On our way again

From Withiel, we drove off this morning to lunch at the Finnygook Inn above the sea at Crafthole. This pub's name apparently commemorates the murder 300 or so years ago of a double-crossing smuggler by his partners in crime.

From there it was a short hop to look at St Germans church, before crossing the Tamar to find a parking place for our car, while we are away for our week in France.

The weathervane sits on a former pub in Withiel, the Old Pig and Whistle.

Booby's

It was warm enough for me to surf at Booby's Bay this afternoon, though I didn't stay in long as even in the shallows I could feel the rip. Happy memories of family holidays and picnics with our old Withiel friends!

Tregolls

On this, our first day in Cornwall, we have been cycling gently, in preparation for the coming week on our bikes in Brittany. From Withiel, we went West along a pretty valley as far as Rosenannon. I then climbed up to St Breock Down to avoid returning the same way, whizzing back down to our temporary home just as the rain started.

This is just one of a handful of kids we watched enjoying their goaty playground at Tregolls Farm.

Church crawling

Jenkins to hand, Caroline and I set off inland today on a wet morning to look at two churches with seven stars between them. Even looking at lesser churches in Cornwall gives me great pleasure, if only for their churchyards' old slate tombstones: they last long enough to reveal much fine lettering still.

Getting to Blisland was itself a delightful journey of discovery, passing garden-gate produce stalls, ancient signposts and through a maze of narrow lanes. The church is almost worth visiting for its name alone: the only one dedicated to the brothers Protus and Hyacinth, whose feast was yesterday. John Betjeman raved about the Victorian screen, which runs gaudily across the entire width of the church. I especially liked looking up to the giddy-making wagon roof of the nave.

Blisland has a newish community building to boast of also: a vast shed, housing shop, post office, café with internet and large screen, doctor's surgery... all run, it's said, on as little energy as possible. There's a sign pointing out the cost of a drive to the nearest supermarket: "Shop here and save yourself a fiver."

St Neot's church is more celebrated even than Blisland's - "the cathedral of the Moor" - on account of its mediaeval stained glass. But it seemed less welcoming to me, possibly because of the sign forbidding unauthorised use of the photographs we visitors take. It's not as if there's a decent choice amongst the church's own photographic postcards. And anyway, dissemination of religious images is all part of spreading the Gospel surely! Why alienate visitors in this way?

Yes, the glass is interesting, especially the Old Testament scenes (Eden and Noah in particular). But give me Fairford any day.

During our stay, we met the owner of a remote Cornish home, who was moaning about a proposed wind turbine. "Only 450 yards away, and it will take £100,000 off my house," she had complained. We happened to pass by the property on our way to Blisland: it's sunk in a deepish, very wooded valley. Even if she's right about the loss in value - surely doubtful - you have to ask how many people in less fortunate circs. would give their eye teeth to be able to arrest an unwanted "development" within 450 yards of where they live; and to question whether one individual should be able to elevate her property rights above the needs of the world for more renewable energy. This, along with the extreme "whiteness" of the retired and holidaying community down here in Cornwall.

Foot patrol

Our hostess knows lots of people down here, as has become apparent. One came to supper this evening, and remarked on the contrast between dress codes in Cornwall and Hampshire. "People don't mind what you look like down here," she said. To which I was tempted to add, "So long as you have a dog to accompany you. Or preferably two. Otherwise, what would there be to talk about?" Temptation then resisted, but when she exclaimed: "I won't ever go for a walk without a dog!" I couldn't help myself murmuring, "And I won't (if I can manage it) ever go for a walk with one." Bad experiences of being tripped up by extending leads don't help.

In previous September visits to Cornwall, I have made for the surf - a highlight of coming here. This year, I don't feel in the least tempted. Funny. The house is so near the sea and to Polzeath beach and yet so far away from it, and the weather is uninviting. Today, there hasn't even been a glimpse of the sun, though we escaped any rain on our windy walk from Pentire Farm via The Rumps home.

So we were able to watch the surfers from a distance, well-shepherded as they are these days by lifeguards. This hut sits on the South side of Hayle Bay: the sign outside tells passers by that the beach is today watched over by five "veterans". Ready to hot-foot it into action, I observe.

From above Polzeath, there's no danger of confusing wetsuited surfers with seals, as once we stupidly did when walking on Worm's Head. Today, rounding Pentire Head, we had (real) porpoises pointed out to us by fellow walkers: much more interaction between coast path traffic than there is on the pavements of Cheltenham, where you may be looked at askance if you offer a "Good morning!"

