Gypsy Horses from St Day Cornwall

 Friday 20th January 2012


I love these two gypsy horses, one only
six month's old, I was told, bought at the St Day Horse Fair. But so far I cannot find any such thing.They are definately gypsy type horses known as gypsy cobs. As far as I remember when I was about five, our bread and milk was delivered by a huge horse with feathering around his/her fetlocks. But I thought it was a Shire horse as all large horses with furry fetlocks I thought were Shires. I fed them a slice of bread or carrot and was amused by how they would have a nosebag of food fitted over their heads to feed. They would also walk right onto the pavement over the curb to see if you had any treats for them, dragging the entire cart with them while the breadman or milkman was delivering loaves and bottles. I've looked up St Day Horse Fair but haven't found anything. Most horse fairs seem to be up North and close to links to Ireland. I am not sure if what people mean by Gypsy relates solely to Ireland or whether it includes any of the gypsies elsewhere in Europe. It amused me that every Horse Fair I checked out on the web was always 'the biggest, oldest and most important Horse Fair in the whole of Europe. Could those Irishmen be yarning it a bit? 
I had no idea that there were still old Gypsy Horse fairs in Cornwall. But I still haven't found one. The only one I actually know of is Appleby in Yorkshire where the horses are walked into the water of the river Appleby, young lads show off trotting around bareback looking very precarious probably trying to impress the young  ladies and stand out from the crowd, which of course they do and caravans are dotted about everywhere.


I read about the one in Bannisloe in Galway, which turns out to be very close to Roscommon where my Great Grandfather Michael Fuery came from. He was married to Georgina in 1839  in Boyle Roman Catholic Church. The next census has them on the outskirts of Birmingham in the Midlands. In the summer, while I was in Taos, New Mexico I met Enda Walsh the famous Irish playwright who was kind enough to inform me that in fact, Roscommon, was a right dump of a place! Always good to find out your ancestors didn't come from the most beautiful place on earth and weren't King's or Queen's, which of course one would prefer. When people talk about 'past lives' and reincarnation they never were slaves in Cleopatra's palace or on some other humble level or other but nearly always the High Priestess or the Lord High Chamberlain. 


I love the red coat that the adult horse is wearing and he seems very proud of it, almost standing to attention. They are not the prettiest of horses, but very strong and tough and able to stand up to all sorts of weather with their thick furry coats. I like these two almost have Roman noses, slightly curved and I

imagine able to bear a harness and so on. If
they were used to haul longboats on the canals full of coal, as well as pull the little gypsy caravans it would obviously help to have a very strong facial bone structure. They
seemed very curious about goings on around
them and almost like they were expecting someone to come along and put them in harness and make them do work! 


Had a lovely friend visit from Truro on Friday the 20th January and proves to me what a boost a bit of congenial company can be. Especially someone you've known for 42 years and counting. 


We managed a good walk, a sit down in Penberth, a playful encounter with Brendan the Irish sea dog who is huge, red brown coloured, with a coat like a sixties Afghan coat turned inside out, a funny face and a good friendly temperament. He gambols around outside the cottage that Moira and Neil live in right next to the sea about two yards from the sea! I saw Moira and Neil in their little boat going out of the cove one full moon night looking very sweet and romantic.
Reminded me of 'The Owl and the Pussycat.'

On the Sunday following I managed a game
of tennis with David Beamish and Darren down at the courts at Porthcurno. Then I decided to have a bit of a cycle ride on the wonderful Motobecane that my neighbours have allowed me to use. I was coming along past the Crean turn and up to the ponds where the ducks are by the turn to Polgigga and took the turn to Porthgwarra and cycled about two miles along there, although it seemed to be a lot longer. Past through a large farmyard with a group of bullocks standing glumly in one of the sheds who looked like they would prefer to be out in the
fields. 


I was astonished by how tiny and small 
Porthgwarra cove was compared to my 
favourite beach at Pedn Vounder, with only one brightly coloured blue and white fishing boat tied up on the slip, when several boats used to go out from there. This one is the only one that still does lobster fishing. The quay  had similar huge boulders that they have at Penberth. A couple were sitting and peering at the sea and there was the rounded black shape of a seal's head
popping up every now and then from its pursuit of catching fish. They always seem to be as curious about us as we are about them. Such a wild and tiny little cove but with a nice
little sandy beach. 


