The cream of the West Country
Cornwall is not like the rest of England. Once you cross the Tamar you enter a semi-foreign land, familiar and yet different. Perhaps this is because Cornwall has always been a seafaring region, for a long time more easily linked by water with northern France, Spain and beyond than with the beating heart of British power in London.
Perhaps it is because of the county’s mild climate, as the warm waters of the North Atlantic Drift flood into every cave and inlet of its jagged 400-mile coastline, staving off the winter frosts and nurturing palm trees and other sub-tropical plants.
It may also be the people, whose identity is unmistakably Cornish rather than English. Though their language may have dwindled to a matter of well protected record, now spoken only as a second tongue, the Cornish represent England’s last Celtic bastion.
Pete – my partner at the time – and I reached Cornwall at the end of June during a two-month-long period of uninterrupted Mediterranean weather as we embarked on a round-Britain cruise, sailing westwards from the Isle of Wight on
N’Tiana, a 43ft Oyster ketch. We had determined at this stage of our journey to work to no schedule and simply potter and explore at our leisure. The unfeasibly perfect weather meant we were lucky enough to encounter this stunning stretch of coast at its absolute best and brightest.
The south Cornish coastline is less cosy than Devon’s; it is more rugged and exposed, but equally beautiful. It still offers the roaming sailor plenty of idyllic rivers and natural