Padstein

It's been a dry day, but only fitfully sunny: cool in the wind. Walking down to the Coast Path across Beniguet's large, springy-turfed lawn, we made our way this morning via an almost deserted Daymer Bay and the golf course to St Enodoc's Church.

After buying postcards and admiring John Betjeman's tombstone, we skirted Brae Hill and climbed over the dunes to the beach, where the Padstow ferry was kindly waiting for us. Nicely sprayed during the crossing, we were unloaded into a seething mass of people: to escape the crush, we fought our way uphill from the Harbour as quickly as possible before collapsing into a café. Having set off eventually to continue in the direction of Stepper Point, I realised my poles were still propped up against the café wall; so we redeployed to collect them and explore instead the nether reaches of Padstow itself. The beautifully-maintained church of St Petroc turned out to be well worth discovering.

All the Apostles are clearly distinguishable on the four faces of a handsome 15th Century font, and an early 17th Century Prideaux monument plus later memorials leave one in no doubt as to which family has been running the place for some centuries. Peter Prideaux-Brune, the present incumbent of the big house - a Catholic - must surely be happy that the church is now officially shared, with the blessed sacrament reserved in the Lady Chapel. (I have not spoken to him since 1956, when he and I sang in Messiah together under Roger Bevan.)

Trebetherick

We are in Cornwall for four nights. The journey seemed easier for a lunch detour: we left the M5 at Taunton, heading roughly South to Cricket St Thomas. Kilima Farm, though not on top of a mountain, is well situated overlooking Crinkley Bottom: my Goddaughter and family are now in residence with her mum, who looked after us hospitably. Then on to Honiton Station, to collect Sarah, arms strapped following her fall on the tennis court, from her train, and two hours later we were here.

The large white holiday house, which members of our friend Caroline's family have been coming to for 60 or so years, was built with servants in mind: it's a long walk round from dining-room to kitchen when you've forgotten to put something by the hatch. The house name, Beniguet, means "blessed" in Cornish, no doubt because of its position. Now it's dark, there's just one light over the other side of the Camel river - reminding us of  looking out from Agios Stephanos in Corfu towards a dark Albania opposite. In daylight, we can see, as well as the Estuary, Brae Hill, Padstow, Hawker's Cove and Stepper Point: as fine and wide a view as one could wish for, especially when there's a sunset like tonight's.

Before then, Caroline's immediate family, down for a long weekend, had driven off back to Hampshire, the youngest at 12 months old already shows signs of having inherited her grandfather's right-wing views.

Nick = Sarah

When champion ballroom dancers get married (at last!), their first dance is well worth watching. This rather blurry image will, I know, be far surpassed by others: a large proportion of the 150 of us present seemed to start flashing away when the music began. Staying in Somerset for two nights, we drove down to Cornwall and back yesterday for the nuptials, the first time I can ever recall going to a wedding on a Sunday. Events weren't in the least spoilt by the rain, which anyway fell more gently than in London. In order to compensate for lack of bunting outside our house, I sported my Union Jack tie for the wedding: it attracted one or two comments, especially from some members of the large French contingent. Altogether, a very happy day.

HB1

Helen Brown, who has just died aged 99, was, with her husband Watty and daughter Prue, one of our closest neighbours when my parents arrived to live in Wootton Wawen, shortly after I was born. That she was a fine-looking woman can easily be seen from this photograph, taken by my father (I guess) on my first birthday, eight days before D-Day: that's her in the centre of the back row.

There was something wonderfully sophisticated about Helen, which it's hard to put a finger on: perhaps it was her skill as a raconteur (with mordant sense of humour), and her penchant for a cigarette, not to mention gin. I loved it when her eyes creased into a smile, as they did so very frequently. The Priory was accordingly a happy house to visit, as was the Browns' subsequent rather grander manor house near Worcester. There I remember once counting the leaves on a pineapple.

After Watty's death, Helen moved to her beloved Cornwall, her new home barely a 3-iron from the golf course at Trevose. I looked for it when we were staying at Mother Ivey's one Summer (1997). Arriving unshaven at the Constantine Bay Stores, I enquired of the proprietor exactly where the bungalow was. No response: she clearly looked upon me as a potential mugger or worse. Luckily Helen drove up just then in her battered Fiesta, claiming me for an old friend - "whose pram I used to push". Cue for another infectious chuckle.