Finished the wonderful Clare Tomalin biography of Charles Dickens and of course I am astonished at his behaviour and treatment of his wife Catherine Hogarth. Really I think some of these 'genius' authors should be kept as far away from women as possible for the protection of the women concerned! Over and over I read and hear about the poor treatment that some male writer's, artists, poets and musicians enact on their often long suffering wives, partners and girlfriends. I think the problem is a lack of strong willed and calm
women who have strong self esteem and who are able to stand up to these men without all the emotional shenanigans. One thinks of Picasso,Rodin, Tolstoy to  name a few. Claire Tomalin is a prudent writer that doesn't preach or nag in her books. But it seems Catherine wasn't allowed to voice an opinion or do much but comply totally to Charles Dickens.  When she did finally she was put out and set apart from her own children who sided with Dickens. I find it perverse that her own sister Georgina preferred to stay with Dickens after her sister was formally separated from him. Obviously the status she derived from being Dicken's handmaiden was far superior to any kine of loyalty she had to her sister. To me this behaviour is very innapropriate. It wasn't till  Dickens died that Catherine saw her sister again, after twelve years. It is not clear what exactly Catherine did to exact her treatment except that a new woman had entered Dickens life who was also sidelined and kept apart whilst Dickens could nestle in the comfort Georgina and his daughters provided. Apart from Catherine's fertility the words castration and impotence come to mind regarding her life inasmuch as she was expected to be extremely passive. Somehow this genius was excrutiatingly sensitive when it came to his wife and did not want an equal or a challenge. This is so different to the relationship that existed between  Charles Darwin and his wife Emma who regularly discussed and critiqued Darwin's work and whose opinion was sought out. Darwin seemed also a lot fonder of his children than Dickens was. We also learn that despite Dicken's mythic standing, he enjoyed being flattered.


My theory regarding famous narcissist's is that their narcissism is the counter balance or opposite of their greatest fear which is abandonment terror. Thanks to a friend in Taos called Val who pointed this out to me. Dickens wanted to be loved. Towards the end of his life he performed readings from his books. He was both excited, elated and minted from doing this. He loved the approbation and applause from the audience. He had to be helped on and off the stage, he almost killed himself performing the Death of Nancy over and over again.  Earlier in the Tomalin biography we hear how his Mother wanted him to go back to the blacking factory he was sent to aged 12 when his Father went to the Marshalsea Debtors Prison. He was put into a lodging house aged 11 alone with no family protection and left to the mercy of the landlady. In his later writings he mentions these kinds of situation where children as young as 10 years were put in lodging houses and sent out to work. One can't help thinking of Oliver Twist and of how Dicken's himself sent four of his sons to boarding schools in  Boulogne from the age of 8, thinking this would make them more aware and appreciative of their privileged position. Several were subsequently sent to  Australia and never seen again. He admitted he didn't want these sons. One has to think would birth control have been better? Would he not allow his wife to use it? Did he not make the link from his sexual appetite to the production of babies? Is this a genius or a madman?? At least he didn't have Catherine committed to a Lunatic Asylum as did  many other fine upstanding Victorian Gentlemen. But one of his daughters was determined to put the record straight about him and said he was not always a 'good man.' 

Best Friday 13th January 2012 in a long time.

Woke early after restless night of 'thought' torture. I nearly took a sleep aid but forgot where I put them.  Things are moving and changing round here. Now have a plan and two deadlines so I know exactly where I'll be and what I will be doing, more or less. Somehow the Universe  just doggone plucked me out of my indecision and put me between two posts as it were. It was unbelievably sunny and I'd missed two days of good weather being on the computer too long. It was time for a jaunt.


I took camera, sketch book, purse, pencils, you have to be prepared. Took the Tresidder Public Path that takes you past the fancy white house where Julia Bryant, and her husband own and spend only a short time in. She is one of Commander Favell's three daughters, the heiresses of Penberth Valley! They came and bought the valley and everything in it and then donated much of it to the National Trust, keeping the biggest and nicest houses for themselves whilst still behaving more or less like they still own everything. I believe they still have some kind of power of veto to have an influence on who moves into Penberth. Penberth does have a reputation of being 'somewhat exclusive' but in fact most people who live there are not wealthy by any means except for richness of place.


 I was curious about where a Commander could raise all this cash. Apparently the family made their fortune if that isn't too twee a word, in Shipping and a plantation. Julia Bryant and husband live on a Teak Plantation in Africa for a lot of the year. Well it just so happens that I walked past the 'White House' today, the Public Path goes right through and past the side of their house and you have to go through a gate through their property. Mr Bryant was getting his Range Rover out of the garage. He noted my presence and as I walked past looked straight down to my shoes almost as if he was still in Africa and looking to see if I actually  had shoes on or something. Talk about being literally 'looked down' on. He seemed tanned of course, healthy, dressed in country squire type clothes and he had an expression set on his face like he hadn't been to the toilet for at least three weeks. I smiled and did my courteous best not to seem intrusive and nosey. As I went past I said Hello and how are you, very well thankyou came the reply but no enquiry as to how was I. Only to be expected. I think it's called showing deference to one's superiors or probably at least he might have thought that. Probably really wanted to go and get his shotgun out and show me off his property. There's no point in getting upset with these 'kinds of people,' they are not the kind I don't think to change and why have a conflict? I am exercising my new found awareness a la Eckhart Tolle, trying to. Just beam and smile, beam and smile.


