bit disconcerting when your hot flashes are fiercer than your wife’s.)

When it comes to hot flashes, ladies, I salute you. After my brief dalliance with that hormonal phenomenon, it seems to me it’s an under-reported condition. And it’s certainly under-represented in the arts. Where are the great hot flash novels or movies? How come there’s not a Web site or magazine called “Hot Flash Monthly”?
Hand in hand with the hot flashes came the food cravings. I lusted after Cheetos and Peanut Butter M&M’s, maple-walnut milkshakes, and spaghetti and meatballs buried in a blizzard of Parmesan. Isn’t it funny how cravings very rarely involve tofu, bean curd or omega-3 oils?

Then there was the weight issue. During the six months I was on Lupron I gained about 25 pounds. That was partly a byproduct of the cravings, but it also stemmed from the hormonal changes triggered in my body.

And I hated it, hated it, hated it. I had never had to worry about my weight, and I began to understand why media aimed at women and girls obsess over weight so much. It was strange and unsettling not to be able to tell my body, “No,” when it wanted to wolf down a fistful of Doritos slathered with scallion cream cheese.

When I wasn’t devouring a king-size Italian sub or smoldering from a hot flash, it seemed that I was crying. The tears would usually pour down when I got ambushed by some old tune: “Sweet Baby James” and “Fire and Rain” by James Taylor, “That’s the Way I’ve Always Heard It Should Be” by Carly Simon and, yes, “It’s My Party” by Lesley Gore. Not only was I temporarily menopausal, but it appeared that I was also turning into a teenage girl from the early 1970s.

There were other side effects, too, like headaches and fatigue. But when I started drinking Diet Coke for the first time in my life, my son Owen couldn’t take it anymore. He said, “Dad, are you turning into a chick?”

So, what else did I learn during my six months of hormone therapy?

Even though I only got to spend a brief time on the outer precincts of menopause, it did confirm my lifelong sense that the world of women is hormonal and mysterious, and that we men don’t have the semblance of a clue.

And, guys, when your significant female other bursts into tears at the drop of a dinner plate or turns on you like a rabid pit bull — whether she’s pregnant, having her period or in the throes of menopause — believe her when she blames it on the hormones.

One more thing. I don’t really know whether menopause likes company — you’d have to ask my wife that — but I do know that it really, really likes HGTV and Peanut Butter M&M’s."


 

The Optimist

Following an email received recently from a well meaning friend, Himself has taken this scare over bottled water very seriously.

Most of you have probably received something similar which claims that keeping bottled water in plastic bottles in the car can, when exposed to sunlight, cause cancer.

As a result I am now banned from keeping water in plastic bottles (shame as I do tend to get very thirsty in the car) so the question was, what to use instead?

As Himself has now thrown out every plastic bottle we have, I scoured the flat to see what I could find.

“Here!” cried Himself, brandishing something clear and made of glass.

I took the bottle, protesting. It was an empty half bottle of gin. (His gin drinking days were over a year ago which doesn't say much for the frequency of our spring cleaning.)

“Don't be silly,” he said. “That'll do fine.” And proceeded to wash it out.

Against my better judgement, I succumbed, and was last week found in Asda car park, slurping water out of this gin bottle. I got some very strange looks, particularly as I was driving.

I explained the problem to Himself (who, of course, didn't see it as a problem) but finally agreed that perhaps it was better if I wasn't pulled over for drinking and driving. Even if I wasn't.

“I've got just the thing!” he said (why do those words always worry me?)

And he produced – a hip flask....

Striking a balance

First the bad news - I got my first rejection for FOUR LEFT FEET. It was from an agent who had emailed and asked to see anything new I had, and was very fulsome in her praise (lovely word, fulsome). So I had high hopes. Silly me. Having exchanged various emails, the rejection, when it came, was a standard rejection letter, signed by a secretary. I think you can all guess how I felt. Pah! To put it mildly. But onwards and upwards and all that, so I will send it out again ASAP.

Enough of that. I wanted to talk about striking a balance today. We all have things in our lives that cause friction and interfere with our work. Family, friends, money problems, ill health, falling in love, breakdown of a relationship, schooling troubles – the list goes on and on.

In my case, my problem comes from the two arms of my writing. On one hand (the paying hand) I am a freelance journalist, and on the other I am an unpublished novelist. (But So Nearly There, according to agents!)

