The Cornish Massive
Well that’s what at least one of you calls us. Whether that’s because of the annual pasties per capita consumption figures that were recently announced after a long and highly liquid fuelled lunchtime survey by a group of undergraduates from the University of Redruth I’m not entirely sure. But suffice to say - you know that well known bakery chain with the blue, white and orange logo that seems to be a fixture on every high street in the land? Well I was shocked to discover that there are now as many as four of their outlets in our homeland west of the Tamar. Four! Hell, there’s even one in Truro! I’ve never been to any of them. Why would I when we’ve got award winning pasties all over the county? We’ve got Barnecutt’s, Berryman’s, Philp’s, Ann’s Pasties, Mary’s Pasties, Portreath Bakery, the Cornish Oven and many more besides. We don’t speak of those mass produced monstrosities from the far east by the way. And by “far east” I mean Callington, not China. Yes, the ones you see advertised on the telly. Nobody here would ever dream of touching one of those with the end of their fully extended tripod. Gr4ggs indeed! Whatever will they think of next? Thank goodness they haven’t reached Redruth yet, although I suspect it’s only a matter of time.
Anyway, rant over, and it was time for an audience with Mr Pedlar. You know him. Raconteur, sparkling wit and peerless master of Trebormint Strand somewhere up there beyond the city limits of Wadebridge in the frozen north. We’d agreed to meet at Trevose. Last time I invited him to join me here, he came up with some sudden and implausible jaunt on the other side of the bridge would you believe? I didn’t realise he even knew there was an “other side of the bridge.” He once told me the world stops at Saltash, after which there's a dark and gaping abyss that stretches away to eternity. I said “No Brian, that's just Plymouth. Their pasties are the wrong shape and they talk a bit funny, but they're all right really.” Still reeling from the blows of his heartless rejection, I went to Trevose alone and took some pictures anyway. But now I was in Wadebridge again, spending Father’s Day with my son; and his son who is two and a half and liable to run off in several directions at once, just to help me maintain my fitness levels. We passed the afternoon at their favourite local beach, and after a Father’s Day fish and chip supper with young Alfie sitting beside his Grandad, helping himself to my chicken nuggets, I headed for Trevose. This time Brian had confirmed that his diary was clear, having just finished chairing the village roadkill annual general meeting. It was a good job I’d eaten already. You have to be careful around these people who dwell at the edges of Bodmin Moor.
I arrived first, and disappeared over to the far end of the headland just like last time, sending our local hero details of where he might or might not find my remains if I managed to fall into the soup. There are definitely some more shots to be had there. I shall return with a plan soon. As I headed back to the top, a message came through on my phone. “I’m sitting in the place where I took that last shot.” Don’t look at that one of his by the way. It’s far too good. You’ll only spoil all of the other pictures that have ever been taken of Trevose Head Lighthouse for yourself. But nevertheless it was very nice to see him for the first time in almost two years and catch up on our various exploits. We talked about some of you. Bet your ears are burning. And where was Paul? Remember Shutterbug Paul? Brian has him on speed dial. As I’m not in such an exalted space, I asked him to urge Paul to return to Flickr. It was Paul’s love of a good yarn that inspired me to start adding all of these meandering tales to my own posts. You’re probably hoping he doesn’t make a comeback now I’ve told you that. Sorry.
It was a flat evening as far as the conditions went, both in the sea and sky, but that never really troubles me. I do like a challenge. Maybe there was just the tiniest hint of pink in those clouds. Really only a smidgeon, but perhaps enough to pick it up among the textures. Besides which, this outing was about slipping down a gear or two by the sea after chasing a toddler around the beach and enjoying the company of another grandfather and like minded soul - albeit one whose two best friends are Horace and Hoof, an imaginary pig and an imaginary horse who jointly own a 1968 Jensen Interceptor with go faster stripes and keep an intergalactic rocket ship hidden in an underground silo just outside Tintagel. Or are they imaginary? Maybe you know better than me. Perhaps that’s why we’re not allowed to visit Trebormint Strand unaccompanied. I’ve often wondered about that. Hope I don’t get vaporized by Horace and Hoof's spacecraft for giving away state secrets.
