Musings from the Cornish coast

Mid September, foggy mornings, bright and mild days and cold, smokey evenings. September is the season of change. It's always a time of year for nostalgia, but also for looking forward and new beginnings. It marks the beginning of a new education term, and though I am long since out of education, it tends to be the time of year where I start something new, change things up before the winter complacency sets in.

A long overdue trip to Cornwall marks the midway point of this month. Staying in a lodge on the northcoast, a 15 minute drive to Padstow puts me in a good spot for travelling out in the day. I know the area well, from childhood holidays and subsequent vists in the last 10 years or so. Further from the sea than I would like, the car is a necessity in this location, but I have no complaints. The view out over the hilltops and arable land is a welcome sight. The Swallows dance accross the sky and the cows moo heartily in the distance.

A 40 minute drive down narrow, winding country roads lands me in Boscastle, but despite the quiter season, Boscastle is thrumming with life and there is nowhere to park. I trundle up and out, heading North-West with no real aim or direction until the car snakes it's way down a winding passage into Crackington Haven. There are many such coves along this stretch, but this one has it's own appeal. Towering clifftops and sweeping headlands, with a moderatley sized sandy beach. The wind tears up the shoreline, tangling my hair in knots around my face, my skirt wrapping itself comically around my legs and up my back. The wind is fierce. With the taste of seasalt on my lips and my nose tingling, we head tentatively down the beach, stopping to look in every rockpool along the way. The rock has a wave like appearance to it, heavily embroidered with Mussels and Whelks. There is a colourful array of seaweed, Sea Lace, Red Rag, Gut Weed, Velvet Horn, Spiral Wrack, Bladderwrack. I want to rescue a little piece of each, but know that I will end up with a stinking notebook full of drying bits of seaweed....I leave them be.

We head back to Boscastle, a few hours have passed since the first attempt, and parking is no problem. Boscastle is, and always has been a magical place for me. I have had a deep connection with it since the first time I visited over 20 years ago as a child. I'm excited to share it with my partner, and a little nervous in case he doesn't see the sparkle. We head down to the Museum of Witchcraft, the main reason for the visit. This little museum has stood steadfast in this spot since the 60's, it would have been mid 90's when I first visited. It has changed it's collections in that time, the terrible floods of 2004 made sure of that. The collection has grown and been refined, but the old favourites are still there. The Horned God, the case full of magical penises, a collection of Cornish Piskie charms. It still holds it's wonder even though I have looked at these items many times. The staff report that certain items move overnight in their cabinets, their instagram page showed images of this earlier in the year. This I can believe, the air is charged with energy.

Once we have left the museum, we head down to the impressive harbour. There is a loud booming noise, which we follow up on to the clifftops. The wind is strong and bites at my face, sea spray hitting us from the crashing waves some 70 foot below. The booming continues; it is made by the waves colliding with the shallow caves along the the base of the cliff. Gunshot like. Eerie.

I'm sure the wind howls up this harbour in the winter months.

The rocks that line the path are laden with moss, dripping little rivers onto the slate below. Boscastle is weather worn, hardy. Rugged and stoic.

A little detour through the town shops, there is a lovely traditional leather shop that has been there as long as I can remeber and an occult shops selling a selection of gemstones and figures of the Green Man. Accross the river that runs under the road down into the harbour and up the street towards the Cobwebb Inn. It would be rude not to.

We step inside out of the wind and order a pint each and some crips. This is one of those truly eccentric British pubs. Packed with character, toby jugs and old signs lining the walls and ceiling. Gothic and a little rough around the edges. Just what we like.