Cornwall. 8th April 2008.

I go to Cornwall. I take Maisie and Zac and Evil on the train. I leave John and Abigail at home with Boris Johnson and Buddy.

Going to Cornwall is very stressful. Abigail and John are not capable of looking after themselves and I fear for Boris Johnson. Buddy can look after himself John doesn’t understand that it takes one hour to get to Paddingtion in rush hour and he begins to run a bath at 8.30.am. 

John has a hangover from the Press Awards. He had a lovely time talking to the Opposition journalists about their redesign. The Opposition journalists say it is a complete nightmare and that there are Spanish people hanging about in the office like a load of  flashy-suited Latino KGB agents telling them how to lay out a British tabloid for God’s sake! John is very happy. The Opposition looks like a low budget version of The Daily Porn. In a spirit of sympathy and for the sake of old friendships, John buys The Opposition journalists lots of beer and wine and, he thinks, maybe, some whisky and now John can hardly move and has infact been poisoned.

I am very cross. I cannot go to Cornwall if John is in the bath when he is supposed to be taking us to Paddington. If I had known that John was going to be nearly dead I would have taken a Premier Cab to Paddington. Now it is too late.

‘If you were going to be nearly dead,’ I say ‘I would have taken a taxi. Why didn’t you  tell me you were going to go out and get slaughtered ? Taxis all have Sat Nav now you know, I could have taken one.’

John says ‘Ssssh.’

We drive to Paddington. We are going to miss the train. I don’t have a family rail card. I don’t have tickets. The traffic is stacked up in Camden like you wouldn’t believe. It starts to rain. I resolve to stay in Cornwall for ever if I get there. ‘I’m never ever coming back if I ever get there.’ I say angrily.

John says ‘Yes, fine but could you be quieter about it?’

We get on the train to Cornwall. It is actually moving when we get on it.

John slides away down the platform out of sight and we wave goodbye. I cannot believe that we are actually on the train.

Five hours later we arrive in Penzance. St Michael’s Mount glimmers in the bay, a jewel set in a silver sea. The sky is blue, the sun an exuberant yellow. I love Cornwall.

My chest pain is easing up. My brow which would be horribly furrowed were it not for the fact that it is full of Botox would be less furrowed even if it wasn’t full of Botox. I feel a weight lift from my shoulders. I resolve to stay for ever. I will buy a house and move in with just the clothes we stand up in. 

Zac says he would rather go home if it’s all the same to me.  

Wednesday 9th April 2008

Cornwall. Planning Permission. The Spanish Armada.

My perfect brother is in Cornwall with his family. 

We walk through the woods to St Loy and have lunch by the coast path. Our children climb on a fallen tree and bounce on it’s branches. Maisie swings over a stream on a rope swing. We find a slow worm and it’s tail falls off. 

We feed apples to a horse. We feed fish in a quarry. A kingfisher flashes blue and is gone. 

The children play viscious games of croquet and rampaging football in the garden with my Very Attractive Brother and my Computer Brother. Maisie and the littlest cousin play endless games of chess and take all of each other’s pieces. 

My Very Attractive Brother has a broken heart and won’t talk about it. 

My Perfect Brother walks the cliffs in a pinkish dawn and holds his wife’s hand.

My parents are very annoyed that the man next door has planning permission to put another floor on his bungalow and they will be able to see it’s roof from their garden. I suggest leylandii. My father suggests murdering the Chief Planning Officer of Penwith District Council. 

Next to the bungalow next door is a huge granite wall. my mother asks the gardener,Wesley, who built it. ‘It doesn’t look at all Cornish.’ says my mother.

‘No,’ says Wesley, who is Lamorna born and bred ‘That wall, it bain’t Cornish. T’was built by darkies in the 60s.’

‘Darkies?’ says my mother.

‘Aye.’ says Wesley ‘They d’come from Spain or some such. We don’t have much truck wi’they, not since they burned the church and killed Squire Keigwin. An’ that wall’s not a proper job neither.’ 

‘The Armada was in 1588.’ says my mother.

‘Doesn’t do t’forget these things, Mrs Tremain.’ says Wesley. ‘Now where’s that gunnerer to ? I’m sure I put ‘ee down yer somewhere.’

‘I think we should plant some tallish shrubs.’ says my father.

‘Shrubs !!’ says my mother ‘ I know what sort of shrubs you like. Privet and Ceonothus, that’s what.’

‘I think that was entirely uncalled for.’ says my father.

Thursday the 10th April 2008. The Cornishman.

The Cornishman arrives through my parent’s letterbox. The Cornishman is the best weekly newspaper in the entire world. 

In The Cornishman I read that ‘Customers have launched a campaign to save a St Ives corner shop which has served the community for nearly 100 years. ‘It’s an absolute bombshell.’ says a local resident. 

‘We have art galleries coming out of our ears.’ says another.

I read that ‘Skipper of the Seagulls - Mousehole AFC - Barrie Prowse was accepted to run in the London marathon before his baby daughter was even a twinkle in his eye.’

I read that ‘A chimney fire in Breage on Sunday afternoon proved tricky to handle and required the use of rods and a stirrup pump before it could be extinguished .’ and I read that  ‘Along with celebrating it’s 10th anniversary  a toilet hire firm in Newquay is flushed with success as it has also won two national awards.’

After reading The Cornisman I feel oddly relaxed.

Later, after a little nap, I decide to buy a holiday cottage. It will be much greener than flying to Greece every summer and I will be able to see more of my family. I scour The Cornishman for likely properties. 

Cornwall is stupidly expensive unless you live in Camborne where, frankly, you wouldn’t, but I have high hopes of The Credit Crunch so I select a few houses and I ring the estate agent.

I gather my parents and we set off to view two barns and two cottages and a farmhouse.

The estate agent is called Anthony and I fall instantly and irredeemably in love. Anthony has a tie clip, his shoes are very shiny, he has neat black hair and when he smiles, which is all the time, wings of lines fan out around his eyes. sometimes I forget to listen to what he is saying about ‘nice sized rooms’ and ‘UPVC windows’ and I just gaze and gaze.

The cottages are too tiny, the barn looks like a teenager did it up in the school holidays and got quite bored half way through the job and the farmhouse is hard on a busy road. In it’s favour the farmhouse is inhabited by a  Cornish witch who sat at her spinning wheel actually spinning while Anthony showed us round. She said she was just the guardian of the house and that now her stewardship was coming to a natural close. Anthony told us about ‘period features’ and ‘character flooring.’ but as the witch was going to move out of the house when I moved in and I would be left with a few  features and a busy road we decided against it.

We say goodbye to Anthony and drive home through a thin veil of Cornish mizzle. 

‘Wasn’t he just the most gorgeous thing?’ I say to my mother.

‘Who?’ she asks.

‘Anthony.’ I say  ‘He had a tie clip.’ I explain.

‘Now you are just being silly.’ says my mother.

The car rounds a corner and below us we see the sea. 

We see Cape Cornwall, we see Sennen Cove and Gwynevor. We see the Wolf Rock Light and through a shifting curtain of rain, shot through with silver by the setting sun, we see the grey humps that are The Scillies on the far horizon. 

I think to myself. ‘Go West, young man, and grow up with the country.’ Then I think, it’s a bit late for that.