July 15 Choughed!
I was walking back from Kynance Cove to Lizard village on Sunday evening when my attention was caught by a group of particularly noisy black birds in a grassy clearing in the Cornish heath. “You jackdaws have got a lot to say for yourself”, I said to them. Except that, no sooner were the words out of my mouth, than I realised they weren’t jackdaws at all. Jackdaws don’t have red beaks, or red legs. These birds – praise all the saints of Cornwall – could only be choughs.
I was walking back from Kynance Cove to Lizard village on Sunday evening when my attention was caught by a group of particularly noisy black birds in a grassy clearing in the Cornish heath. “You jackdaws have got a lot to say for yourself”, I said to them. Except that, no sooner were the words out of my mouth, than I realised they weren’t jackdaws at all. Jackdaws don’t have red beaks, or red legs. These birds – praise all the saints of Cornwall – could only be choughs.
The spirit of King Arthur?
Fortunately, I had my little digital camera with me and took a handful of rushed shots. At this they flew off, alighting again about 100 yards away, so I followed them, and took a couple more photographs, before the five of them took wing and headed off towards the cliff top. Given that this is one of the rarest birds in Britain – extinct here from the early 1970s until their reintroduction in 2001 – I still couldn’t quite believe my luck. As soon as I got back to Carmen, I transferred the pictures from camera to computer, to study them more closely. There was no mistake: the downward curving red beaks, the glossy black plumage, the red legs. These were choughs: the emblem of Cornwall; the bird in which the soul of King Arthur himself is supposed to reside.
Fortunately, I had my little digital camera with me and took a handful of rushed shots. At this they flew off, alighting again about 100 yards away, so I followed them, and took a couple more photographs, before the five of them took wing and headed off towards the cliff top. Given that this is one of the rarest birds in Britain – extinct here from the early 1970s until their reintroduction in 2001 – I still couldn’t quite believe my luck. As soon as I got back to Carmen, I transferred the pictures from camera to computer, to study them more closely. There was no mistake: the downward curving red beaks, the glossy black plumage, the red legs. These were choughs: the emblem of Cornwall; the bird in which the soul of King Arthur himself is supposed to reside.
They probably chat to each other in a strong Spanish accent (Asturian, I suspect!), as that is the country from which they were reintroduced. But as far as I am concerned, these were the genuine, legendary, Cornish article. If I’d seen a Phoenix on the wing, I couldn’t have been more surprised or pleased.
That was the highlight of a glorious Sunday, in which I clocked two new breweries (Penzance and Lizard), swam at Gwynver in the morning and Kynance Cove in the afternoon, and basked in the well-nigh unbroken sunshine. The sea at Kynance was crowded with children, most of them wearing wet-suits. It struck me that we are in danger of breeding a generation of wimps, who won’t go into the sea without a wetsuit because “it’s too cold”. Besides which they’re denying themselves one of the supreme sensory pleasures, of cool water on warm skin. I’ve got nothing against wet-suits for surfing, but swimming in them is (one must assume) like making love using an old sock as a condom.
That was the highlight of a glorious Sunday, in which I clocked two new breweries (Penzance and Lizard), swam at Gwynver in the morning and Kynance Cove in the afternoon, and basked in the well-nigh unbroken sunshine. The sea at Kynance was crowded with children, most of them wearing wet-suits. It struck me that we are in danger of breeding a generation of wimps, who won’t go into the sea without a wetsuit because “it’s too cold”. Besides which they’re denying themselves one of the supreme sensory pleasures, of cool water on warm skin. I’ve got nothing against wet-suits for surfing, but swimming in them is (one must assume) like making love using an old sock as a condom.
Kynance Cove
“Henry’s Campsite”, in Lizard village, is very different from the wide open spaces of Trevedra, but just as delightful. It feels almost as if I’m camping in a garden; a garden in the Isles of Scilly, at that. We are surrounded by palms, echiums, agapanthus and big white daisies. Chickens poke around between the tents. The pitches are marked out by massive granite gateposts. And, best of all, the little campsite/farm shop sells Spingo, from the Blue Anchor in Helston, which has the oldest working brewery in Britain.
