A-Wandering in Ronda

Posted on 8 October 2026 by sheg4184

After a few days with friends in Jerez – and as I mentioned previously – I took the bus to Ronda. This trip involves some rather curvaceous roads, so I suggest you do not attempt it on a full stomach. Reversing in and out of tiny, hilltop villages, and scooting past orchards of espaliered olive trees, the bus pushed its way up from Jerez de la Frontera through the Sierra de Grazalema Natural Park for almost three hours.

I finally arrived at the bus station in Ronda on a sticky September evening. Not knowing the lie of the land – but my view from the bus suggested it would be decidedly tricky to navigate with an awkward suitcase – I gratefully caught a taxi to my accommodation. More by a stroke of good luck than by skilled planning on my part, I found myself in the centre of the old town – the Barrio de la Ciudad or Old Medina – which sits on the southern side of Ronda’s famous El Tajo gorge. There, in a lovely old Spanish hacienda, I settled into two upstairs rooms overlooking the Plaza de Sor Ángela de la Cruz Guerrero. In the courtyard below, I was thrilled to discover a small and icy plunge pool, which would prove a total godsend on the blazing hot days that followed.

Unpacked, showered, changed and refreshed, I found my way down cobbled lanes to the picturesque Plaza de Maria Auxiliadora, commonly known as Plaza del Campillo. Right in the historic heart of Ronda, this pretty little square overlooks the valley to the west of the city walls, and the Sierra de Grazalema mountains beyond. As I sipped on an oloroso sherry and nibbled on alcachofas con jamón on the terrace at Restaurante El Campillo, a lone musician played Leonard Cohen’s ‘Hallelujah’ Spanish style on his acoustic guitar only feet from my table, while the sun sank behind the mountains. And so, my enchanted sojourn in Ronda began.

Two weeks later, I went to an exhibition in another walled town, this time in Portugal. Portuguese photographer Cátia Castel-Branco was holding an exhibition entitled ‘Tempo Parao Tempo’ in Évora. The translation seemed odd: ‘time to the time’? Reading the explanation that had been painted onto the wall, I retitled it (in my head) ‘time for time.’ The title might have been poorly executed, but the explanation was exquisite, so I will include a portion of it here:

We have lost respect for time, our own and that of others. We have become accustomed to doing several things at once and, surrounded by machines that accelerate everything, we have grown accustomed to demanding that everything happen within an unrealistic time frame…

No one wants to wait.

In the Alentejo, Cátia Castel-Branco found a different relationship with time. Time to make. Time to observe. Time to wait. The willingness to stop and look allowed her to notice what would otherwise go unseen…

This is not a journey into the past, but into what persists beneath it… to invert the obvious in order to reveal what we had taken for granted…

It is a question: What remains after so much contemporary noise?

Perhaps it takes time to see it. Time for being.

Isn’t it fabulous? For those like me, who have not heard of the Alentejo region, it is a sparsely populated area in south-central Portugal that stretches from the Tagus River in the north to the Algarve. It is a region of alluvial plains, granite hills, and wild coast, olive groves, vineyards and cork oak forests, ancient walled towns and an unhurried pace of life. By a strange coincidence, I have found this corner of Portugal bears a great resemblance to Ronda, some 350 kms to the southwest, over the border into Spain.

In Ronda, I learned to take my time. I consciously lost my way among the maze of cobbled streets and alleys. I meandered through bustling town squares. I paused to gaze up at huge fortress walls or down, down, down over the precipice that guards this ancient town. Armed with a café con leche and a novel – when did I last take time to read a novel? – I sat quietly at pavement cafes and watched the world go by. I took my time and rediscovered time, absorbed it, and resisted the urge to rush about. I bought a guidebook but did not immediately dash off to tick off the town’s top sights. Instead, I pottered and dawdled. I drifted and loitered. I simply was. And slowly, the town gave up its secrets.

Ronda, one of the oldest cities in Spain, sits on a high plateau about 700m above sea level, in the hills of Andalusia.  A deep canyon – El Tajo – separates the city’s new, fifteenth century town from the old town, which was built by the Moors in the eighth century, on top of a fortified Roman outpost. The Puente Nuevo, a stone bridge that spans the gorge, was completed in 1787. Now, it is a popular spot for tourists to gather and take photos, which also creates a bottleneck for local traffic. A new suspended walkway – the Camino del Desfiladero del Tajo – drops into the gorge and follows the Guadalevín river for about a kilometre. Alternatively, I spent a morning watching several brave souls swing off the bridge on a zipline that carried them over a one hundred metre drop to the Hanging Gardens of Cuenca. Early one morning, I chose a different, more sedate route to the river that took in the Arch of Felipe V – the original entry into Ronda before the Puente Nuevo was built – the old bridge of Saint Cecilia, and the 14th century Muslim bridge beside the hammam, or Arabic baths on the eastern side of the town.

These baths were built in the 13th century beside Ronda’s entrance gate, as visitors were obliged to wash thoroughly before entering the city. An introductory video explained how the process worked and then we were free to wander through the ruins. My favourite feature was the star-shaped cutouts in the domed ceilings which served three purposes: ventilation (the openings acted as natural chimneys); natural lighting; spiritual symbolism (the domed roof perforated with stars symbolizes the vault of heaven and gave bathers the illusion of relaxing under the night sky.)

