I am knackered and I have a suspicion. Good combination, the two. I am on my way to turning into a big Cornish cow, it seems. A steady two-day diet of scones, pasties, tarts, full-fat ice creams, butter biscuits and onion rings are fuelling these thoughts. Is it possible that the waistband of your jeans can scream out to you within such a short span of time?
The scoffing has been going stronger post a long, steep climb through woods in the smuggling villages of the area. The walk started early in the heart of du Maurier country, in the fishing village of Bodinnick, where our beloved author of Rebecca lived with her mother and sisters after they moved to Cornwall from London. Ferryside is a lovely cottage (you will see it in the earlier post of mine that I have linked to above) with blue pipings framing its doors and windows. What a view the young Daphne must have had. The turquoise waters of the river Fowey that turn a mysterious emerald green when the skies are not so blue. Today, her son lives in Ferryside. I am quite inspired to turn up at his doorstep. Adi is suitably alarmed and has been concocting plans that involve us not returning to Fowey.
A two-second ferry from Fowey took us into Bodinnick for the walk that started once we climbed steep roads past blue and yellow cottages, the doors of which were strung charmingly ala mode, with Easter egg wreaths. If you go for walks in the English countryside, you will get directions that ask you to proceed past old school houses and church gates. Crossing Two-Turn Lanes, past the sheep that guards the gate into his grassy knoll of heaven… you get the drift. Once you make it past those stellar signposts into the woods, you strike gold. If you have not made it to those landmarks, friend, you are doing it all wrong. You are probably in another country.
Following in Acton’s footsteps
I shall have to continue this into the next post because the babbling is going worse, now that I can barely keep my eyes open. But I have to say this that the skies outside at this time of the night are speckled with stars. Those cloudy skies of the early part of the day suddenly cleared up during the course of the noon and we got such pretty and clear skies that the stars have come out in all their glory. They have declared that the inky black dome is theirs. Life should be so. Lived beneath such vast swathes of sky that are unfettered by the trammel of city lights, busy dreams and a trifle anxious brooding on what’s gonna happen tomorrow.