Tag Archives: Cornwall

Cornwall

Fish and Ships!

Newlyn is our favourite harbour. It may be an Icelandic gull or a black redstart that draws us, but it is the turnstones at the harbourmaster’s office that enchant us, dashing about avoiding the comings and goings of vehicles instead of waves, as they monitor the sandwich situation within and without the office.

Seems to me that in recent years the fishing fleet is looking smarter and younger. But then, I find that’s true of most things!

But there are still old friends —

and ropes to trip over

potentially propelling me into the green depths and alarming the old seal lolling in the harbour waiting for the tide to rise high enough for him to snatch the discarded crabs.

The bright young boats are hung with clusters of fenders like boat-eggs, tended by fishermen.

Notice the threatening weather which reminds us of the rigours of their chosen occupation.

The best thing about visiting an active fishing port is the evening meal.

Brill for dinner — filleted, this monster landed the night before, just fitted into the largest available pan. Fried in butter… delicious!
But there are two fishmongers behind the fish market at Newlyn and others in the town — it is impossible to pass without buying in both so there will be a starter of crab!
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adventure, British history, Communication, Cornwall, Entertaining

Running the Helston Branch Line

Film by Bill Carr featuring his dad, my daughter’s partner, Pete. The project is part of Bill’s university course and takes ‘helping with the homework’ to a whole new level!

Seven minutes and well worth watching!

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nature

Hippo’s guide to the beach

Like the hippopotamus our usual habitat is mud — glorious mud. Only occasionally do we venture from the soggy highlands of these British Isles to the sand around the edges and then what we see is unfamiliar.

Like this red banded sand wasp (Ammophila sabulosa).

This is a solitary (actually quite antisocial) wasp that stings its prey, often caterpillars, into submission then drags them to a burrow, sealing them in together with an egg of its own that will hatch into a hungry lava. If she finds another burrow that already contains prey and another female sand wasp’s egg she will eat the egg and replace it with one of her own — not very sisterly. They lose a third of their offspring this way which perhaps explains the frenetic way they were dashing about the sand on the day we visited Dunwich Heath.

We met this woolly bear on the sand dunes at Ynes Las, it is the caterpillar of the garden tiger moth (Arctia caja)– not rare in our childhood and not limited to sandy habitats, it becomes a colourful moth that evades our attention by flying at night. It is increasingly uncommon despite its disgusting taste which it enhances with a horrible sauce exuded from the back of its neck when attacked by a bird — its bright colours advertise this fact.

The garden tiger moth — Arctia caja by Vlad Prokiov (CC BY- NC 2.0)

Not everything on the sand is unfamiliar, not even to this mallard!

Rats on the beach at Titchfield Haven
Compass jelly fish stranded on the beach at Ynes Las — the tentacles give a nasty sting.

Strangest of all — what left this foot print

Seen on the bank of Kinewell lake.
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Cornwall, Ecology, nature

It’s a Miracle, but not in Cornwall

It may look like Cornwall but you can tell it’s not Cornwall because there aren’t any people, police, naval ships, radar installations, helicopters or motorcades. And no G7 demonstrators — a beach near my daughter’s Cornish home has been piled high with the undead bodies of middle aged ladies dressed as dead mermaids! All very artistic. No, this is Wales, this week at Cwm Tydu and I had no idea that this part was so beautiful.

Rain Forest!

One or two midges by the stream and butterflies in the meadow. Best of all (you may remember how long I hunted these last year) there are choughs! Spotted by chance and very active probing for ants on the grazed sward, just as they like it, courtesy of wild ponies.

Its a shame their bills and feet are so muddy, you can’t see how vibrantly red they are. Never mind — the news is good about these rare birds because the previous day we saw a chattering of them swooping above Bird Rock, north of Aberystwyth showing the splayed, finger-like feathers at the ends of their wings– seems their numbers may be on the up.

Mud is the order of the day — here one of the many house martins at Aberaeron harbour is collecting mud to build his house.

The common whitethroats are displaying.

Everywhere there is the hum of bumble bees making the most of this years blooming of the dog roses.

This one has so much pollen in her sacks it is a miracle that she can still fly — but then wild life is full of miracles.

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animal psychology, Ecology

Opportunist crime in the South West

Mastermind and Lookout

Mastermind and Lookout

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At The first opportunity they swoop

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They divide the loot.

Intrusion from a rival gang

Intrusion from a rival gang

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Rich chippings!

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Bold, remorseless and organised

Never underestimate the adaptability of a Corvid — this gang of rooks cooperate to exploit the opportunities at the beer garden at the Ship Inn, Pentewan, Cornwall, ousting the traditional scavengers.

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Humour, Travel

Hot Tarmac Addiction?

Our friend Glyn is drowsy with counting sheep, coming up the valley every day, after a day’s work, to be jostled by our impatient flock because this is the time of year that we go gallivanting.

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In the last ten days we’ve travelled 1300 miles (that’s not far –I hear you New World readers say). It’s far enough in this overcrowded island!