For such a delightful and beautiful city, Ronda has a surprisingly gory history. In the 3rd century B.C. during the Punic Wars, the Romans fought for control of the strategic Celtic settlement of Arunda. In 711 A.D., Ronda was conquered by Moorish forces. During the siege of Ronda in 1485, King Ferdinand II recaptured the city during the Granada War, effectively ending Muslim rule. Then, in the early 19th century, Napoleon invaded the Iberian Peninsula and occupied the town of Ronda, killing thousands of locals in a matter of weeks. In 1936, the Spanish Civil War led to violent political reprisals and executions, while those who could, fled. Hemingway, in his novel “For Whom the Bell Tolls”, described the brutality of the Civil War in a fictional town believed to be Ronda. Then, of course, there is the gory tale of bullfighting at the famous 18th century bullring. Today, thank goodness, the only invasion to worry about is the tourist invasion, although the Bullring still hosts an annual bullfight, which I’m relieved to say I missed by a matter of days.

Early one evening, while considering where I would go for dinner, I was startled by the sound of trumpets beneath my window. I had got used to the regular chimes of the church next door, as my room was less than 100 metres from the Iglesia Santa Maria de la Encarnacion Mayor – a mouthful for any church, even if it is the most important in Ronda – but this was definitely more tuneful. I headed down to see what was going on, and discovered a brass band gathering in the plaza, while ahead of them, a highly decorated statue of the Virgin Mary was being carried out of the church.

I had popped into the Iglesia Mayor only the night before and watched as two florists decorated a rather sumptuous altar topped with a silver statue of Nuestra Señora de la Aurora with fresh flowers. This turned out to be not an altar but a covered platform or paso under which I now counted at least a dozen pairs of feet, while the Virgin Mary stood on top, the star turn in a religious procession of church dignitaries, costaleros (bearers), Nazarenos (members of the religious brotherhood), local singers, musicians and bands, devotees and local government officials, that was setting off to walk across town. I watched for some time, enjoying the spectacle, before edging round the back of the church for a better view from the Plaza de la Duquesa de Parcent.

Here, beside the church, I also found an interesting restaurant, Mesón El Sacristán, to which I would return later for a rather special dish of bluefin tuna tartare and avocado. As I sat there, savouring the moment, the church bells began playing incredibly wildly and enthusiastically, right above my head. Apparently, this is the traditional call to evening Mass, the bellringers seemingly going crazy for several minutes at a time just before the final daily service. Especially on a Friday, which it was.

In the meantime, as the procession made its way cautiously over cobblestones, I eventually ducked ahead, as I had booked a ticket to a flamenco show in the Casino on Plaza del Socorro. By the time I emerged, the procession had made it only as far as the famous Ronda bullring, a journey of only 650m, which had taken over two hours. They are probably still en route back to the Iglesia Mayor!

As promised, I did not try to tick all the tourist boxes while in Ronda this time, but it has left plenty still to explore when I return another time with the One & Only.

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On Spanish Time

Posted on 30 September 2026 by sheg4184

For a couple of days, it was like having jetlag. Dinner at 9 o’clock meant bed after midnight, breakfast at about 10am and lunch between 2-3pm. And, of course, a siesta afterwards. After only a couple of days, I got the hang of it, and even while travelling on my own, I find I have adapted rather well to Spanish time. And eating in Spain has been a joy. The pica pica style of dining has suited me perfectly, especially as September has proved to be almost as hot as August. Who honestly wants a big meal on a blazingly hot day, anyway?

I flew into Madrid where I had booked a hotel room just for one night. Or so I thought. Instead, it was a shared, rather rundown apartment, where the bed was made for Goldilocks and there was no room to swing a hamster. There was also no lock on the door. All for some ridiculously exorbitant sum. Fortunately, a Spanish friend was in town for the week and came to my rescue. Having exchanged horrified glances, we promptly departed and moved my suitcase to her spare room. We then headed out to explore her side of town.

I do love seeing a city through the eyes of someone who lives there, rather than through a tourist brochure, especially when they love it as much as she does. We wandered along the western edge of the city to watch the sun set near the Temple of Debod. This glorious temple was originally built on the banks of the Nile in about 200 BC and dedicated to the Egyptian gods Amun and Isis. It was gifted to Spain in the 1960s by the Egyptian government; a ‘thank you’ to the Spanish for helping to rescue the ancient Abu Simbel temples that would otherwise have been flooded during the building of the Aswan Dam. Debod Temple was deconstructed and transported to Madrid, where it was rebuilt at its current location at Cuartel de la Montaña Park. Here, surrounded by water and overlooking the city, this Egyptian Temple is particularly lovely at sunset. Later, the illuminations give it a mystic quality and make it a favourite place for locals to stroll after dinner.

We dined well at a café with the grandiose name of Palacete de Rosales, on a tree-lined terrace overlooking the park, and finished up with a gelato on our walk home. The following morning, I regretfully departed after all too brief a visit, to catch the train south. But, comfortably seated and airconditioned, I was happy to watch the countryside flash by: four hours of scenery that looked as sunburnt as South Australia at the end of summer, and with a similar dearth of trees, but with decidedly different architecture.