As this 'gentleman' went past in his Range Rover I smiled and waved, he just about raised his hand and did the 'Queen' wave but the set grimacing expression stayed firmly in place almost like facial paralysis. There's no need is there. I kept my eyes forward and didn't look untowardly curious just walked briskly through as you do and onto the road and then left up to the continuation of the path up to Boscean Farm, that hasn't actually been a farm since the sixties so I was told by another member of the Favel family, this time Favel Briggs who actually really is a dam good sort. He was sort of wobbling along, I think one of his hips is bad with two springer spaniels. One called Saffron who never does what she's told. He seemed very preoccupied in ordering them about and  managing their behaviour. I asked if I could take a couple of pictures. But Favel wouldn't smile kept shouting at the dogs who were being quite good actually. We chatted about Boscean. Apparently being rented out for 1200 pounds! We talked about, who actually could afford that on the wages down in Cornwall. I said a  lot of people in Penberth were on Housing Benefit as they couldn't possibly pay rent out of their very low pay. I certainly know of a few people. Favel didn't seem to agree on that one. I said I thought the Trust charge too much and that not many people can manage it and that they are as high as rents in London, and that some of the cottages are extremely limited and small.


I said I was staying at Charlie's. He seemed to think I was at Boscean Farm. How would I manage that, I ask you. In fact its big enough for a fairly large group of people. Zoe, the songwriter, Murray Lachlan Young, the Poet's x. apparently now has a cottage next door to Mildred's. She is a good friend of Serena, the daughter of Sir John and Lady Frances Banham. Frances being another of the three daughters of Commander Briggs. We chat merrily for a while, I ask to take a couple of pics. I managed to get one of Favel just going over the fence. A very nice chap and the dogs were very well behaved too.


I carry on past Boscean Farmhouse, oh I did mention to Favel what a shame it was to see so many empty farms as it were. He said Boscean started closing down in the sixties as the flower trade died down for one thing because of cheap imports from Holland. Shame we don't try and start it up and market home-grown Cornish daffodils, ten varieties. Duncan still grows flowers but he's a bachelor and shares a house with his elderly mother.  Favel said he doesn't have huge outgoings in the form of wife and child to support and I suppose in fact has quite a simple quiet life. Duncan sells to the Farmer's markets all year round and has a stall on the road.


I go through the gate and continue down the path and see Adele pottering outside her house. Seems this is going to be day for chance meetings. I hear Venus has joined the astrological melee joining Chiron and Neptune in Pisces or very nearby! Promises to be a magical day and so far it is, weather, mood and friendliness. Spring has been in the air most of winter in fact. 
'Hey Adele.' I yell, 'what happened about my vegetable box?"
"Oh my I completely forgot." She puts her hand to her mouth. I walk over and grab her arm.
"What do you want to do, give me a smack" she says joking.
"You completely forgot" I said."When I asked you so nicely?"
"How about you bring some round on Wednesday and I'll leave a fiver in a plastic
bag outside the door."
"Yes, ok." We chat a minute and then she scurries off. Then I see Jilly outside her car through the trees. We are supposed to be having coffee tomorrow. I walk over, she is in a hurry and has to phone in because Finn isn't feeling very well and wants to stay at home. We arrange the coffee meeting." I give her a little hug and go. She seems to appreciate the hug, well don't we all?


I chug merrily down the teeny lane to the cove see that the tide is very low and start walking up the steep cliff path. On the way I saw the buzzard family but as soon as I get them in the frame they fly away. Very hard to get pictures of birds in flight I'm finding. It is still sunny, no wind and some very interesting clouds, altogether a very agreable day so far.


Along the path, over the stream, past Logan Rock for about a mile and I can hear the sea and waves roaring even before I see it at Pedn, my beloved place, sacred sea, equivalent to the sacred mountain of Taos. The tide is very far out. Do I want to climb all the way down there? I notice three fishermen, two are the twins, Claire and Lyn, the other is 'Tadge,' he calls himself and he's a good sea bass fisherman. I think I made a dreadful mistake once and called him 'Todger!' He works at the Logan Rock and is a landscape artist. Sea bass, come in on the tide especially if the sea is choppy, as it churns up the seabed and so the fish can feed on little shrimp and whatever is lurking in the sand. There is a large quantity of sand and it is banked up quite high along the long beach. There is sand also on Vault beach just nestling beneath Logan Rock Fortress. The chances are that it will all be moved somewhere else by the endless movement of the sea. 


I climb down, there may not be another day like this in a long while. It is too good not to. Besides I have to have a paddle and see how cold the sea is.The twins have put up two fishing rods, they don't have floats and the 'fly' sits on the bottom of the sea ready to lure the sea bass. Out to sea a small boat chugs along. A large flock of seagulls and shags and gannets are sitting on the water, some are flying and diving in, a sure sign of fish. Then along comes a larger boat from Penzance sees the smaller one and turns it's nose inward to point towards where the birds are. Everything is watching everything else and eating everything else too!


The water is cold but feels cleansing. I pick up some tiny baby scallop shells looking orange and pink amongst the more common plain white clam shells. I wonder what happens to the clams so that only their little shells end up here in ribbons where the tide has dumped them. There are wavy patterns and swirls on the beach reflecting a sort of spaced out mackerel sky above that has tints of pink in it. I always think of Venus when I see pink in the sky.


It's getting cold so I clean up my feet and start back up the cliff and walk to Treen, but have a little chat with Lyn, Claire and Tadge before I go. Lyn and Claire are totally identical twins and I can't tell them apart but I managed to say 'hello Claire' today and got it right. They are Penny George's daughters, a very old family down here. Penny's father used to live in the Nook, next to Arthur and Jean Thomas and Adele and her family live there now and even have a solar panel provided by the National Trust.  


