Our hire car is delivered promptly in the morning – a little Yaris automatic hybrid runabout. There’s no engine noise which takes a while to get used to. Reliable wheels at last. First stop is the garage, but despite it being a Monday and advertised as open, they’re not. Then again, many country businesses close on a Monday, perhaps they’ll be open tomorrow?
I’m not too fussed – we’ve got wheels and a day planned at Bocastle, a fishing village with an Elizabethan harbour. Whilst much of the village and surrounding land is owned by the National Trust, its only visible footprint is the cafe and gift shop.
Bocastle was predominantly once home to the fishy business of pilchards – boats hauled them in by the thousands to be processed and packed by women on shore – considered women’s work apparently. I’m just glad I wasn’t in charge of their laundry – pilchards are fishy, fishy, fishy. The original processing and packing area is now the Trust’s tea room and gift shop.
Over coffee we learn of Bocastle’s propensity to flood – it must take extraordinary storms given the harbour’s naturally steep cliffs.
The village is picture postcard pretty with whitewashed stone cottages, bakeries and gift shops bisected by a stream that runs out into the harbour then out to sea.
We’re here at low tide – the high water mark reveals it’s yet another setting with enormous fluctuations in tides. Boats are firmly wedged on sand in mid afternoon.
We join the crowd for the hike across the rockface to the deep harbour. Despite the inclement weather a few hardly teenagers swim in the harbour’s aquamarine water – they’re tweeny weeny dots below. Clearly made of stern stuff, as even the dogs are reluctant to get in.
The cliffs are stone versions of mille feuille – thousands of layers upon layers.
We’re technically in Cornwall so Cornish pasties abound – a couple have to come home of course. I love them but I could do without the traditional thick crimping. Purists say you’re not meant to eat that bit anyway. I can’t resist a few bits and pieces from the Trust’s gift shop either. Packing for home is going to be fun.
There’s a very tempting restaurant along the water, but we’re well past the lunch window. Pity – the menu looked seriously good with fresh seafood served in innovation ways. I’ve earmarked it for a future visit.
This smart young man was spotted showing off the latest in doggy fashun. Later, I steal pats from a little sausagey pupster, full of puppy goodness and wriggle. Dachshund are very popular here, often spotted ottering about.
We potter for a while before Himself calls it a day, leaving me to navigate the hedgerows home. There’s a driving experience for you – sometimes close enough to touch on both sides, lots of blind corners and relatively high speed limits….and they’re two way traffic. If someone comes the other way, you a) hope that one or both of you is going slowly enough to spot the other and b) play a game of chicken to see who gets to back up until a there’s a nook to squeeze into, to allow the other through. Fun for all the family.
Himself rules this game in the motorhome – we’re usually the biggest and therefore win, but in the zippy Yaris it’s a whole new ball game. Quite fun actually. I haven’t driven for ages and feel like Fangio by the time we make it back.
Back home, Miss Tilly, Headon Farm’s kitty cat makes a thorough inspection of the motorhome and deems it worthy of her presence. She loves a pat and will happily consent to being picked up but flatly refuses to pose for photos. This is the best I could do – no paparazzi please!! She’s a little sweetheart, welcome any time. I’m missing kitty love.
Miss Baci Travels 