By mid-afternoon, I had arrived in Jerez de la Frontera, a small city between Sevilla and Cadiz. The old quarter contains the Alcázar de Jerez, a fortress built by the Moors in the 11th century. The famous Royal Andalusian School of Equestrian Art will sadly have to be saved for next time, and although I also went without a trip to one of the bodegas (where sherry is made), I did not stint on imbibing it. Three nights with old friends passed rapidly, drinking way too much oloroso sherry and – like mad dogs and Englishmen – going out into the midday sun to explore the city.

Spanish parks bear absolutely no resemblance to British ones, so I found little in the way of tree cover or lawn, but only a lot of packed sand and ranks of palm trees providing barely a splash of shade. Gasping with heat and dehydration, I fell into Bar Filipino on the far side of Parque González Hontoria for a bowl of pancit and prawns, delighted to be served by a young Filipina, born and raised in Jerez, but familiar with Luzon, and happy to trade stories. After some time quietly recuperating under a beach umbrella, nibbling noodles and devouring two icy cold Cokes, I felt fit enough to regroup and continue my journey into the centre of Jerez. There I found a gelateria, which by fluke, turned out to be the best one in town, and provided me with the burst of energy required to walk home. Flavour? Pistachio – always – and mango.

As in Madrid, I also got to see this southern city through the eyes of a native jerezana and her British husband, who proved to be more addicted to Andalusia even than she. The days flew by, largely marked by good food, sherry and regular siestas. The local taverna is literally a stone’s throw from my friends’ apartment, and, like the Spanish version of “Cheers”, everybody knows your name. Another night we walked into the centre of town to a beautiful little plaza for dinner at La Cruz Blanca (the white cross). There we ordered some truly excellent tapas, including the best pulpo a la gallega I have ever eaten. It literally melted in your mouth. The prawn fritters were pretty good too, and we finished by sharing a rather scrumptious Spanish version of bread pudding: toijas de leche. We also spent an evening down on the coast at Valdelagrana, in search of a cooling sea breeze, and a light supper. This popular seaside resort is tucked between the Los Toruños Natural Park – a preservation area of coastal wetlands – and the Bay of Cadiz, whose lights after sunset reflected on the sea. We strolled along the promenade and I dipped my toes into the chilly waters of the Atlantic Ocean. We finished up with gelati and/or a shot of limoncello on ice.

Before I outstayed my welcome, I hopped on a bus to Ronda, one of the many ‘white hilltop towns’ of Andalucia, which – not surprisingly – involved some sick-making, serpentine roads. Ronda is a popular town for day trippers, and by lunchtime, the main streets are tsunamis of tourists, so that I found myself ducking down side streets to find some peace and quiet at the more down-to-earth, local cafes. I stayed for five glorious days, but must write a separate blog for that part of the trip.

Returning briefly to Jerez, I popped my nose into the Mercado Central de Abastos (which I read as ‘Asbestos’) and Alcázar de Jerez de la Frontera (or ‘Alcatraz’ if you are either dyslexic, or blurry eyed with the heat). As it was a Monday, half the market was closed as the fishermen don’t go out on Sunday. But the 12th century Alcázar was a splendid alternative, and provided some super views of the city from its walls. Originally the seat of power for local Muslim rulers, it was eventually besieged and conquered by the Castilians, and 500 years later, a baroque palace was built within the walls.

On my final night in town, we dined again at the neighbourhood taverna, where I learned the lovely phrase “my English is not very good looking.” Apparently, the world famous Afro-Latina singer Celia Cruz often used this phrase tongue-in-cheek during her concerts, and it has since become a bit of a meme internationally. As I knew neither the phrase nor the performer, I did some quick homework with Google. So, for those of you who might not have heard of her either, Celia Cruz was known as the Queen of Salsa, with her strong, operatic voice, exhilarating stage presence, and pivotal role in popularizing Afro-Cuban music around the world. Sadly, she died in 2003, but I am off to find some recordings, for I can’t help but admire a woman who comes up with such a fabulous description of her poor English, and assume her music must be fairly good looking too!

Much to my chagrin, however, my Spanish, like Cruz’s English, is also not very good looking. I have solo un poco de español, and when I can’t find the word I want in Spanish, I am apt to lapse into German, French or Italian. Well, at least I’m not shouting to make myself understood! And after almost a fortnight here, I realize I have acquired a lot of vocabulary for food.

So, I am now in Sevilla for a final two nights before flying on to meet the One & Only in Porto. Spain has provided a varied and very tasty fortnight, but tonight, I am going to break with tradition and try out a Lebanese restaurant, Fatouch, only seven minutes’ walk from my apartment, that came highly recommended…

… which not only provided a delicious meal but some of the friendliest staff I have come across, and a very sweet dinner companion. Seated side by side at the bar, Angela and I started chatting, as she helped me translate the Spanish-Lebanese menu. We ended up sharing a ‘Hummus Rosa’ (made pink with beetroot and topped with a sprinkling of cashews) and a dish of diced garlic potatoes. I accepted her recommendation of the delicious kofta and downed two glasses of the most wonderfully refreshing homemade lemonade ever. Then she kindly provided me with a spontaneous and very thorough tour of Seville by night. On foot. We walked and talked till our tongues were stilled by our very tired feet, but what a wonderful way to see this ancient city. Last time I visited, I was hobbling on a bad hip, this time it was only some 10,000 steps that finally drove me to home to bed. We passed the Alcatraz and the cathedral and any number of other stunning churches. We strolled along the riverbank, and she gave me some tips for the following day.