I walk through Treen, down past the Logan Rock Pub that's always closed when I go past but I can see smoke coming out of the chimney, down the hill and along the Public Path that I came down on in the first place. Of course Ann is there doing her horse thing and she regales me with umpteen stories about horses, foal death, horses being shot, how snobby the  Bryants are, whom we met earlier and I manage to pick up quite a bit of info about horses. Such as one time her little bay mare pony managed to give birth on the road and the foal rolled over and in the process of that happening was deprived of oxygen or something weird, when her mother walked on and was brain damaged. She describes a mare giving birth with little grimaces and how she talked to the mare and it was all over very quickly. I ask her about the new Strawberry Roan pony in the field who looks very much like he thinks he's with the wrong people, and is very stand offish with the other two, a Dartmoor Pony and something Welsh I think. Ann agrees that he is a very pretty snob. "He'd look nice pulling a little trap into St Buryan. And you never know the way things are going ."  I agree absolutely. "You must do it, that would be a feast for sore eyes." A mere hundred years ago you would be considered wealthy if you had three ponies that you could use for transportation. More stories, more chit chat and its getting very dark. Ann has a lot of stories and likes a chat and is quite interesting. I eventually pull myself away but not before I describe  my 'meeting' with the man from the white house, Mr Bryant.


Sadly one time a pony had to be put down against Ann's wishes and she said that you can still see the shape of 'Liberty' on the grass. Nothing will grow there she tells me. I walk on pass through the gate and sure enough about three yards along is a pretty bare patch of ground. I want to put some daffodils there said Anne.


On the way I pick up some dead twigs and branches, then Fiona appears in her car. She is housesitting the old Bolitho house, Tresidder. She tells me she was glad to spend Xmas quietly with her dog. She works at Mencap and its tiring working with Learning Disabled children and so on. Wow I'm amazed at there being people who don't mind spending Xmas alone. You should have come down to me I say but she was glad of the peace and quiet. She had to run up to put Ann Armitage's chickens away for the night. Ann moved to Lamorna as Tresidder was being sold. Nice cottage she had.


Finally get home.  From the wilds of Cornwall today I could not escape from people. Feast or famine, it was lovely, relaxed, happy, sunny beautiful day. I feel content, for a change!!

Sex Addiction

A fine mist slips across from the west all day producing a constant fall of spritzer like rain. Everything is drooping with droplets of water. Even the last of the berries on the rambling ivy. Birds have recourse to them at the end of winter when food is in short supply. And here the supply is plentiful. There is a junble of sycamore, overgrown by ivy, that crowns the tops of many of the trees that are also covered in many years growth of lichens. It has just been left. I wonder though if the sycamore have stopped other trees from growing. I will have to check which are the natural indigenous trees of this part of the world. Of course one had intended to start a new fitness routine, do meditation and jog all the way down to Nanjizel today, start an art project and finish the book, even run go all the way to Land's End and imagine myself in an old sailing ship headed for the New World, hopefully without chains. 


So reading and literary pursuits and having opinions becomes the order of the day after eating, breakfast, hoovering and curling my lip again as the all to obvious evidence of the 'big mouse' is very apparent. Last night I heard so much scrummaging, scratching and bangs and bumps I kept throwing my large heavy boots in the direction of the source of those irritating little rodent noises. I know they are very cut but seriously it was definatelty a Tom & Jerry moment.


I read an interesting review in the Guardian Guide by John Patterson who discusses the 'hero' of the film 'Shame' with hugely comic derison in terms of the hero's sex addiction, 'he's in it for purposes of  priapic auto-obliteration, nihilistic self erasure.'  His sister turns up and she is needy and emotionally hungry so is his polar opposite. Isn't this interesting to see so clearly the two  most common positions of male and female and I don't mean the missionary position.) They want totally different things. Brandon, played by Michael Fassbender (isn't there some famous German director with the same surname) He seeks anything but connection. His gigantic inner thirst is never assuaged, check his itinerary
 'rise at seven, masturbate in the shower, off to work, ogle possible conquest on the subway, give hot pursuit, lose her; grunt away at the office lavs; porn at his fingertips on the virus ridden office computer, live nudie-cam accounts on the laptop at home, hooker for dinner, two hookers for , um, late supper' swift detour and change-up to the backrooms of a gay bar, and then home fo a well-earned night's sleep.' (John  Patterson, Film in  Guardian Guide.)


Does this dichotomy lie at the heart of how men get to have sex with their desired object by having to write love poems, songs, great guitar riffs and so on, all this just to screw? Is this really how men are wired? And women so different, so hungry for emotional connection, so needy, and in her own emotional neediness just as addicted and ultimately empty and dissatisfied? Like a hungry ghost in a Tibetan Tanka who never is satisfied with anything, as humans we seem to continue to chase rainbows and miss out on what is really satisfying. Sure sex is great, sexual attraction necessary to keep the wheels going round but on closer inspection a terribly sad tragedy.


I think the lesson is moderation in all things, don't you vicar?

