A Cornish bolthole we temporarily called home
Avoiding the crowds & slowing the rhythm of the waking day proves to be just the reset needed ahead of this advent to Christmas, days that overlap with high jinks & festive feasts.
A germ of an idea to escape the confines of home for a few sparse days across these late weeks of the year became reality within mere hours of percolation; a lonely, away from it all stone built abode with the usual trappings sought at this time of year - log burning stove, plush velvet throws, a scalding heating system and all the cosiness of a chocolate box cottage - was a rare find and fortuitously available for our imminent dates. Wind forward a couple of weeks and the result of our impulsiveness finds us exploring the quiet wilderness of the undulating moors and wide mouthed coves of the north cornish coastline as I type. Unlike most things I acquire (which are put to good use straight away) I have a tendency to stash my annual leave, both through a commitment to getting the first few months of a year under my belt before I consider any hiatus from my desk, no matter how brief, and then procrastination as to how best to use these days of leisure takes hold, kicking them further down the road. I’m inclined too to fall into a self set trap of fearing I will ‘need’ to take them at some point rather than align them with a ‘want’. My day job (that of a Mortgage and Protection Consultant) has been a fast moving platform across recent months too, with little appetite or ability to take my eye off the ball for even a singular day, such has been the volatility around mortgage interest rates and securing recommendations before they disappear without warning.
The end of this year, dusted in it’s usual glitter and adorned with twinkling lights is now within sight, albeit beyond a mound of mince pies and foil wrapped sweets that become my nemesis across the days of December. I am a sucker for January, grateful for it’s determination to get us back on the straight and narrow, after a collective desire to paint the town red & boozy catch-ups across the festive season find usual momentum temporarily stalled. As a lifetime lover of new ruled pages to fill, a brand new year to write and plans to lay across the months that will follow, these weeks of a new year never fail to get my sober attention. Likewise, these straggling weeks of autumn before the advent of Christmas are mostly empty of plans - all pushed into the month of mulled wine & eggnog - and reason enough, before the crescendo of Yuletide, to snatch a few days away from the grindstone before the last pre-christmas mop up of work and no bad way to use up otherwise leftover leave.
We made this coastline our summer trip some three years previous, a county revered for it’s beauty and bragging rights as to visitors from far and wide. Watching surfers ride the waves and miniature dots of folk, dancing amongst shallow waters that break gently against the shore when the sun is high and picnics are de rigueur, is a moving picture I can observe with content from a coastal clifftop adjacent. There is an electrifying buzz to the busy beaches of this very British coastline, where activities reign over the simple basking in sunshine and cricket stumps, boogie boards and colourful buckets to build towering castles provide daily entertainment to the crowds that throng.
We are out of season now, with a different beat to keep time with. In spite of chinks of blue skies overhead there are few down on the beach, angry waves crashing against rocks eroded across hundreds of years by their seasonal frustrations. Fragments of summer are still visible - cream teas beckon passersby indoors, wetsuits swing in the cold air for any new takers and postcards jut from a revolving display in the village store - but the ice cream van is absent from the beach, surfers can be counted on one hand and the fish & chip vendors are locked up save for weekends and Rick Steins emporium. Businesses that cater to the tourist have shuttered up for winter and the small towns and villages that cling to this coastline seem to have run out of steam now the crowds have disappeared. Permission to catch their breath before this short-lived downturn of tourists cranks back up again. There are locals of course, grateful to take back ownership of their villages that play home to so many across April - September and enjoying a tranquility that settles like a blanket of snow, until the season opens up again once the clocks hands wind forward. I am charmed by the stillness this time of year brings, not least the easy navigation of lanes mostly gridlocked across the months of high season.
A small stone pile of a building, once upon a time given the grand title of ‘Reading Room’, for those in the area wanting to curl up with pages or develop this skill, has been lovingly restored in the years since and is where we are calling home for now. I applaud the custodians of this bijou dwelling, tasked with conjuring the most charming of spaces across a footprint of living space larger than first glance would have you believe. Flagstones the colour of midnight and a stone hearth older than the hills lend a feeling of the landscape beyond the deep silled windows. Some 2 feet deep and with ledges our dogs have kept guard from, walls are softened by rounded corners and rough finished plasterwork. A palette of inky blues, smoky greys, putty and clay are interwoven across paints, fabrics, furnishings and fixtures, on the money with their desire to instill calm and declutter a busy mind.
Their is much appeal to write of here, not least in the zinc topped table and wide seated wingback dining chairs, padded with duckdown and encouraging diners to linger. Rather than maximise rental appeal with two bedrooms, the latter upstairs room offers a space to ponder, scribe or read, encouraged by a soft seated armchair and sizeable scrubbed pine desk. Ceilings slope into the eaves and shadowy corners are made good use of, whilst low hung windows frame the outdoors in picture perfect fashion. A chattering brook adjacent to the garden rollocks over rocks that jut beyond its surface, rolling from the hills that rise majestically from the foot of this valley, trees that stretch to the sky framing the lane perpendicular to the cottage. A tiny hamlet of just half a dozen or so dwellings, to my way of thinking this house lends itself to these seasons of dark nights and moody skies, where flames that lick the logs in the stove dance and the wool of blankets draped across chairs and sofas are pulled close for company. Stairs rise from the corner with a half turn, low slung ceilings and shallow doorways all part of it’s scandi style charm.