Unfortunately, I was never going to find time for them all, but early this morning (early for Spain) I wended my way to the Palacio de las Dueñas, which Angela had pointed out last night as the birthplace of the Spanish poet Antonio Machado. This sumptuous palace takes its name from the old Cistercian convent of Las Dueñas, whose nuns served the queens and wives of the kings of Castile, but it has belonged to the noble House of Alba since 1612. The top floor is still a private residence, but visitors are welcome to wander everywhere else.

I could not have asked for a better way to spend the morning and was blown away by the architecture and artwork hidden away behind high brick walls in this quiet nook of Sevilla. Built in the late 15th century, it mixes the Renaissance with Gothic and Moorish influences, and the grounds are a series of walled courtyards filled with exotic plants, pottery and paintings. Meanwhile every room is a museum of architecture, art & the ubiquitous ceramic tiling, introduced to the Iberian Peninsula in the 8th century by The Moors, following their invasion in 711 AD.

I could almost write an entire blog about this amazing place, but I have chatted long enough and must depart to find some lunch. “What eating again?” You may well ask. But what else should one do in Spain?

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A Touch of Suffolk

Posted on 22 September 2026 by sheg4184

Our little Renault GPS (known as Daphne) has taken us on many a confused and convoluted route this past week, as we set out to explore Suffolk. Apart from a brief but beautiful week in Southwold many eons ago, this largely rural county in East Anglia was previously unknown to us. It was simply a passage through to Norfolk, or a flyby en route to Cambridge or Stansted Airport.

So, with a week between flights, we decided to explore this unobtrusive, unpretentious not-so-little county. Within moments, we were utterly charmed by our choice. The One & Only had found us a cosy hideaway for our fleeting tryst, tucked away between fields and woods and winding streams. Suffolk is curiously lacking in cities but has a handful of delightful market towns and any number of quaint and curious villages, where we found an abundance of thatched and timber-framed cottages. Many of these were painted in shades of pink. Traditionally known as Suffolk pink, this distinctly local shade is more terracotta or salmon than pastel pink and was originally created by mixing ox blood with whitewash. The more modern version tends to be a less appealing shell pink, and we even came across variants in pistachio, clotted cream and turquoise.

As I always like to do in a new place, I have been taking a glance at Suffolk’s history. Without going back to the land of the dinosaurs, I began with the most notable Suffolk lass of them all: Boudica. This Iceni Queen led her people in a huge but ineffectual revolt against Roman rule around 60 AD. After her army suffered a decisive defeat at the hands of the Romans, Boudica died, although it has been suggested that she committed suicide to avoid capture.

East Anglia has had a long history of invasion by those who found the low-lying East Anglian coast all too easy to penetrate. After the Romans withdrew from Britain in about 500 AD, the Anglo-Saxons marched in from northern Europe. Three hundred years later, along came the Vikings from Scandinavia who initially made seasonal raids on coastal settlements before moving in for the long haul. They were followed by William the Conqueror and his Normans in 1066 AD. Bill and his buddies would drastically alter the social hierarchy, rules of land ownership and architecture of Britain. Then, during WWII, there was the so called “Friendly Invasion” when more than 350,000 American servicemen and women were stationed across Norfolk and Suffolk. Although the Americans were allies, not enemies, apparently it is historically termed an ‘invasion’ due to unprecedented scale and cultural impact on the region.

Writer George Orwell took his pseudonym from Suffolk’s River Orwell. Singer-songwriter Ed Sheeran, composer Benjamin Britten and actor Ralph Fiennes are all Suffolk born luminaries. And then, of course, there is the artist, John Constable. The son of a wealthy merchant, Constable grew up in the Stour Valley. A keen fan of Constable’s bucolic landscapes, the One & Only defied Daphne’s gymnastics to reach Flatford, where Mr. John Constable painted some of his most iconic works. Tucked between field, stream and woodland, this tiny hamlet is now in the caring hands of the National Trust and was awash with painters and school kids keen to imitate their hero. We also found a couple of lovely walking tracks around neighbouring fields and across the water meadows to Dedham.

The Stour creates much of the border between Essex and Suffolk, which means we have spent the week dipping in and out of these two counties, one moment in Suffolk, the next crossing a hump-backed bridge into Essex, and back again into Suffolk a few minutes later. Between this and the contortions of Daphne the GPS, you can understand why we spent a large part of the week feeling thoroughly disoriented!

On market day, we headed into Bury St Edmunds day to find the centre of town – Cornhill – set up with food and craft stalls. We came home with a tray of figs, several cakes and a flat cap from the Edinburgh Woollen Mill – an early Christmas present for the One & Only. Apparently known as Suffolk’s foodie capital, Bury is also the home of the historic Greene King Brewery, which was founded in 1799, and a sugar factory, where the Silver Spoon company produces sugar from sugar beet that is grown all over East Anglia.