Decent Weather

Having had a long walk yesterday, a breath of sea, a clamber hither and thither, today Saturday I decided to go up the bridle path, pass by Tresidder and just walk to Buryan and back mainly for the purpose of getting The Guardian, as Saturday isn't the same without it and I do like the Guide which gives a simple clear layout of Radio 4 and TV channels. One has to watch out for some great programmes. Yesterday saw the Art Historian Andrew Graham Dixon gazing earnestly into the eyes of a famous Italian chef as they toured Sicily, gazing at objects d'art and devouring the best food they could find. Indeed Graham Dixon seemed spellbound by his Italian friend, momentarily very congenial and eyes lit up with his chum. He seemed to adore telling him about his own cultural heritage, as much as the chef dominated in the kitchen where Dixon was more than a little hamstrung should I say. One feels like heading out to Sicily immediately on this puddingy January day. I could hardly believe that the Normans once controlled it, William I no less.


Nice walk, not too muddy although my boots have salt tide marks on them from successive 'wettings.' Get a few bits and bobs from the shop and turn back. Before I had popped round next door to Treglyn to pass on mail and a small bunch of anemones. Paula thinks I somehow gave them to her intuitively because they are her favourite flower. Theo had admired some I had a couple of days ago on the table here. So I picked up a couple of bunches after I had given Anne's ponies most of my organic, local grown carrots from the stall in Treen, when I passed by yesterday.


In the shop I am asked to put in my pin number for my Halifax Clarity Credit Card. As I lean over I crack my head on a bloody sharp corner of a ridiculously huge Wrigley's chewing gum stand. I mean how many kinds of chewing gum do you need? There must have been about fifty sorts on this huge display stand and the corners very sharp and close to the counter too. I wonder how much they sell. They are not renowned for their  hospitality in Cornwall that's for sure.


"I'm fine thanks," I said rubbing my head.
The woman glanced at me and said "You don't have to be so sarcy. I've noticed that
before.' I didn't say I'm not surprized with you miserable heiffers who work in here, you're
bloody miserable most of the time.'
I said "I am a customer and I could just nearly have blinded myself."
"We do our best she said." One might ask, in what way?
"It was kind of a joke too" I managed to say,
We carried on then, chatting a bit as if nothing had happened, but I had a new awarenss
spinning round my head. Somehow we got onto Xmas and illness, same thing as far as I am concerned. Her husbster has been ill for weeks. He gets over one thing then gets another. (OH is that why you're in a bad mood, I didn't say, that's ok then.)
"Throw him out and get a new one," I said which I then thought was a bit strong but she didn't seem to mind that.
"Not that anyone's asking but I was ill all over Christmas with gastric flu.'
"Lot of that been going around' she said.
The Cornish are not renowned for their openness, But if you're a friend you're a friend. And that's not easy. I've spent years going into Jackson's the village shop and some of the 'girls' there seem to wince when I walk in. They are not renowned for their friendliness. Whereas in the Post Office, Jack, John and the Missus, the Thomases are a bit more thawed. The expectation is don't expect anything from me.


Margaret, who either is married to the owner or who is the boss is not exactly friendly either. Several people I know won't go in there even if desperate. I had my run ins with her too. You definately get the feeling that they are doing you a huge favour and that you are exceptionally lucky to be able to go in there. In fact we are doing them the favour spending our money. They know they are needed, especially by people who can't travel into Penzance easily or who don't want to drive too often. So you just knuckle down and take it. Once I dared to ask.
"How do you find out if you have a particular DVD?"
" You just look." I was told, accompanied by an incredulous expression.
 "What through all of them?" I said. "That'll take ages."
" Well, everyone else does that and they don't seem to mind." Probably because they're scared of you I thought and daren't ask or say anything. 
"It would be great if they were in order or there was a list or something." I squeaked. No answer, just one of those determinedly askance sneering looks down the nose, that says there's as much chance of that happenning as me buying you a new car sweetheart 


In days gone by the ladies in shops would call you 'my lover' or 'my bird,' In their lovely Cornish clotted cream kind of voices.


Basically the message was clear, take it (if you can find it) or leave it. Find somewhere else. There is nowhere else. Tis a crying shame. Anyway that woman behind the counter got a bit of sympathy from me in a round about way. You wonder what's going on sometimes. But when I think of it now it makes me chuckle a bit, it just popped out of my mouth. 

Outdoors my heart flies free!

Robert the postman is spot on so far. Last Tuesday he said "the rainy season's gone"
Since then he's been right. So I got out for a three hour wall which is the only thing that settles the bs down in my addled brain. Didn't take camera as I wanted to get some brisk exercise.  Started up Crean Hill past Pride the horse who seems to be chewing up the hawthorn hedge as nothing much else to eat. Still don't know the name of his companion the little bay mare. Was she really abandoned in the field, just left there?  My skin was tingling in a light breeze, a boost of oxygen and the smell of the sea, all smelling so good and fresh and alive. I did say a little internal thank you for being able to have this time, when most folks are toiling away in some stale office building somewhere. I need this kind of refreshment.


