Tales of Summer in Cornwall
Whenever Ali suggests we go out in the van in the middle of summer, two sides of me rise against each other in an uneasy conflict. The first one agrees, “Yes it would be lovely to go and get into the sea today, then watch the sun go down from the headland after dinner.” But then the dissenter begins to whine plaintively in my ears. “What about the parking? You’ve got to drive all the way along that single track in a huge red van, doing your best not to maim small children with three tonnes of steel, glass and rubber, and then at the end you’ve got to park without making an exhibition of yourself in front of hundreds of holidaymakers. You might have to reverse into a tight space, and she’s over six metres long.” Slap bang in the tourist season, when it feels as if half the country has arrived in our county, the thought of all the things that might go wrong so quickly and easily occupies far too large a space in my head.
On Monday, we’d driven down west, where the roads are narrow in places, but tolerably quiet, and parked at a new spot to explore the South West Coast Path, and in my case scope out some possible compositions to return to in the autumn and winter. After a strenuous walk up and down the cliffs, finally settling at a lonely cove, we returned to the van and cooked supper, while ten yards away a noisy family sat on camping chairs, huddled around a barbecue. To give them their due, even a blast of heavy rain didn’t dampen their enthusiasm for the task at hand, as stoically they sat out the squall. At least we had a dry space in which to spread out smugly with our stir fried prawns. Followed by strawberries and ice cream. Did I mention smug? I’m still getting used to the fact that we can carry a tub of ice cream around all day without it melting, thanks to a couple of solar panels and two beefy leisure batteries. And a freezer compartment.
On Tuesday, the suggestion of another day out was mooted, and after more of those internal tussles, the first version of me won the argument. We’d go to Godrevy and hope it wasn’t too jam packed. I really wanted to go bodyboarding, but I threw in the camera bag too - just in case. And in return, fortune favoured the nervous van driver with a recently vacated front row space on the field, where we could break out some camping chairs of our own and put the kettle on.
Bodyboarding is one of those things I do, absolutely love, and then never quite get around to doing again for far too long. All the more bizarre, because at the end of one summer many moons ago when I had been going into the waves almost every day, I invested in a good quality board, which has since spent most of its life living in its case, sometimes unused for two or three summers at a time. The water was warm, the waves bracing and the sun continued to shine. I stayed in the sea for almost two hours, vowing to do this more often. I only suffered the indignity of two wipeouts as well. Nothing like the odd lung full of seawater to let you know you're having fun. As I waded through the surf for one last ride, a group of Sanderlings flew above my head. Maybe six or seven of them in close formation, unerring, swift and low over the surface of the water. They were heading towards the lighthouse, a reminder of what I’d focus my attention on later.
Eventually, I returned to the van for a cup of tea, not long before the blood relations of Monday’s delinquent rabble arrived and parked their VW Transporter far closer to us than was entirely necessary. With kids charging around throwing missiles, music blaring from an unseen stereo and conversations so loud that I wondered whether I was being invited to join in, I buried myself into the novel I was reading and pretended they weren’t happening. If I were bigger, or in possession of a pair of menacing eyebrows, I might have made my displeasure known to them, but of course I’m British, and accustomed to suffering in silence and muttering under my breath.
Dinner over, I headed for the rocks with the camera bag. It was only an hour or so until high tide, and I tried a small number of compositions, some of them new, while others were old friends. But there was no getting away from the fact that it’s a very different place in high summer. Everywhere I stood, there were people in the way, unless I went to the far edge and suffered a last knot of them sitting just behind me. I’m not good when there are people around, as you’ve probably worked out by now. In the end, I settled on this offering from the collection of images I made. As I took the shot I planned to airbrush them in post, but in fact I rather liked their presence, this huddle of summer revellers at the end of a beautiful day. One that tells the story of Cornwall in the middle of summer.
And summer has passed so quickly, already we’re only a week away from September and the transition into autumn. Great for togs, not so good for bodyboarders. But then again I’ve got that winter wetsuit that my colleagues gave me when I retired. Wonder how long before I use it again?