This ancient market town sprung up around the medieval Abbey, which was first established in about 1000 AD. The town got its name from Edmund, King of the East Angles, who was killed by the Vikings in 869AD. Venerated as a martyr and eventually canonized as a saint, Edmund’s shrine became an important place of pilgrimage, alongside Canterbury in Kent and Walsingham in neighbouring Norfolk. The Abbey was eventually demolished during the Dissolution of the Monasteries in the 16th century. The Cathedral that now stands beside the Abbey ruins was originally a parish church that grew into a cathedral over 400 years. Parts of the old abbey walls have been reconstituted into housing in the cathedral close.

And then, there is the seventeenth century Theatre Royal. Miraculously able to buy tickets at the last minute, we got to see a fabulous performance of Romeo & Juliet. Smoothly choreographed on the smallest stage imaginable and performed with incredible skill by the Duke’s Theatre Company, six able young actors shared numerous characters between them with nary a slip between cup and lip! Once a mosh pit into which they could pack 800 people standing, the seating there now is still made for much smaller bodies than the average Australian! We managed to book a natty little box quite close to a ceiling decorated with cloudy skies. Apparently made for six (Hobbits only) we squeezed reasonably comfortably into our seats and prepared to enjoy every minute of our dose of Shakespeare.

Later, we headed east to Lavenham. This turned out to be a popular tourist destination about 12 miles southeast of Bury. In the 15th century, Lavenham became one of the wealthiest towns in England, thanks to its highly successful wool trade. As a result of that early wealth, it now feels like the set for a Disney movie, full of cobbled lanes and medieval half-timbered houses, many of them sporting traditional Suffolk pink walls. A surprising number are on a startling lean, as if constructed by a pack of very drunk builders, which makes you doubt your own eyes and wonder how they haven’t collapsed onto their neighbours. We stopped for coffee and scones at the old Guild Hall in the hilltop market square, and sat peacefully in the sunny bricked courtyard, before wandering over to the 16th century wool church. St Peter & St Paul’s is a glamorous, Gothic affair, far more elegant than the average village church, its tower standing a mighty 138 feet or 42 metres high.

Finally, as a last minute note, I have just discovered another famous daughter of Suffolk – Elizabeth Garrett Anderson (1836–1917) – who was a latter-day Boudica, becoming the first woman to qualify as a physician and surgeon in Britain, and the first female mayor in the country.

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Five Senses or 5-4-3-2-1

Posted on 7 September 2026 by sheg4184

‘Stories begin with noticing.’ ~With apologies to John Roberts

It is early morning, and even the birds are silent. A faint breeze whispers around the tiled chimney stacks and fills the pale linen curtain like a sail. I am perched at a small, square, slatted table, on a walled balcony at the very top of the house. I am a wedge-tailed eagle on her eyrie, or Bunyip Bluegum in his treehouse among the eucalypts. From this rooftop perspective, I will try, in the manner of John Roberts to focus on my senses, starting with five things I see.

I see the gritty, white drive wending its way through fields burnt to an ash-blonde, straw-dry, fire risk and a mixed bag of raggle-taggle trees. Beyond the tree line to my left, a pink and orange orb rising swiftly above the hill, casting shadows on a craggy mountain range – the majestical Apennines – to the west. (So, I guess I’m facing South.)

A broad, green pool lies below me, lucent and still, calling to me, tempting me to don my bathers and take an early morning dip before the sun begins to glare off the water and heat the paving stones to blistering point. But I will resist and attempt to focus, to stay captive in the moment.

Through a small window behind me, framed thickly in dark wood, I have a camera-lens view across a landscape of steep but rolling hills, reminiscent of the opening scenes of Kenneth Branagh’s classic, Much Ado About Nothing. I am staying in a beautiful old Italian farmhouse atop a hill, not in Tuscany, but somewhere in the province of Terino, Abruzzo, on the Adriatic coast.

Before me, the curved terracotta tiles, ancient Roman style, hug the roof, bleached only slightly by centuries of abruzzese sun. Many are cracked and broken. I have seen several on the ground below, swept into a pile at a far corner of the building – so heaven knows if the roof will survive the autumn rains. Maybe buckets will be needed to catch the drips seeping through the ceilings.

Like John, I look at my computer screen balanced precariously on this fragile, collapsible table. The screen is gradually filling with words but not as fluently as if I had a pen and paper – a pen always seems to help my thoughts flow more fluently from imagination to page – but I can’t remember where I left it. Probably in the kitchen, down a perilous flight of stairs wither I will not venture in this half-light, for fear of tripping-and-toppling with a crash and a thump to the bottom.

Now, four things I can hear.

The distant thrum of traffic although there’s no sign of a road. There must be a motorway tucked into the valley, commuters heading at speed for Pescara or Bologna. At home, there would be no murmuration of traffic. Instead, the raucous clatter of our voluble Australian parrots heralding the new day and, if I’m lucky, the throaty, rolling gurgle of a magpie serenading the sun.

