The Pasty Pinchers of St Ives

They say that's there's something magic about the light in St Ives, something that has drawn artists and photographers there for many years and by golly I can't disagree. It's hard to explain what it is really, something about the quality of the light. It seems more saturated and whiter at the same time. It truly is a little bit magic.

I've been lucky enough to visit the little seaside town a few times now and each time I always find new gems to discover. I love the little streets full of art galleries and trinket shops. The whole place has a slight arty vibe to it that reminds me somewhat of Falmouth but it feels a little more holiday-ey here.

When in St Ives, obviously it would be rude not to partake in a pasty and that brings me to a little story about the seagulls. Now, I'm don't actually mind seagulls, if you put aside the squawking and the such and actually watch them they are quite mighty and majestic birds. My thinking is, it's our fault that they've become the town-bound scavengers that they often are now so we don't have much right to complain. BUT when the little blighters sweep down and snatch the pasty right out of my hands, well that's just darn right rude isn't it?! I have learnt new pasty saving tactics and I shall be ready for you next time my little friends.

A Feast of Fishing Boats - Newlyn Harbour

It’s become a ritual for me, before I head off on any seaside trip, to check in with the Graphic Designer at work to see if he needs any particular photos for upcoming publications he has to design. This time the response was simple, “Boats, I need boats”. Right, a mission to find boats it was. Shouldn’t be too difficult seeing as I was in a county famous for it’s pretty fishing villages. On our way to Mousehole we’d passed through Newlyn and driven alongside it’s quayside. Jackpot. Fishing boats galore, all shapes, all sizes. That would do nicely. So after we’d been romanced by the charms of Mousehole back to Newlyn we went.

Although I could see the boats from where we’d parked I wanted to get in closer. I spotted a metal bridge with a coded gate that led down to where the boats were held but I wasn't sure whether I could go down there. Luckily at that moment a chap was on his way up the bridge and said that of course I could go down there, giving me a very cockled look as if I'd just asked him something completely ludicrous.

As I wandered down the bridge and onto the jetty I had this strange sensation of feeling like I was trespassing in some hidden sanctum that I had no business being in. It was a strange feeling. And here’s the thing… there wasn’t a soul to be seen. Hundreds of boats and not a fisherman in sight. It was just me and a curious little sandpiper and I felt pretty uneasy there for a while as I gingerly tiptoed around, taking photos, expecting any minute for a big burly fisherman to pop out of a boat and chase me off.

But it was hard to feel uneasy for long because, oh what an afternoon. The light was absolutely beautiful, it was so impossibly clear and bright and the colours everywhere were super saturated. It was an absolute feast for the eyes. I meandered along the jetty, in the glorious sunshine, snapping as I went. Cornwall + sunshine + camera = Happy Tash! 

It was only when I bent down to take a close up of one of the boats that I had a moment that broke through my blissful meandering. Inside the boast I saw a bucket of knives inside and it hit me that these boats were actually used to capture and kill fish. It was such a strange and sudden realisation, I’m not sure why it hadn’t dawned on me before. I’d just seen pretty little fishing boats bobbing away in the water and hadn’t given any further thought to their actual purpose. 

I was pulled out of my moment of melancholy by a commotion up by the bridge. There were men running, shouts, alarms, gear thrown on and then a lifeboat in the water and out to sea quicker than I had a chance to get to my feet. I hurried back up to where mum had been patiently waiting for me (god bless my mum’s endless reserves of patience when it comes to being abandoned in the name of getting the perfect shot!) She explained that they were off to help a family who were stranded near Penzance. I was in awe at just how quickly those men had got in the water and said a little prayer for them and the family. I hoped they’d reach them in time.

With the excitement over, the quayside returned to it’s sleepy Saturday afternoon state of stillness. I wandered along a little longer, merrily filling up my memory card with as many photos as I thought would help my colleague and then the call of dinner beckoned so back to the caravan we went.

Lost Love for Lamorna

I almost didn’t include this post about my visit to Lamorna. I’d made a decision when I started this blog to share the memories of the seaside that lifted me up and made me feel good. It was and still is my hope that my love of the English coast will shine through in my photos and words and that those who stumble upon my little corner of the internet may glimpse for themselves a little of the joy I felt whilst visiting these places. What I hadn’t planned for was for Lamorna not to be one of these places. 

I’d first read about this pretty little Cornish cove in a book called The Memory Garden. In fact it was a 7hr long audio version that I’d listened to on my daily commute and by the time I’d finished hearing the narrator tantalise me with long drawn descriptive visions of this spot I’d placed high up on my “places to visit” list.