Saw a few locals, had a few laughs, gave some carrots to the beautiful little strawberry roan pony, bumped into Ann, then Duncan appeared with a bunch of daffs. Ann gives  me a long complicated story about all her illnesses. I say probably having the ponies to look after is her lifeline. Her face seems to have calmed down, she had some awful red marks. Has a lot of problems. I eventually suggested 'Why don't you see if Cassandra, the St Buryan Wise Woman/ witch could do something for you? She must know something about herbs and what's good and some of those natural plants are very powerful. We have so much around us that we just don't see.' 
"You know,' she said, 'I might just do that. I went into the Buryan on New Year's Eve and Cassandra was there.'
'Did you ask her?' I said.
'No but I'm thinking about it."
'Well there's nothing to lose is there? I mean what do they want you to have, steroids?'
Ann explained how an Ophthalmologist up at Treliske, the main Cornish Hospital in Truro, that
she said was probably a Pakistani, but I doubt whether she would no the difference, that he wanted to inject some kind of slow release into her eye. She was stopped taking Warfarin and now has a blood clot behind
her eye.
"Whatever you do, get a few other opinions won't you? Don't forget that they are only 'practising' medicine, you know that's what they are General Practitioners, practising medicine. You never can know it all, they only
do their best within limits to diagnose, when every case is totally different, its often a case of shifting goal posts and definitions I'd say.'


Don't know whether Ann thought any of this was worth hearing. She might try some complementary herbal cures or something like that. 
'See if you can get comp medicine on the NHS. I mean if it cures you it saves them money in the end. 


Duncan appeared with a big bunch of daffs.

'Are you going to give me a bunch Duncan,' I said. He smiled enigmatically. Strangely Ann thinks she's also an enigma, Good name for a horse I think.

I said 'Come on you miserable buggar, give us a bunch of daffs, you Cornish honestly.'

He smile again. Ann smiled and said 'Oooooh Maggie.'

He started to walk over, I started to smile. Thinking there were some for me.

'These are for Ann,' he said calling my bluff.

Then he laughed and gave me a bunch. I went over and gave him a little peck on the cheek. He really is a sweet

person but it's taken me ages to get a few flowers out of him.

'Better than just picking them,' I said as he ran off to his car. Quite a nice one actually.

I know I shouldn't kid around but I love seeing Duncan smile and Ann too. There seems to be some

curiosity about where I'm staying when I usually stay at Fen's. I'm at Charlies this year I say and don't say

anymore. 

Soon as he left Ann started whispering.

'He'd make a lovely husband, he would.'

'Oh we shouldn't just start talking about him, he probably knows we will.'

'Oh, he won't mind. He wanted to marry Gill, Arthur's daughter but then Kevin Hall

came along and that was that. The Hall's own Treen Farm, the car park, the tennis courts and

I suppose are what you might call a 'good' family a good prospect down here. Gill's family didn't have

a farm or anything like that. Arthur always worked in the Cable Station. Gill was the local beauty and could

have the pick of the crop. Duncan is a very sweet, shy man. He has land and grows flowers and vegetables and

has a nice house. Not sure if he still lives with his mother, but why not. He sometimes has seemed a little

prickly if I'm not as aware as I should be about his land. I don't know if the Hall's own the farm or are tenants.

Or whether Duncan owns his or is a tenant. A lot of the houses and cottages round about, especially down in Penberth, come with land attached, since in the past the people had to be quite self sufficient, growing early crops on the sunny, sheltered terraces. Potatoes, brocolli, cauliflower, maize, potatoes, turnips and most people tending chickens of their own and maybe a cow and a pony. Indeed Arthur told me on the tapes I did

that they had a pony and a jingle (trap). With fresh local fish that the locals also could catch, the diet was pretty good. Arthur said they never went without during the war,while everywhere else had rationing. You would work according to the weather. If the wind and weather was good you would take the boat out, other days do some farm work. In the winter you would make lobster pots. Indeed Jaqueline Chapple's husband drew a whole series of sketches to show how it was done. They would use local red willow and also made baskets for wood and those big rectangular ones that sit on the shoulders for carrying potatoes. 'Taffy' Richard Mathews, told me his Mother, a large, strong woman, used to climb down from the field behind Fen's cottage, Robin's Cottage, with a huge harvest of potatoes and walk down to the cove with them on her back for them to be taken away to market. 

With flowers also, such as narcissus, jonquil, ten varieties of daffodil, anemone, crimson pink Kaffir lilies, Cornish people could also make a bit of money from early flowers, sent up to London and elsewhere in the days before the Dutch ruled the flower world. Mills were also abundant since there were several robust streams draining down to the sea. At the Mill the Valbaker's live in the mill wheel still turns. One wonders if any electricity or something could be generated by this hydro power. Seems a waste if not. There's a mill at Penberth, and in most hamlets round here and local wheat would also be grown.