Welltown

Today we turned our back on the West Country in order to drive home. What a glorious week of Indian Summer it’s been! We have spent these last three nights in the great comfort of Caroline’s cousin’s old house overlooking the Atlantic Ocean: their informal garden - tables and chairs covered with lichen - spills out onto fields full of sheep and Red Devon cattle, grazing right to the cliff top near Willapark. John, a naturalist to his fingertips, set a light trap on Saturday night which caught moths galore in the freak conditions. Old Fr. Storey is still the priest at St Paul’s Tintagel – as he was when I first came to Welltown with Caroline in 1976.

Addendum: We canvassed with John the possibility of having decided - as part of our carbon awareness - not to travel all the way down to Cornwall for Jeremy Faull's funeral. He responded later, by email:

Brooding about the challenges of remote understanding, I came across this stanza from Philip Larkin and his Going, Going poem of 1972:

And that will be England gone,
The shadows, the meadows, the lanes.
The guildhalls, the carved choirs.
There’ll be books; it will linger on
In galleries; but all that remains
For us will be concrete and tyres.

A different sort of distance, but it left me wondering, could we really have experienced St. Breock and its carved benches without being there?

Green memories

We had long planned to be in Cornwall this weekend in order to visit Jeremy and Odile Faull, close friends of all our family over many years. Instead, the journey on Friday was for Jeremy’s funeral. More than 300 friends and wellwishers packed into St Breock’s Church for the service: Jeremy’s parish church, St Clement’s, Withiel (“Quite a large church,” according to Pevsner) wouldn’t have been big enough. It was a wonderful thanksgiving for the richest of lives. Local farmers and dignitaries rubbed shoulders with Parisian businessmen and all manner of Greens, golfing partners, artists, craftsmen, writers and bibliophiles.

This evening, we walked with Odile from her house in the valley up through the fields to the graveyard on the hillside. There, in the corner nearest home, Jeremy’s grave lies covered with flowers, with bean sticks on the village allotments as a backdrop. He will be smiling!

Boscastle

Seven years ago, this village was devastated by flooding: you wouldn’t know it from seeing it now, particularly on an October afternoon with the thermometer showing record temperatures. The National Trust shop and coffee house – I ordered latte and was served cappuccino – also has an exhibition area, with a harrowing video sequence showing. The events that 16th August unfold grimly, cars and caravans swept over the main road bridge and out to sea, as if our grandchildren were playing with my old Dinky toys. It seems a miracle that no lives were lost.

Today Boscastle was en fête, exhibitions in all its public (and some private) buildings, and a vast food tent with cookery demonstrations by would-be celebrity chefs. We walked down into the village from the direction of Willapark coastguard station, the harbour entrance unfolding before us like a sequence from Pirates of the Caribbean. After lunch, sitting by the river (today, hardly more than a babbling brook), we struggled up the steep High Street to see Carole Vincent’s garden, with its curiously antiseptic concrete sculptures.

Jeremy Faull RIP

The name Faull first became familiar to me in the 1960s: a new law firm had sprung up, Faull, Best & Knight. The trio was a breakaway from Theodore Goddard: Jeremy Faull - he was frank enough to admit in later years - was the one who asked for his name to be first, and so it came to pass. A decade or so later, the London solicitor turned himself into a Cornish farmer, immersing himself in local politics, and becoming the first Ecology Party County Councillor: Paul Tyler, now a Lib Dem peer, was the vanquished candidate. Retirement from farming gave Jeremy and his family the opportunity to make a more eco-friendly home for themselves over the road, a clever barn conversion, with the most beautiful view from its garden. And then there was the Wadebridge Bookshop, one of a dying breed, which he owned for many years, a great attraction to literary holidaymakers in North Cornwall: Jeremy presided there with quiet enthusiasm, making available to anyone in need his immense stock of knowledge and wise counsel. He truly loved life. Nobody quite matched his combination of sportsman, raconteur, bon viveur and radical thinker. He took the piss brilliantly too.

12 months ago, on our South Coast walk together, he was struggling for breath: that struggle intensified throughout this year, and today we heard the very sad news of his death. He, the most encouraging and constant friend anyone could hope to have, will be so very widely missed.