The Cornish Massive
Well that’s what at least one of you calls us. Whether that’s because of the annual pasties per capita consumption figures that were recently announced after a long and highly liquid fuelled lunchtime survey by a group of undergraduates from the University of Redruth I’m not entirely sure. But suffice to say - you know that well known bakery chain with the blue, white and orange logo that seems to be a fixture on every high street in the land? Well I was shocked to discover that there are now as many as four of their outlets in our homeland west of the Tamar. Four! Hell, there’s even one in Truro! I’ve never been to any of them. Why would I when we’ve got award winning pasties all over the county? We’ve got Barnecutt’s, Berryman’s, Philp’s, Ann’s Pasties, Mary’s Pasties, Portreath Bakery, the Cornish Oven and many more besides. We don’t speak of those mass produced monstrosities from the far east by the way. And by “far east” I mean Callington, not China. Yes, the ones you see advertised on the telly. Nobody here would ever dream of touching one of those with the end of their fully extended tripod. Gr4ggs indeed! Whatever will they think of next? Thank goodness they haven’t reached Redruth yet, although I suspect it’s only a matter of time.
Anyway, rant over, and it was time for an audience with Mr Pedlar. You know him. Raconteur, sparkling wit and peerless master of Trebormint Strand somewhere up there beyond the city limits of Wadebridge in the frozen north. We’d agreed to meet at Trevose. Last time I invited him to join me here, he came up with some sudden and implausible jaunt on the other side of the bridge would you believe? I didn’t realise he even knew there was an “other side of the bridge.” He once told me the world stops at Saltash, after which there's a dark and gaping abyss that stretches away to eternity. I said “No Brian, that's just Plymouth. Their pasties are the wrong shape and they talk a bit funny, but they're all right really.” Still reeling from the blows of his heartless rejection, I went to Trevose alone and took some pictures anyway. But now I was in Wadebridge again, spending Father’s Day with my son; and his son who is two and a half and liable to run off in several directions at once, just to help me maintain my fitness levels. We passed the afternoon at their favourite local beach, and after a Father’s Day fish and chip supper with young Alfie sitting beside his Grandad, helping himself to my chicken nuggets, I headed for Trevose. This time Brian had confirmed that his diary was clear, having just finished chairing the village roadkill annual general meeting. It was a good job I’d eaten already. You have to be careful around these people who dwell at the edges of Bodmin Moor.
I arrived first, and disappeared over to the far end of the headland just like last time, sending our local hero details of where he might or might not find my remains if I managed to fall into the soup. There are definitely some more shots to be had there. I shall return with a plan soon. As I headed back to the top, a message came through on my phone. “I’m sitting in the place where I took that last shot.” Don’t look at that one of his by the way. It’s far too good. You’ll only spoil all of the other pictures that have ever been taken of Trevose Head Lighthouse for yourself. But nevertheless it was very nice to see him for the first time in almost two years and catch up on our various exploits. We talked about some of you. Bet your ears are burning. And where was Paul? Remember Shutterbug Paul? Brian has him on speed dial. As I’m not in such an exalted space, I asked him to urge Paul to return to Flickr. It was Paul’s love of a good yarn that inspired me to start adding all of these meandering tales to my own posts. You’re probably hoping he doesn’t make a comeback now I’ve told you that. Sorry.
It was a flat evening as far as the conditions went, both in the sea and sky, but that never really troubles me. I do like a challenge. Maybe there was just the tiniest hint of pink in those clouds. Really only a smidgeon, but perhaps enough to pick it up among the textures. Besides which, this outing was about slipping down a gear or two by the sea after chasing a toddler around the beach and enjoying the company of another grandfather and like minded soul - albeit one whose two best friends are Horace and Hoof, an imaginary pig and an imaginary horse who jointly own a 1968 Jensen Interceptor with go faster stripes and keep an intergalactic rocket ship hidden in an underground silo just outside Tintagel. Or are they imaginary? Maybe you know better than me. Perhaps that’s why we’re not allowed to visit Trebormint Strand unaccompanied. I’ve often wondered about that. Hope I don’t get vaporized by Horace and Hoof's spacecraft for giving away state secrets.