From my bird’s eye view, I hear the faint chirrup of voices from the terrace, as two of my companions head out for an early morning walk, crossing the terrace, past the pool and along the dusty drive to the road, reminiscent of that childhood picture book, Rosie’s walk: around the haystack, past the beehives, behind the shed. Hopefully, they won’t get lost today, or get eaten by a fox …

I hear the burr of some distant electric tool, and flinch at the disturbance. Is it a vacuum cleaner? A leaf blower? A saw? It’s obviously an early start to beat the heat. Our neighbour at home loves his leaf blower – luckily for us, or we would soon drown in gum leaves – but he wouldn’t start at daybreak!

The sound of church bells, surprisingly melodic, drift over the hill, calling the Catholics to a morning service. The rhythm is almost hypnotic, but there is a slightly mechanical twang – real bells or a recording? Apparently, there are three churches in the village at the bottom of the hill, with poetic names like Chiesa del Cimitero, Chiesa di Maria Santissima Regina della famiglia, Santuario di Santa Maria in Herulis.

[As John says, ‘I am no longer merely grounded in the present moment, I am inventing, extrapolating, wondering. The senses are not passive; they are gateways.’] My next gateway then, is smell.

The air is dusty but fresh, after days of stultifying heat, and the scent of rain on dusty ground is in the air, signalling the end of summer at last. Although, oddly, the sky has been swept clean of a single wisp of cloud. So, perhaps it is rather a lingering smell of smoke, and I am simply imagining that rain-on-hot-earth scent – wishful thinking?

Now, the aroma of coffee is floating up the stairs and through the window like that old Bisto add, calling the children home with the whiff of gravy. It is a familiar aroma that will wake me from dreams if my husband rises first, creeping quietly to the kitchen, surprisingly soft-footed for his height and shoe size.

I can just discern a waft of cheap bleach that has been drifting through the house since we arrived, following me along the narrow passages and up the wobbly staircase, attempting to mask the foetid stench of old drains that makes me want to hold my breath and race outside. I long, briefly, for the silky, slightly salty scent that drifts off the sea at home; a similar ancient landscape, dry and dusty, dotted with olive trees, but thousands of miles southeast of here, across sea and ocean, hills & mountains, deserts & jungle.

Two thing I can feel: a cool breath of wind sweeping across my cheeks like light kisses, dancing through wisps of hair, reminding me that I need to wash it this morning, stiff as it is from the saltwater pool into which I plunged yesterday, time and again, to clear my head, groggy from the heat.

Like Mr. Roberts, the second thing I feel is the chair beneath me. And like his, this one is not very comfortable. It is an old wooden chair, solid and well built, with a broad wooden seat, but hard and unforgiving. After only fifteen minutes – compared with his hour – I am distracted by the nagging ache in my lower back, and acknowledge my terrible posture, hunched over my computer, my shoulders in their habitual creep up to my ears, not grounding at all, John, but disturbing my solitude and my stream-of-consciousness with a niggling pain. I try to pull my shoulders down, ease my back, stir, shift position, but it all seems to get worse rather than better. Bugger it. Time to follow the scent of coffee to the kitchen…

Which leads me straight to that final step: one thing I want. Also, that final sense: taste. The answer to both is coffee. I know it won’t be in my favourite morning mug, imprinted with a Hannah Dale highland cow, which has become a ridiculous but happy ritual when I am home. And I will have to discern from the small print whether it is fresh milk or UHT, so common here in Italy, but designed to ruin my morning coffee and dispel my humour in a flash of cloying, unnatural flavour. Luckily, our English hosts must be aware of my penchant for ‘proper’ milk – or prefer it themselves – and keep us well stocked. The coffee machine had a glitch yesterday morning, which is no drama, as there are three Italian coffee pots at the back of the cupboard. These days, we usually travel with our own caffettiera, as there is rarely such a thing in the homes of friends or the Airbnbs that we frequent. Illy coffee perhaps, now I am in Italy, or something like it. Hopefully.

Perhaps I will risk the staircase to find a mug of coffee at last. Then I can carry it out to the terrace and sit by the pool, where I can sip on my bitter tongue-curling coffee, with only a dash of milk, providing the first taste sensation of the day. And I miss – for just a moment – my morning routine for making a pot of coffee: filling the lower chamber of the Mokha pot with water, just to the pressure valve; spooning the ground coffee into the basket, flattening it a little, adding half a teaspoon more, inevitably leaving a miniscule trail of fine coffee grains on the counter. As it boils on the gas stove, I heat the milk, then froth it manually, till it pours like cream, and smile to remember my father-in-law, faking horror at my inability to drink it black. Every time. For almost forty years….

*With thanks to Booking.com for the photograph.

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Two Tree Island & Beyond

Posted on 2 September 2026 by sheg4184

As we start our descent over Kent, it is obvious that England has been scalded by summer sun this year and the countryside below is looking remarkably like Australia, the lawns and fields burnt to a yellowy-beige stubble. Heading east from Gatwick, the windscreen is deluged in much-needed rain, but without its usual lush green summer coat, the world simply looks bedraggled. Through pouring rain and traffic jams and the Dartford tunnel, we eventually emerge into Essex, where the cloudburst has cleared and the sky boasts a few patches of exuberant blue.