Five days seemed plenty at outset to unset a clock against, yet still the hands of time turn, with much the same race against the hours as the working day brings. No matter for early mornings without the usual routine - replaced with tea on freepour and toasted sourdough dotted with salty butter - mid morning arrives in the blink of an eye and beach walks beckon. Our trio of hounds, forgiving with this shift of routine, stretch beneath the foot of the bed with little irritation. Content with the view, they watch the few birds gamely hanging around for winter pilfering from branches mostly bare now. I relish the chance to step off the treadmill of life and catapult myself into a world absent of the usual demands and drudgery, where time is my own to fill and the death of any phone signal here disconnects me from the usual interruptions and conversations. Snatching hours of each day to sit here and journal, whilst my other half runs from our door to the moors in the name of exercise, finds us both in our happy place. Respective physical and mental agilities ticked, the remainder of each day melts into the evening in the blink of a lazy eye.
Undeterred by a forecast wetter than an otters pocket, hoods are pulled tight and jackets waterproof. Such days of downpours find sandy shorelines where the tide is retreating empty, save for ourselves, where relentless ball throwing and the gathering of shells and other seabed debris passes the time, the joys of which distract from sodden jeans and shoes that squelch with each step. Such walks are only permissible when no pressing engagement follows, since tendrils of hair whipped free from a topknot are glued to my rain streaked forehead, whilst mascara is displaced from lashes; instead, the ability to peel off and dry out in front of amber flames, with a pot of tea and biscuits for dunking is reason enough to brave any foreboding elements.
Mealtimes are determined by hunger rather than the clock hands. The staples of our pantry have journeyed with us - seasoning, spaghetti, parmesan, virgin olive oil, garlic and dijon - whilst Gloucester Services, (a non negotiable pitstop and part & parcel of any trip along the M5) offered up a sizeable sourdough and lump of gloriously yellow butter. Here is where the dogs stretch their legs and we break any journey with warm-to-the-bite sausage rolls oozing with artisan appeal. A farm shop that can hold a torch to Daylesford Organic, neighbours divided by the county and both enviable with their wares. In spite of resolutions we tore at the study crust ahead of reaching our destination, the aroma of fresh bread too much to resist after four hours belted into our seats and a wanton attitude to the inevitable splintering of crumbs. A community store in a neighbouring village, some 2 miles as the crow flies yet 15 minutes by car is surprisingly well stocked; we stockpile a variety of mushrooms and a stump of a bunch of thyme, along with a couple of lemons and a courgette on route to our rented hangout. Supper is served once the cottage is wrapped in a cloak of darkness, heavy blinds lowered and candles lit. Mushrooms are wiped, sliced and then softened amid a puddle of butter and the fragrant leaves of thyme, with a generous splash of concentrated truffle oil transformative. A tangle of spaghetti and showering of parmesan is all that’s needed to get this dish table ready, where residual juices are mopped with doorsteps of bread and second helpings de rigueur.
We are predicable with our menu, a familiar roll call of dishes leaned on when time is a key driver. A farm shop, one of many we pass along the lanes to the coast, is explored for it’s purported prized beef; two steaks, juicy and plump, make it home with us. I have grabbed at singular vegetables as we move through the store - a pepper, spanish onion, scarlett tomatoes void of any vine - with a promise to knock together a warm salad. This idea is downgraded to Ratatouille as dinnertime draws ever closer, the addition of a courgette in keeping with tradition, whilst leftover sprigs of thyme step up in place of basil without complaint. Rocket is turned through a puddle of dressing just ahead of serving and we slurp red wine across an evening that finds us chatting into the late hours about all and nothing. It’s these same staple ingredients that are leaned on across another sitting, where egg yolks are muddled with parmesan and spaghetti is the backbone to another couple of recipes; courgettes with lemon and a rich carbonara, a chunk of salty bacon replacing the revered Guanciale this dish traditionally calls for and a squabble over the last of the parmesan. Fish & chips, devoured quayside midweek, kept tummies full until late into the evening, with only a murmur of hunger to quash and easily satisfied by a board of fromage, the likes of which were bought with greedy eyes and another sourdough.
With a sackful of memories and batteries recharged we bid farewell. Conversations as to finding more time to escape the humdrum of the everyday are predictable, old ground we cover after every trip away. A journey time of some five hours door to door provides the requisite time needed to acclimatise, where shoes are tripped over in the hallway, bulbs shine brightly from every vacant room and the dishwasher needs emptying. Certainly the chaos of home & family life is of my own doing & I thrive in an environment where there are not enough hours in a day, but every so often a parallel existence is sought. Our noisy, crumbling, tired & frayed at the edges home may very well be where my heart lives, but abandoning chaos in place of calm is a restorative pastime.