I am knackered and I have a suspicion. I am on my way to turning into a hefty Cornish cow. A thought fuelled by a steady two-day diet of scones, pasties, tarts, full-fat ice creams, butter biscuits and onion rings. Is it possible that the waistband of the jeans can scream out for temperance within a short span of time? These are grave times.
The scoffing has been going especially strong after steep climbs through woods in the heart of Daphne du Maurier country. Our walk started in the fishing village of Bodinnick where the author of Rebecca lived with her mother and sisters – after they had left behind their home in London. Ferryside is a pretty cottage, blue pipings framing its doors and windows. What a view young Daphne must have had. The turquoise waters of the river that acquire emerald tones even when the skies are overcast. Daphne’s son lives in Ferryside. I did have thoughts of knocking upon his door – suitably alarming Adi who since then started thinking about paths to take on the return and how not to walk past the cottage again.
A two-second ferry from Fowey took us into Bodinnick where we climbed steep roads past Daphne’s cottage, and then a row of rustic white, blue and yellow cottages, the doors of which had Easter egg wreaths in keeping with the seasonal cheer.
During walks in the English countryside, you inevitably get directions that ask you to proceed past old school houses, and that right lane there past the pub, then a kissing gate in the field and further in continue through the church gates. Or cross Two-Turn Lane past the sheep that guards the gate into its grassy knoll of heaven… you get the drift. The directions are as old-fashioned as the villages you find yourself in. Like a time bubble. Once you make it past these stellar signposts into the woods, you strike gold. If you have not made it to those landmarks, my friend, you are doing it all wrong. You are probably in another country.
I shall have to continue this into the next post because 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. The early morning glum clouds gave way during the course of the noon to a clear firmament so spotless that the stars have declared that the inky dome is theirs. Life should be just so. Lived beneath vast swathes of sky unfettered by the trammel of city lights, busy dreams and the worry of tomorrow.