I feel like these two aspects of my writing life are like two children. The journalism daughter is called Chrissie. She is extrovert, confident, cheerful and punctual. She will take on anything, loves meeting people, and is very good at meeting deadlines with efficiency and tact. She wears jeans and sporty tops, or smart suits. She goes hiking and walks miles with her bouncy dog. She shops efficiently for food and never runs out of anything. She is, if you like, the conscious side of my brain.

My other daughter, the fiction one, is Felicity. She hides behind me when we meet people, and is always off day dreaming. She lives in awe of her older sister, the confident Chrissie. But she can weave stories with her words, and draw the most stunning pictures that spring into life, making other people wonder at her great talent. She needs to be left alone. She can be temperamental and grouchy, has no idea of time. She will emerge from writing, ravenous, devour food and leave trails of destruction. She runs out of food and has to eat cornflakes. She has low blood sugar levels from her mood swings. She likes sloppy clothes, floaty dresses and long skirts. She walks her dogs for miles over fields and paths, sits enraptured by the side of the sea, drinking it all in. She is the subconscious side.

And me? I'm the mum in the middle, with these two girls pulling me in ever opposing directions. Sometimes Chrissie takes us off in one direction, and we have an action filled day and return full of life and zing. At other times Felicity takes us and we have a day in the country, picnicking and enjoying the quieter, purer things of nature – with the odd extraordinary adventure thrown in.

Life goes well as long as there is a balance between these two. If there is not, that's when the trouble starts. One starts shouting, the other cries and life is discordant, my sleep is troubled, and I feel pulled in too many directions, don't know what to do or which way to go.

These are my two children whom I love dearly, but I've learnt the hard way that it's so important to keep a balance between the two of them.

What are your conflicts?

Do you believe in Guardian Angels?

A few weeks ago our cooker died so we tracked down a second hand one and went down to St Ives one sunny Saturday to collect it. St Ives, in season, is one of my least favourite places, but in early May it was bearable and we even managed to park, having got the cooker, and had a couple of hours strolling round in the sunshine.

Despite the crowds of early grockles (tourists), the sun made it all bearable and there were plenty of glimpses of what a special, fairytale like places St Ives was, and why so many people flocked there to paint.

Back home we then had the problem of trying to heave the old cooker out onto the pavement (which is five foot above road level), given that I'm not superwoman and Himself isn't getting any younger. We managed it, with a lot of heaving, sweating and swearing, and left it on the pavement outside the flat. Next we got the sack truck and lugged the new cooker up as far as the bit of pavement opposite the house which is on a steep slope.

As we stood there, I suggested ringing a friend. “Rob would help,” I said cheerfully. Himself refused – of course (male pride?) and we braced ourselves for the next heave when a young fellow – in his mid 20s at a guess – came along the road, wearing jeans, a hoodie and with a sharp face like a ferret.

“Wanna hand?” he said.

“Thanks – that would be great,” I said, before Himself could refuse.

So our new mate stubbed out his rollup and picked up the cooker. Given his skinny frame I was surprised he could lift anything more than a packet of fags, but up came the cooker and the next thing we knew he and it were inside the house.

We stood and gaped in astonishment, but he shrugged. “Wanna hand with the other one?” he said.

Himself declined and I decided not to push it this time, but beamed happily as matey shuffled off. “Wasn't that good timing?” I said, thinking no way would Himself have accepted help if I hadn't pushed it.

He grunted, and I wondered if we should have offered tea, or a beer? I looked down the road - given that it's a long street, I reckoned he'd be half way along. I could call after him, offer him a coffee or something.

But there was no sign of him. I ran down the path, surely he must be at the end of the road?

But he'd gone..... just – vanished.

While I like the idea of guardian angels, I find them difficult to fit into everyday life. But now and then you get something that makes you think.....

A Piece of Heaven

Wonderful news - Cornwall Today has just won Magazine of the Year at the Press Gazette Regional Press Awards 2009!

Here is my latest walk, in the May edition, out now.

THE TREASURE OF WEST PENTIRE
A coastal walk taking in Polly Joke beach, West Pentire and Cubert Common


My husband introduced me to Polly Joke shortly after we first met: he'd lived there with his uncle and aunt in the 1960s and was keen to show me “this bit of heaven”. It's now one of our favourite walks, but is best appreciated out of season.