We picked our way over the mountain pass to South Wales at walking pace, avoiding the hundreds of road-runners who were jogging up on the hottest day of the year. We gave them wide berth to allow for heat-exhaustion-wobble, weave and collapse while also avoiding the pulses of road racers on two wheels coming the other way (only two lanes – this is Wales) – pelotons of cyclists, who had just crested the summit, had heads down and were hurtling in squadrons, turbocharged with huge potential energy and suicidal intent, lemming like, towards Brecon.

We glanced at the stunning scenery and at the idyllic path on the other side of the valley, made for walkers and wondered what it is that draws humans in such numbers to tarmac. Our musing was ended abruptly by the thud of a discarded plastic bottle flung, elite-runner like, against our windscreen by a mature but plucky lady with exceptional BMI and poor aim, probably due to chaffing.

As we eventually sped away from the last — or rather, the first of the runners and the last of the cyclists, the bikers started to overtake us, flashing past at every opportunity, like when one slows down to turn right! I have a horror of killing a biker and they come to Wales in huge migrations at holiday times: Hell’s Angels – 1950’s re-enactors on vintage Nortons with side-cars – even an intrepid band of ladies, several with L-plates, on Honda ‘50’s almost grinding to wobbly halts on the hills (though that was on the A30 high-speed dual carriageway in Cornwall!)

We made it to Cornwall without fatality, and back.

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Just when we thought we were out of danger, we had to set off again for a family funeral in Scunthorpe – more of that later.

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lifestyle

Christmas Goes West

Turmoil comes in waves and these times of upheaval are our most creative — this is what I tell the children (it is no comfort to them).

It is Christmas and our five grown-up children (now that’s a strange concept) and their partners all seem to be facing new challenges.  Four now have various commitments in the West Country — work, homes, other family and friends, so to make it easier to all be together this year — Mum and Dad (and Pedro) go West.

Rhayader decorations

We entrust our pregnant ewes to a responsible friend — a rare thing!  Then we buy Tupperware and fill up the old camper van with plastic containers of Christmas, glance at the long term weather forecast and set off to The Gables — a rented house in Tywardreath, Cornwall.

But first, as Responsible Friend has noticed a hazard in the field in which we feed the aforementioned precious ewes, we have to fill in the seventy meter trench that we dug for the solar panel cable.  I use the word trench appropriately as torrential rain renders it a living memorial to life on the Somme in World War One.  The week before we leave for the West we slither and shiver, often up to our knees in mud.  Alan’s relationship with Digger is tested almost to destruction (not a bad thing, they were getting far too close) as her solenoid trouble makes her very temperamental and unreliable so that she often refuses to work at all and sits facing the prevailing storm with her windshield broken, getting her seat wet — but then we all have wet seats.

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Cornwall is dry and comfortable, camellias bloom in gardens and ragged robins in the hedgerows.  As shop assistants glower at befuddled shoppers and cars queue to enter and leave the supermarket car parks of the peninsula, sensible folk walk their wet dogs on nearby Par Sands where the China Clay factory breaths steam into the clear chilly air.

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Carols are sung at the Pub.

The Sun comes out on Christmas Morning.

 

Christmas Day

Christmas Day

The silvery sun makes it imperative to get out and make the most of the short days.

Gulls
Kestrel over the cliff path
Wet dogs on Par Sands
Sands and sky

Festive meals are served for various permutations of family and friends.

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The wind changes, coming in from the North West, we pack up the left overs and drive home avoiding the Black Mountains, but not the traffic, to arrive home as the cold freezes the first dusting of snow into a crisp sugar coating over everything.

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Communication, Doggy, Humour

Dog Friendly Accomodation

Not just dog friendly — pig friendly — horse friendly — duck friendly — goose friendly — and, yes, human friendly!

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We stayed in a place once, recommended by the Cornish Tourist Office as dog-friendly, where Pedro had to sleep in the car and the landlady sniffed at the gap under our bedroom door.  When we surprised her in the act, she accused my husband of smoking which he had not been doing (although he might have smelled of tobacco!)

Thus we are sceptical about such claims of tolerance and frienship.

Not so at the Crooked Inn, Trematon, near Saltash, Cornwall, England (for far-away friends).

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Here we were welcomed by the host, a large, elderly, golden Labrador who met us in the car park and led us into the bar, explaining the rules to Pedro on the way under his breath.  Inside was a heaving Friday night bar where unseen wagging tails flagellated our passing legs.

Food was being served and dogs lolled under tables.  One of the locals was tired and emotional and obviously disliked tourists, he growled at Pedro and was bundled away by his friends several of whom then came over and introduced themselves.

In the dinning room, Pedro was calmed by under-floor heating and ate fat from excellent sirloin steak.

No one woofed in the night, not even when someone fell over a goose and set of the alarm.

Breakfast was generous smoked haddock with a perfect poached egg, garnished with lemon and fresh lime.  Outside the huge pig wandered free, unmolested by the running dogs and ignored by the over-coated horse.  The puddle-ducks dabbled and the geese gaggled and Pedro prepared for the serious business of the day

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