Essex is a low-lying county to the east of London, with an extensive stretch of coastline that is exceptionally tidal – mud flats and salt marsh are regularly submerged in sea from the English Channel that races up the Thames estuary at high tide and drops 4.5 meters (or 14 feet) at low tide.

It is the last Bank Holiday Monday of the year, possibly the last day of summer, and the sky has transformed from gunmetal grey to a pale azure blue. We are strolling west along the coastal path towards Canvey Island and Hadleigh Castle, a medieval ruin once built by Edward III to protect England during the Hundred Years War. Behind us, the world’s longest jetty at Southend-on-Sea stretches almost a mile and a half out across the sand to the deeper water of the Thames, to play tippy-go with the ships that are heading into the London Docks. On shore, Adventure Island hails us with the shrieks and screams of the kids on the hair-raising rides that swoop and spin, while the Ferris wheel turns ponderously, smiling indulgently upon its wayward guests.

At Leigh-on-Sea, a cobbled street runs between the river and the train line, the c2c – or city to coast – that takes commuters from Shoeburyness to Fenchurch Street Station and home again. I count three, four, five pubs in a row, all bursting with holidaymakers and locals, where the strong aroma of frying seafood makes my nostrils twitch.  

Further west, a narrow road bridge crosses the mud flats and marsh onto a small, flat expanse of scrub. From the bridge we spot a converted Dutch barge that sits squat and funerial in the mud, waiting for the tide to come in and resurrect it. A few moments later – or so it seems – it is bobbing gently on rippling corduroy waves, tugging a little at its mooring ropes, keen to flee to the sea.

Two Tree Island is over six hundred acres of land that was reclaimed from the Thames Estuary in the eighteenth century, for grazing cattle and sheep. A sewage works was planted here in the early twentieth century, and the island was later used for landfill. These days, it has been reclaimed as a nature reserve the by Essex Wildlife Trust and has become a terrific spot for birdwatchers. We pass a man with a cat on a lead, then a selection of more conventional dog walkers. Hedgerows of rosehips, hawthorn and blackthorn covered in berries like blue and red confetti line the path, to be joined by a young oak, a mulberry tree and a selection of gnarly wild apple trees. Blackberry bushes, abundant with ripening fruit, offer a feast of autumnal foraging. On the eastern tip of the island, a pillbox, crumbly and wrinkled, like the old men in Dad’s Army, inspire a vague memory of a bygone war.

We wander along an asparagus-green lagoon edged with reeds and dotted with wild ducks and small, black headed gulls, till we reach the southern side of the island, where derelict rowboats, adrift on dreams, rust and rot and loll drunkenly on the mud, their ropes green with algae. The clink-clink-clink of wires against the masts of a dozen sailing boats set a crazy beat to our steps, as a gusty breeze disperses the heat and the wispy clouds. We stroll back to Leigh-on-Sea on weary feet and discover a fabulous cockle chowder served up in a deep and crusty bread-bowl with an icy pint of Aspell’s cyder – older than Adelaide – to make our toes curl with joy.

****

A new day, a new beach, this one on the east coast of Italy. Pescara is a city in Abruzzo that was heavily bombed towards the end of World War II and rebuilt with urban efficiency, but without much charm or character. However, the cerulean sky is generously stitched with flimsy contrails, and the calm water stretches west across the Adriatic to Croatia, while Roma lies over the Apennines to the east. For miles along the coast in both directions, the long, flat, sandy beach is arranged like graph paper with row upon row of neatly measured umbrellas, just like Normanville isn’t.

I have a hotel room with high ceilings and deep blue floor tiles overlooking the beach, and a neighbourhood awash with seafood restaurants and bistros, cafeterias and pizzerias. A few palms, oleander bushes and heat-struck trees offer a suggestion of shade, but the gentle sea breeze cools the air more effectively. Young drivers – mostly of the male variety – cruise along the esplanade with radios blaring, reminiscent of the Essex lads at Southend-on-Sea, but otherwise there is little resemblance between these two worlds. There is an urgency to Southend that is missing in this laissez-faire Mediterranean town, where there are so many more weeks of hot sun and a much broader expanse of sand on which to soak up its rays. Here, in Italy, lunch is a long, slow progression from aperitivo, primo and secondo, to a scoop of pistachio gelato, a tiny espresso laced with brown sugar, and maybe, just maybe a digestivo to finish up. Then, only mad dogs and Englishmen would resist the call of a cool, shuttered room and crisp white sheets for an afternoon siesta. My shoulders have dropped, and my head is drooping. Time to find my pillow…

*With thanks to the One & Only for letting me use his photo.

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“We’re Going to the Zoo”

Posted on 23 August 2026 by sheg4184

A small person in our family turned four this week, and the excitement has been building for weeks. An early birthday present had already combined her favourite colour (yellow) with her favourite footwear (crocs) and we also got to take her on a special outing while her parents were working. The One & Only recently discovered Urimbirra Wildlife Park, on the outskirts of Victor Harbor. It turned out to be a real winner.

Urimbirra is a private, family-run wildlife park in the Hindmarsh Valley with all you could want of native Australian animals, birds and reptiles, as well as a few blow-ins like the Golden Pheasant of western China and the Blue and the South American Gold Macaw.

