Fish & Tin & Copper
There’s something magical about Cornwall, you don’t really believe places like that exist, not until you get out there and see them for yourself. Untouched coastline stretching for miles, rugged cliffs tumbling into the vast Atlantic Ocean, tiny fishing villages nestled in between. We rented a car for a few weeks and drove from town to town, hours on the road tend to blur together, but I keep the memories in snapshots along the way.
Jamming the stick into first gear, pedal to the floor, our little car struggling up narrow one-lane roads lined with wildflowers. On the way down the hills the earth unfurled before us, shades of blue, on hazy days we didn’t know whether we were looking out at the ocean or the sky. Our legs aching as we walked those hilly streets later, but it was always worth it for a Cornish pasty, or fish & chips caught fresh that morning.
Low tide - walking out into the bay, a graveyard of lobster traps and stranded fishing boats, air hanging heavy with the smell of salt. Fishermen in bright yellow overalls, loading their trucks and tossing crabs back and forth on the pier. High tide - sitting on a bench, listening as the waves lap at our feet, watching the dogs chase the seagulls. The endless cawing of the birds, bouncing off the water below.
Coastal walks, the sound of the surf. Wildflowers and weeds stretching for miles behind you, and in front of you, nothing but the ocean as far as you can see.
Surfing at Fistral Beach, sand between our toes, immediately regretting our decision not to rent boots - the shore was rocky and the water was cold as ice. Golden hour in St. Ives, a rainbow of boats arranged in the bay. Fresh crab in Port Isaac. Cream tea in the afternoon - jam on bottom, clotted cream on top, Cornish style.
I think I leave a bit of my heart everywhere we go, but one of the biggest pieces so far, I’ve left in Cornwall.