I’d noticed when looking at the map to plan our route to Mousehole that Lamorna wasn’t much further down the coast so we added it to the itinerary for the day. As we made our way over I was enjoying taking in the scenery along the narrow country roads. When we took the turning towards Lamorna we soon found ourselves pulled out of the lovely spring sunshine and instead surrounded by the shade of some spectacular woodlands. Whenever I see woodlands where the trunks of the trees are covered in vibrant green moss I always associated them with magical lands. Somehow they seem older, wiser and perhaps a little spookier.

We reached Lamorna and parked up in the little car park. It was ever so quiet there, hardly any other tourists which was quite a rare treat. It wasn’t long after we’d got out of the car and started to pottle around that I had this strong feeling of uneasiness. It’s hard to explain really but it was just a sensation that I really didn’t want to be there and try as I might, I couldn’t shake it.

It’s always a bit of a gamble for me when I visit new places because I seem to be so sensitive to land energies that I never know quite what I’m going to experience. Generally, Cornwall is a pretty safe spot because the beautiful seaside towns and beaches fill me with joy. Joy however, was not what I was experiencing here. I wanted to u-turn out the this place pretty darn pronto! 

It wasn’t that it wasn’t beautiful, it was. A gorgeous little cove with striking rock formations and those signature turquoise Cornish waters. But for me, my enjoyment of a place is all about all about how a place feels and for some inexplicable reason, I didn’t like here one bit. 

We explored a little more, wandering to an outcrop of rocks to look at the view and pondered over why the large ship on the horizon wasn’t moving. Then my blood sugar levels were in need of a little elevating so we made our way to the little beachside cafe for a quick lunch before heading on our way.

I can admit that I felt a strong pang of disappointment not to have been swept away by the romantic pull of Lamorna but as we drove back out through the woods into the sunny high ground, more than anything, I felt relief to be on my way.

Mousehole - "Boats Down"

Whenever we visit Cornwall the day pretty much always starts by mum asking, "right, where are we going today then?" and it's rare for me not to have an answer. There is always something I've spotted, or some place that I've had recommended that I want to see and this time it was Mousehole. It was only 20 minutes away from where we were staying and I'd remember seeing lovely pictures of this pretty harbour spot so off we went. We made our way down the A30 towards Penzance, seeing the magnificent St Michael's Mount looking glorious on this sunny spring day. On to Newlyn and then a few hairy-raisingly narrow roads and steep hills later and we found ourselves parked up on the outskirts of Mousehole.

So here is where my complete ignorance to the ways of Cornish fishing life are made obvious. There was excited little me wandering down towards the harbour, camera in hand, ready to see the boats, beckoning "Good Morning" to everyone I passed because well, it was spring, and sunny and Saturday and all felt right with the world. Round a corner and the harbour presents itself in front of us looking oh so glorious and oh so empty! Hmm…. where were all the boats? The tide was out but that wouldn't mean they'd all be gone. As we pottled round the little streets passing a few quaint looking eateries and shops we kept seeing signs saying "Boats down Sat 21st Mar". So, it turns out that during the winter months, the boats are taken out of the water and then when spring arrives they are all lifted back in again and by chance today was the day that was happening. An important lesson learned here - do research!

But the morning was so beautiful that this didn't dampen our spirits for long, time for a cuppa. "2 Fore Street Restaurant" looked bright and inviting with a promise of a garden on the sign outside and it didn't disappoint. Inside was white, bright and airy, my favourite kind of place. The offering of morning cake goodies. One raspberry tea and date slice for me and almond cake and cappuccino for mum ordered and off out the back in search of a sunny spot we went. The little courtyard garden was basking in sunshine, in fact, I got so hot that taking off my parka coat wasn't enough, I had to move to the other side of the table in the shade. We chatted with the waiter about Boats Down and he explained all about it telling us that Easter weekend was a big hoorah and that's when the boats went out for the first time. I felt a sad little pang inside that I wouldn't be around to see that because I was betting it made for a fantastic atmosphere. It was interesting to hear how he pronounced "Mousehole" as well, more like "maws-all" without the "h". It got me thinking about how we tourists must pronounce so many names wrong like "Fowey" which is said more like "joy" with an "f".

Back through the town we wandered, enjoying looking at the homemade wares displaying in the shop windows. We sat for a little while on the harbour wall soaking up some very much needed sunlight. It was great to hear the locals stop and chat to each other as they went about their day. Children were playing on the sand, screeching as loud as they could just because of the sheer delight of having so much space to run free. Everything just felt so relaxed, at ease and wonderful. Fishermen were out tidying up their boats ready for the put down, the guy with his boat on the far end moaning that he would be last. Apparently a crane would be coming.

So the trip wasn't quite what I'd expected, but that's ok, it just means that I'll have to go back! I am really glad that we got to see it right at the beginning of the season before all the hustle and bustle set in. Somehow it felt like we got a glimpse of what life is really like there.