On a clear, bright Friday morning I set off with photographer Rebecca, my husband and Mollie Dog with a holiday sense of excitement that only a trip to Polly Joke can bring. En route were welcome bursts of colour: daffodil shoots nudging green noses skyward; purple scatterings of crocus and miniature wild iris dotted the hedgerow.

At Chiverton Cross roundabout we took the A3075 to Newquay and continued past Goonhavern until we reached a small left hand turn signposted to West Pentire and Crantock. After Crantock village we followed signs to West Pentire, and at the end of the road found Crantock Bay Hotel on our right and the Bowgie (Cornish for cow shed) pub straight ahead. A public car park is just round the corner on the left.

From this car park we returned to the main road and turned left to go through a gate leading to West Pentire Head. Peering over the tamarisk hedges to our right, the sun glistened on the River Gannel estuary and the sand dunes of Crantock Beach. We continued along this path and reached the grassy headland of West Pentire that at various times of the year is dotted with cowslips and poppies.

Today our attention was distracted by a skylark above us that winged its way, higher and higher, singing loudly as it flew – they do this to detract from their nest on the ground. Rebecca and I watched as it soared up, before plummeting back down to the ground in silence. We looked at each other in awe, but our reverie was broken by a bark from Mollie. She stood with her head on one side and I could almost see the bubble over her head saying, “what are you DOING? Come on!”

Obediently moving on, we noticed feral rock pigeons swooping and diving under the cliffs. I rushed to restrain Mollie from chasing them and we followed the coastal path round to the left, looking out on an azure sea covered in foam. We headed downhill, past the spot where my husband buried some Cornish tin jewellery for luck, forever marked by stunted tamarisk trees that are windblown and sparse.

Looking down at Polly Joke was like stumbling across a cove in paradise, it was so perfect, so unspoilt. We stood in silence, then my husband said happily, “it's just sitting there quietly, waiting for us to visit.”

It seemed it was, so we hurried down to the beach. When the tide is out, there is a wide expanse of pure golden sand, dotted with secret caves of swirly slate. These rocks were apparently formed during the Devonian period, about 350 million years ago, and quartz veins can be seen running through them.

A wide stream bisects the beach, and Mollie tore along the sand as we followed, shells crunching underfoot. Families lit half term barbecues and played games of cricket with tennis balls – a sport that an uninvited Mollie joined in with great aplomb. As usual the surfing brigade bobbed in the waves like sleek seals and sheep grazed on Kelsey Head opposite, silhouetted against a deep blue sky.

After a picnic on the beach, we crossed a footbridge and Mollie disappeared into a thicket. Nothing happened for a few minutes, then a huge rabbit lolloped out, white tail bobbing confidently as Mollie followed, with no hope of catching it. Undeterred, she chased a few more rabbits before joining us on a narrow sandy path leading inland through a valley with white pussy willow buds emerging, while buzzards mewed above, searching for prey.

Passing through several gates we emerged into a small field that is a National Trust car park and stopped. Before us was Treago Mill, and Cubert Common to our right, where the winter sunshine cast swooping shadows over the marram grass. The only sounds were the rustling stream, skylarks tweeting above, and Mollie's excited panting. No cars, no sign of life in the deserted campsite opposite. Just us. Another moment to treasure.

We passed through another gate and followed a rough track through Cubert Common looking out for Bronze Age barrows. According to legend, if any of these are disturbed, disaster will come upon Cubert village. As they are all intact, it seems that legend is a good deterrent.

Reaching another gate we saw Higher Moor on our left which is where my husband spent many of his summer holidays. Now there is a fishing pond, where a lone fisherman enjoyed the winter sun, surrounded by a gaggle of Barnacle geese. Gorsebushes sprouted behind, sprinkled with gold bloom and in the hedge was a cluster of pale yellow primroses.

Climbing the hill, Treago Farm campsite sprawled on our right and at the top of the hill we came to a T junction and turned left along the road that we came in on that led back to the car park. We walked in silence, wrapped in our thoughts, aware that it was nearly time to go. Even Mollie was quiet as we settled ourselves on a bench outside the pub.

A visit to Polly Joke is always special, but that day was even more so, for the intense clarity of the light, for the unexpected sunshine warming our backs. I carry an image with me, like a favourite snapshot in the tattered wallet of my mind. Four friends (counting Mollie of course) sitting like sparrows on a bench, drinking in the perfect splendour before us. Vibrant spray crashing off Goose Island, long waves rolling up the Gannel Estuary, and the misty outline of Trevose Head in the distance. What more could anyone wish for?