Tales of Summer in Cornwall
Whenever Ali suggests we go out in the van in the middle of summer, two sides of me rise against each other in an uneasy conflict. The first one agrees, “Yes it would be lovely to go and get into the sea today, then watch the sun go down from the headland after dinner.” But then the dissenter begins to whine plaintively in my ears. “What about the parking? You’ve got to drive all the way along that single track in a huge red van, doing your best not to maim small children with three tonnes of steel, glass and rubber, and then at the end you’ve got to park without making an exhibition of yourself in front of hundreds of holidaymakers. You might have to reverse into a tight space, and she’s over six metres long.” Slap bang in the tourist season, when it feels as if half the country has arrived in our county, the thought of all the things that might go wrong so quickly and easily occupies far too large a space in my head.
On Monday, we’d driven down west, where the roads are narrow in places, but tolerably quiet, and parked at a new spot to explore the South West Coast Path, and in my case scope out some possible compositions to return to in the autumn and winter. After a strenuous walk up and down the cliffs, finally settling at a lonely cove, we returned to the van and cooked supper, while ten yards away a noisy family sat on camping chairs, huddled around a barbecue. To give them their due, even a blast of heavy rain didn’t dampen their enthusiasm for the task at hand, as stoically they sat out the squall. At least we had a dry space in which to spread out smugly with our stir fried prawns. Followed by strawberries and ice cream. Did I mention smug? I’m still getting used to the fact that we can carry a tub of ice cream around all day without it melting, thanks to a couple of solar panels and two beefy leisure batteries. And a freezer compartment.
On Tuesday, the suggestion of another day out was mooted, and after more of those internal tussles, the first version of me won the argument. We’d go to Godrevy and hope it wasn’t too jam packed. I really wanted to go bodyboarding, but I threw in the camera bag too - just in case. And in return, fortune favoured the nervous van driver with a recently vacated front row space on the field, where we could break out some camping chairs of our own and put the kettle on.
Bodyboarding is one of those things I do, absolutely love, and then never quite get around to doing again for far too long. All the more bizarre, because at the end of one summer many moons ago when I had been going into the waves almost every day, I invested in a good quality board, which has since spent most of its life living in its case, sometimes unused for two or three summers at a time. The water was warm, the waves bracing and the sun continued to shine. I stayed in the sea for almost two hours, vowing to do this more often. I only suffered the indignity of two wipeouts as well. Nothing like the odd lung full of seawater to let you know you're having fun. As I waded through the surf for one last ride, a group of Sanderlings flew above my head. Maybe six or seven of them in close formation, unerring, swift and low over the surface of the water. They were heading towards the lighthouse, a reminder of what I’d focus my attention on later.
Eventually, I returned to the van for a cup of tea, not long before the blood relations of Monday’s delinquent rabble arrived and parked their VW Transporter far closer to us than was entirely necessary. With kids charging around throwing missiles, music blaring from an unseen stereo and conversations so loud that I wondered whether I was being invited to join in, I buried myself into the novel I was reading and pretended they weren’t happening. If I were bigger, or in possession of a pair of menacing eyebrows, I might have made my displeasure known to them, but of course I’m British, and accustomed to suffering in silence and muttering under my breath.
Dinner over, I headed for the rocks with the camera bag. It was only an hour or so until high tide, and I tried a small number of compositions, some of them new, while others were old friends. But there was no getting away from the fact that it’s a very different place in high summer. Everywhere I stood, there were people in the way, unless I went to the far edge and suffered a last knot of them sitting just behind me. I’m not good when there are people around, as you’ve probably worked out by now. In the end, I settled on this offering from the collection of images I made. As I took the shot I planned to airbrush them in post, but in fact I rather liked their presence, this huddle of summer revellers at the end of a beautiful day. One that tells the story of Cornwall in the middle of summer.
And summer has passed so quickly, already we’re only a week away from September and the transition into autumn. Great for togs, not so good for bodyboarders. But then again I’ve got that winter wetsuit that my colleagues gave me when I retired. Wonder how long before I use it again?