It was gloomy and overcast on Monday morning as I walked first to the Lizard Point, and then onto the Most Southerly point itself, complete with the Most Southerly cafe, Most Southerly gift shop, Most Southerly car park and Most Southerly public toilets. This isn’t a place which hides its location under a bushel. The sea was flat calm, and when the fog rolled in, each blast from the lighthouse station’s foghorn reverberated mournfully for fully ten seconds off rocks and cliffs and
glassy ocean.
I lunched on a pasty from “Ann’s Famous Pasty Shop” and I have to say that Warrens of St. Just has a serious rival. The pastry is a sort of cross between short and puff – just as with the incomparable (in my humble opinion) Ivor Dewdney’s pasties in Plymouth (the Exeter ones are a deeply inferior imitation).
This afternoon, I cycled to Coverack, via Cadgwith and Kennack Sands. The sun emerged briefly from behind the scudding mist, but then disappeared again. Goonhilly Downs, across which I cycled, is as bleak a heath as you could meet, but in the little valleys that run down to the sea, I saw something almost as rare as a Cornish chough – half grown elm trees. Presumably, being cut off by the heathland, they’re far enough away from other elms to escape the wretched beetle. But it was a bittersweet moment, because it struck me that my three children are both too young to have seen a fully-grown English elm in all its glory in the past, but not young enough to have any realistic hope of seeing one in the future.
So that is the end of what I think I can safely call the British Isles leg of the trip. I plan to leave for Brittany in late August, and in the meantime, when I get home, will post some photographs,
and offer some halfway stage reflections.
“Henry’s Campsite”, in Lizard village, is very different from the wide open spaces of Trevedra, but just as delightful. It feels almost as if I’m camping in a garden; a garden in the Isles of Scilly, at that. We are surrounded by palms, echiums, agapanthus and big white daisies. Chickens poke around between the tents. The pitches are marked out by massive granite gateposts. And, best of all, the little campsite/farm shop sells Spingo, from the Blue Anchor in Helston, which has the oldest working brewery in Britain.
It was gloomy and overcast on Monday morning as I walked first to the Lizard Point, and then onto the Most Southerly point itself, complete with the Most Southerly cafe, Most Southerly gift shop, Most Southerly car park and Most Southerly public toilets. This isn’t a place which hides its location under a bushel. The sea was flat calm, and when the fog rolled in, each blast from the lighthouse station’s foghorn reverberated mournfully for fully ten seconds off rocks and cliffs and
glassy ocean.I lunched on a pasty from “Ann’s Famous Pasty Shop” and I have to say that Warrens of St. Just has a serious rival. The pastry is a sort of cross between short and puff – just as with the incomparable (in my humble opinion) Ivor Dewdney’s pasties in Plymouth (the Exeter ones are a deeply inferior imitation).
This afternoon, I cycled to Coverack, via Cadgwith and Kennack Sands. The sun emerged briefly from behind the scudding mist, but then disappeared again. Goonhilly Downs, across which I cycled, is as bleak a heath as you could meet, but in the little valleys that run down to the sea, I saw something almost as rare as a Cornish chough – half grown elm trees. Presumably, being cut off by the heathland, they’re far enough away from other elms to escape the wretched beetle. But it was a bittersweet moment, because it struck me that my three children are both too young to have seen a fully-grown English elm in all its glory in the past, but not young enough to have any realistic hope of seeing one in the future.
So that is the end of what I think I can safely call the British Isles leg of the trip. I plan to leave for Brittany in late August, and in the meantime, when I get home, will post some photographs,
and offer some halfway stage reflections.Blogging away
1 comment:
That is why you retired - you could never type and drink red wine in the office!
I don't think so anyway...
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