Going to Trelawney's fish market yesterday, I asked Paula Higgin's x husband Theo, who lives in Verona, if the selection of fish was wider than in Verona. I didn't check my geograpy first though to see if it was on the sea coast or not. He said no, there was more here. The three or four shops that sell fresh wet fish are directly opposite the warehouses places where the fish are put in containers and shipped out, within yards of the sea where they were caught. There is some salmon and perhaps a few other fish not caught locally but most is. I hadn't noticed the local mussels and scallops also. I bought a large fillet of haddock, a packet of smoked salmon and a plain cured kipper that was not the awful unnatural bright orange/yellow so hopefully  was without unnatural ingredients. I think northern folks like a good kipper, even though they stink the  place down to cook them. Can't beat a nice kipper with fresh bread and butter. One imagines fresh Cornish butter, local grown wheat and local caught kippers. I cannot for the life of me understand why there isn't a queue of people going right out of the door of the shop on a Friday. 

We just don't value our fish enough here and elsewhere. Other countries are only to happy to snap them up. And a restaurant would be wonderful, even just doing the basics, even at a push a fish and chip shop with fresh local caught fish. Seems like a business waiting to happen. Somehow Cornwall does not push itself anymore. Has it got depression?

Anyway I continued up past the nice white house, and on towards Tresidder Farm. Duncan advised me of the route some time ago. I  now walk regularly past his flower fields. I surprise a couple of very white tailed bunnies that have a kind of rustic red tinge to them but it is probably sunset and the fading light giving them an added glow.

I still can' work out which of the houses on the Valbaker's property is the Pole House. I can't see anything that

looks like what I imagine a Pole House looks like. It's typical of people to assume you know what they mean just because they know. As I went past Trethewey and Polgigga past the Crean turn off, I noticed to wild blooming Narcissus, the tiny flowers blooming already. Winter might be wet, grey and windy down here but it doesn't last long. As long as we can get through January without ice and snow we will probably sail into February on the back of the wind. 

That parsley is full or iron and Vit C. Also good for removing any bad breath you might have.I also went and bought four bunches of anemones and a big bunch of parsley from the stall near the Penberth
I read that the Greek word 'Anemone' means daughter of the wind and that anemones are also called windflowes. They are related to anticipation. The word 'Anemone' seems like a pretty name for a girl but happens to be extremely unpopular. 

New Year's Ad - VICE

Just had to post this to my blog for posterity, from Sarah Brooking who found it somewhere else.

Just copied this email below from someone else.. its so funny:---- At the beginning of year 2012, I want to thank all of you for your educational e-mails over the past year. I am totally screwed up now and have little chance of recovery. I can no longer open a bathroom door without using a paper towel, nor let the waitress put lemon slices in my ice water without worrying about the bacteria on the lemon peel. I can't sit down on a hotel bedspread because I can only imagine what has happened on it since it was last washed. I have trouble shaking hands with someone who has been driving because the number one pastime while driving alone is picking one's nose. Eating a little snack sends me on a guilt trip because I can only imagine how many gallons of trans fats I have consumed over the years. I can't touch any woman's handbag for fear she has placed it on the floor of a public toilet. I MUST SEND MY SPECIAL THANKS for the e mail about rat poo in the glue on envelopes because I now have to use a wet sponge with every envelope that needs sealing. ALSO, now I have to scrub the top of every can I open for the same reason. I can't have a drink in a bar because I fear I'll wake up in a bathtub full of ice with my kidneys gone. I can't eat at KFC because their chickens are actually horrible mutant freaks with no eyes, feet or feathers. I can't use cancer-causing deodorants even though I smell like a water buffalo on a hot day. THANKS TO YOU I have learned that my prayers only get answered if I forward an e-mail to seven of my friends and make a wish within five minutes. BECAUSE OF YOUR CONCERN, I no longer drink Coca Cola because it can remove toilet stains. I no longer buy fuel without taking someone along to watch the car, so a serial killer doesn't crawl in my back seat when I'm filling up. I no longer use Cling Wrap in the microwave because it causes seven different types of cancer. AND THANKS FOR LETTING ME KNOW I can't boil a cup of water in the microwave anymore because it will blow up in my face, disfiguring me for life. I no longer go to the cinema because I could be pricked with a needle infected with AIDS when I sit down. I no longer go to shopping centers because someone will drug me with a perfume sample and rob me. And I no longer answer the phone because someone will ask me to dial a number for which I will get a huge phone bill with calls to Jamaica , Uganda, Singapore and Uzbekistan . THANKS TO YOU I can't use anyone's toilet but mine because a big black snake could be lurking under the seat and cause me instant death when it bites my butt. AND THANKS TO YOUR GREAT ADVICE I can't ever pick up a dime coin dropped in the car park because it was probably placed there by a sex molester waiting to grab me as I bend over. I can't do any gardening because I'm afraid I'll get bitten by the Violin Spider and my hand will fall off. If you don't send this e-mail to at least 144,000 people in the next 70 minutes, a large dove with diarrhea will land on your head at 5:00 p.m. tomorrow afternoon, and the fleas from 120 camels will infest your back, causing you to grow a hairy hump. I know this will occur because it actually ha ppened to a friend of my next door neighbor¹s ex mother-in-law's second husband's cousin's best friend's beautician . . Oh, and by the way..... A German scientist from Argentina, after a lengthy study, has discovered that people with insufficient brain activity read their e-mails with their hand on the mouse. Don't bother taking it off now, it's too ate. P. S. I now keep my toothbrush in the living room, because I was told by e-mail that water splashes over 6 ft. out of the toilet. NOW YOU HAVE YOURSELF A VERY GOOD DAYŠ

 · 

White Stallion

Thursday 4th January 2012


I felt a little elation yesterday when I noticed the white stallion was prancing around with two mares in the upper field opposite to the house. It was wonderful to see him running around, shaking his head, using his legs, having a tiny taste of freedom and a nibble at some nice green grass.


