Cornwall Holiday: Not Just Ordinalia

Isolation from mundane modernism makes Cornwall unique

“Frenchman’s Creek.” The words send a delicious tickle up my spine as I stand on the solid Cornish ground of Budock-Vean Hotel, surveying the inlet from which Daphne du Maurier drew inspiration. On my last trip to Cornwall I visited Jamaica Inn, and felt shivers as I looked at life-sized models of that novel’s villains.

But much besides favorite authors having lived in mysterious Cornwall sends delightful shivers through me. Perhaps it is the isolation from mundane modernism due to its near-island status that makes Cornwall unique. I ponder this as a sailboat appears, manned by a man with an eye patch, and waving at me with what looks suspiciously like a hook.

“King Arthur and Merlin were born here,” my imagination answers indignantly. “Of course it’s special.” Sailboat and occupant disappear in a sudden mist.

Each time I cross the Royal Albert Bridge into this Mediterranean-like, most southwesterly part of Britain, I’m as dreamy as Cornwall’s dream gardens, which bear exotic names like the Lost Gardens of Heligon, and attract many tourists each spring. In this ancient Celtic kingdom I experience more elation on its green earth, sandy shores, moorland wilderness, and imposing granite cliffs than I do in any place I’ve visited.

When I called the Cornwall tourist board to say we’d like to visit, they immediately responded by helping us arrange luxury accommodation near Falmouth, a coastal town boasting the third-largest harbor in the world.

Management of Budock Vean, a prestigious golf and country house hotel, rearranged rooms to fit us in, and comfort, efficiency, and friendly service were always in evidence during our stay. In the hotel’s dining room, accompanied by a gourmet dinner, my real education about Cornwall began.

Roy from the Cornish tourist board gave us a history and geography lesson as we dined. We learned that Cornwall has 300 miles of coastline, granite moorlands containing Iron and Bronze Age artifacts, harbors that harbored Sir Francis Drake and other seafaring adventurers, and weather that defeated the Spanish Armada. Cornwall also has artist and writer haunts in fishing villages and woodland valleys, a Celtic love of song, dance, and ceremony, and saffron-flavored cuisine as a result of the Phoenicians trading that eastern spice for Cornish tin.

Celts and Christians, gardens and golf, smugglers and seaside, Cornishmen marching over moorlands to London, all seemed to be rolled up into one delicious Cornish pasty. “We shall come to taste you often,” I promised the sun-strewn Cornish morning when we stepped outside the ivy-clad hotel, full of English breakfast, and knowing much of Great Britain was being pounded with a snowstorm.

On our way back towards Plymouth, we stopped at an antique shop where three young children and a stream of ducks and geese followed us down the winding road as we were leaving.

“The time has come,” the Walrus said, “to speak of many things. Of Seas and Ships, and Sandy Shores, Of Cornishmen and Kings.”

Lewis Carroll would have approved of this alteration to his poetry. His real life Alice lived in Cornwall.

Author: Louise Chatterton