David Fleming RIP

This afternoon, I was looking at this amongst other photographs I had taken during 2010, to select some for our usual kitchen calendar. As I did so, I thought to myself how short life is for some people - and that perhaps indeed it would be so for David. I can't imagine what gave me this idea, as that Michaelmas Day in Cornwall when I took this, just two months ago, he was in prime form - as cadaverous as ever, but enjoying a healthy if quirky diet, and no more stressed than usual about what might become his very own Casaubon delusion.

An hour later came the shocking news that David had indeed died at the weekend. What a friend we have all lost! Others have written more knowledgeably than could I about his originality of thought. You could see him as a curmudgeon if you opposed the invasion of Iraq; or the mad professor if you looked for a practical, straightforward answer to a question. He regularly won the family's competition for most unusual Christmas card. Sir Andrew Aguecheek sprang occasionally to mind, though David was nobody's fool - and never had money enough to match his generosity of spirit. Such a mixture of the extremes of conservatism and radicalism puzzled many, but beguiled our children, who will be heart-broken. And what other economic dictionary offers a definition of "quick" in the biblical sense?

The Iraq conflict re-erupted over supper in our kitchen on 8th October 2005 - between David and his good friend Jonathon Porritt. This photograph was taken a few glasses of wine later.

Out of order at the Festival

I've been reading Pope Benedict's new "social" encyclical - rather appropriate given that today is the feast of St Benedict. "It is good for people to realise," he writes, "that purchasing is always a moral - and not simply economic - act." Well, I can't claim any very high-minded motive for declining to purchase a £9 Music Festival programme (or even the £1 throw-away sheets) when I've attended this Festival's concerts. I came to realise at a certain stage a few years ago that the house - or rather the attic - was already too full of old concert and theatre programmes, and that I just had to stop buying them. Anyway the Festival provides a perfectly adequate advance booking brochure, setting out what we are to hear.

Perfectly adequate? Yes, for the most part, but this week there have been two irritating occasions when the order of the pieces performed has not been as set out in the advance brochure - and I and those others in the same boat were not given prior notice of this. While most of those of us left in the dark could probably tell after the first couple of bars that it was Beethoven not Shostakovich that the Borodin Quartet were playing in the middle of their recital programme, it was not at all obvious yesterday evening that Steven Isserlis and Connie Shih were launching into Schumann instead of Mendelssohn after their opener. So, a little more consideration please, Meurig "Hedgehog" Bowen, if the order is to be changed in future - particularly as you were up there on the stage, chatting away to us anyway before the concert, with your roving mike.

Having got that off my chest, I will say immediately that there was absolutely nothing out of order about the playing last night. It was a delight to hear two performers so much in sympathy with one another, and with a passionate shared commitment to the work of those two composers. OK, the "new" variations spurieuses - Thomas Ades's description, we were told - by Mendelssohn were perhaps a bit boring; but the second half of the recital took fire in no uncertain terms. This, anyway, seemed to be the post-performance consensus over supper - one of those present being particularly hungry having (aged 75) bicycled 12 or so miles to the concert.

Meta4 (pictured here before their rushed exit to catch their flights home to Helsinki) and the dynamic Ingrid Fliter likewise took fire yesterday morning, in the same hall, playing more Schumann - his great Piano Quintet: why is it so much less celebrated than Schubert's Trout? Perhaps because it doesn't have a nickname.

Before their interval, Meta4 had - with all the fearlessness of youth - launched into Beethoven Op 130, with the Grosse Fuge thrown in. We were in Cornwall last week, and I marvelled at the beauty of the waves, for surfing; but also at how perilous was the undertow. I was reminded of this during parts of that great fuge, where the playing rolls along, but can so easily come adrift: happily the quartet, 3/4 of whom played standing up (on their surfboards), all ended together eventually. A brave performance.

Football matters

Last night's match between Austria and Germany was slow and not very pretty. Certainly not as exciting as Holland v France last week. We were supporting Austria, a country where I spent three very happy and formative months after leaving school. But though they had more speed and some youthful enthusiasm, they lacked all finishing power. And this was a match they needed to win to stay in the competition they are jointly hosting. Germany for their part were unconvincing, an unattractive bunch, not playing to their potential. Having said this, they will probably go on to win the Championship - but I hope not.

It makes it much easier to watch, with England out of the equation. And on such an unseasonably chilly night, we didn't mind sitting with supper on our knees, rather than being outside at the round table in the garden, which is where one would expect to find us on 16th June.

This alternative football photograph was taken when I was walking near St Agnes in Cornwall last July.