It didn't last long. I heard people shushing him about. I wished I could have gone and given him a nice bath and a rub down and a proper grooming session and reveal the beauty of the animal underneath the permanent layer of black mud. The horses, mares, colts and foals follow their owners around meekly like lambs as they know they are the source of all their food and have forgotten that if they were out in the fields more often their food would grow all around them. I was surprized that the white stallion came back to his pen without making any kind of a fuss. I have been told that he's a bit of a bugger. Well doesn't look like it to me. The owners shout and yell and are not very nice to them, a little bit brutal not loving and not much grooming and care going on. I guess the horses end up getting used to this unkind treatment.


Soon the stallion was back in the filthy pen and nuzzling his neighbour and nibbling the nasty looking hay that he feeds on most of the time. His freedom was short lived but at least he had a bit of a run round. He hardly ever gets let out whereas the mares and youngsters just roam around plodding their way through the overwhelmingly muddy and boggy yard. I have no idea what the owners do with the horses or what they live on.


I met Joy and husband and son a few weeks ago. They had bought/rescued a gelding son of the white stallion. I must find out what his name is. The son is called Pride and its a good name. He has the brown/red spots of his father and has a strong character and loves to nuzzle and lick and pretend to bite. His neighbour a little bay mare was actually abandoned in a field, now she has the company and protection of Pride. They are funny together always kind of nipping each other but Pride always standing protectively around her and she hiding behind his larger size. They always respond to company but I think they are really looking for food and I must take some carrots next time I visit. I talk to them and try to stroke them but they are a bit naughty sometimes practically eating you with their nuzzling and licking. Maybe its salt they're after. If I see Joy again I will ask if they need salt maybe. 

Monday 2nd January 2012


About to stick my nose gingerly out of the door like a mouse heading for a crumb of cheese and head to the sea and down comes the ever reliable Cornish rain. I emptied the fire ash tray and came back in and my little friend the wren was flying around. I know I am being anthropomorphic when I say that s/he seemed familiar with the surroundings, flying around quite happily, looking at things and not banging her/is beak headlong into the huge windows here. S/he hopped along the ledge as if to say, I know about this, its a window of glass, I can't fly through it and I'm not going to hurt myself again. After a few minutes I opened the patio door and left it open and after a few seconds she gently made her escape. I was trying to talk sweetly to the wren as they are such exquisite little creatures who seem happy and full of  joy simply to hop around and be alive. How wonderful!


Genevieve came to dump garbage and I called down to say sorry about the fire and ask about Stephen. He is ok but in shock and staying I think in the pole house. She said to go and say hello. But to be honest there are so many little buildings up there I'm not sure which. Garbage  men came soon after. I couldn't help noticing what good solid men they looked. They  had to park awkwardly again because the neighbours can't think past themselves to realize that other people need to both access the road and the garbage bins. The American woman would probably take it as an insult if I asked her to get the car parked just a few feet further along. Same problem with getting fire engines down the lane, she seems to deliberately block things so that nothing can get through. Either this is extreme vulnerability and defensiveness or complete stupidity. How to communicate without offending? Her x Theo, seems to drive the car most of the time. He has been here since Dec 24th and I know that if I asked him, he would totally understand. Don't know if Jesse would. 


I  know who I would prefer to be around in any kind of emergency and it is definately those
chunky looking dustbin men. For once in  my life I am not hurtling over and telling them off. She made quite an impression on me when she said I was judgmental. I think I am  more critical but certainly something to think about. What do you do?


I got down to some work on Section Four of what I am calling 'Quincunx' as a working title. I am trying to be totally honest about my experiences of when my Mother died but attempting to put it into a novel, semi auto thing and change  names and situations and so on. Don't know if this is just escaping the tag memoir or not. If I mention incidents with the family I can say it was made up and I can say it is my experience and opinion but not necessarily true. I want it to have  a few exposed bones in it.


The rain has stopped and it looks quite bright up on the hill. I have to get out. I listened to a talk by and about Stephen Hawking on the radio. He said he needed a loving family as much as physics. I do too but don't. I felt a flashing loving moment and wanted to phone up my sister and tell her I love her and shall we try and spend next Christmas together. But I  know it is probably not on. Cathy is coming soon with her two kids. I wonder if she will see John,  my eldest brother. What I would love is for us all to have a reunion. I want to talk to them about it, I am a bit scared though of yet more rejection but at least I will do it in the right spirit. Am I deluded that our family can ever get together and be loving? But then the intention is all. I will try my best. I am sure everyone would feel a lot better or am I just being selfish?


Then PJ O'Rourke said on a Radio 4 BBC broadcast, that 'Romney has the personality of a turnip.' Which made me laugh a lot.