Open every day of the year from 10am, there are forty acres of exhibits, giant eucalypts, billabongs and open parkland, with plenty of space for picnics and easy parking. (After weeks in Cornwall, I am suddenly very aware of the ‘easy parking’ part!) It mightn’t be as large as some of the more well-known animal parks, such as Monarto or Cleland Reserve, but it was the perfect size for Miss Four, with plenty to keep her busy for two or three hours. And neither she nor the animals were overwhelmed by too many visitors.

Entry fees were also incredibly reasonable. Apparently, there is a small café, but we had packed snacks for the journey, so will save that experience for next time. We also grabbed a couple of bags of nibbles for the kangaroos on our way through reception and were almost instantly greeted by some enthusiastic kangaroos eager to see what we had in our pockets. There were also a number of joeys, and the mothers seemed more than happy for us to inspect them close up – for a small fee in the shape of a handful of pellets!

Urimbirra is an Aboriginal word meaning ‘to take care of’, and these animals are certainly well looked after. I am not normally mad about seeing animals or birds in cages, but these guys looked pretty comfortable with the set up. The aviaries are terrific, and the huge black cockatoos came right up for a nose-to-beak chat – although given the strength of those beaks and claws, I was happy to have a strong mesh fence between us. We see these fellas in the trees around our garden, but it was the first time we had ever been able to get so close, and they really do have the most beautiful plumage, every jet-black feather delineated in a fine edging of golden wattle. Amusingly, a flock of bossy, brightly coloured lorikeets had slipped through the wire to take advantage of a free feed, while a sulphur crested cocky called out ‘hello, hello’ like a telephone operator on repeat. Time to teach him a new word methinks.

Further on we reached a walk-through aviary where we were dive-bombed by a bunch of lorikeets – full-time residents, these ones – who raced round the cage at impressive speeds. A number of people flinched from a close encounter with these kamikaze rainbows skimming over their heads, but not one actually collided with us. At a safer distance, a family of glossy ibis – Australia’s smallest – showed off beautifully bronze feathers that glimmered like Thai silk. Admittedly Miss Four was a bit nervous of those long, hooked beaks, but they were too shy to approach, so there was nothing to fear.

Back outside, the wallabies and kangaroos were hovering for an introduction, and we stopped again for a chat, before edging past to meet the koalas. Two were brought out for our inspection, but they were far more interested in their morning tea than us – lush branches of gum leaves were understandably far more appealing than we were. Still, it provided a free photo opportunity, even if they refused to smile for the cameras.

The park has a number of wombats, too. As largely nocturnal animals, they were all curled up, snoring in their dens, but there are windows on one side where you can inspect these sleeping bolsters without bothering them. They are surprisingly large at such close quarters.

In one sunny corner of the park is the reptile house, and apparently there is a snake handling session in the afternoon. However, we were happy, Harry Potter style, to enjoy them through the glass while they (mostly) slept in a tight coil beneath a heat lamp on this cool winter morning, although one black-headed fellow looked quite keen to come out for a ‘meet-and-greet’ – or did he mean a ‘meet-and eat?’ The lizards, too, had crawled up logs to get as close as possible to the heat lamps in search of a winter tan, which was great for us, as it meant we could see them more clearly. This led to long discussions about the differences between a Blue-tongue lizards and water dragons.

Two young emus were pacing the perimeter fence of their enclosure, and initially I was wary of those long necks and beaks, but apparently their strong legs and sharp-clawed toes can be far more bothersome, and in fact they, too, were just looking for snacks. Meanwhile the wood ducks wandered in and out through the gap at the bottom of the fence. We have got rather fond of these pretty little native ducks lately, as they have developed a penchant for gathering on and around our pool for social gatherings.

Apparently there are echidnas to be seen, too, but they were wisely hibernating until the weather warms up a tad. And there were still plenty of other animals to see.

So, what have I missed? Oh yes, the predators. A pair of lean but healthy-looking dingoes who came up to inspect us at close quarters before dashing off to chase a couple of wild ducks who wisely didn’t hang around to be introduced. The small, freshwater crocodiles and their neighbours – two hefty seawater crocs – were totally disinterested in engaging with their visitors but baked quietly in a gentle winter sun and enjoyed a mid-morning nap.

A stone’s throw from these disingenuously docile meat-eaters is the farmyard, where we had a lovely time feeding the last of our kangaroo pellets to a large collection of very amenable Guinea-pigs and cooing over a dozen baby chickens dizzily skiddering around their enclosure.

At the far end of the park, we found an area fenced off from the kangaroos, who otherwise roam freely, where only the birds disturb the ancient gums once used as canoe and shield trees by the The Ramindjeri People who are the traditional owners of this southern end of the Fleurieu Peninsula.

So, take a picnic and a couple of small people for a delightful day out among our very special Australian wildlife. Urimbirra really is a hidden gem.And I have only mentioned a handful of the birds, animals and reptiles we saw there…

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‘A Little Guitar’

Posted on 26 July 2026 by sheg4184

My favourite road on the Fleurieu Peninsula runs for twenty miles, through gumtrees and farmland, from Yankalilla to Victor Harbor. On a drizzly evening earlier this month, I travelled with friends down the Inman Valley Road to Victor Harbor for an early dinner and a movie night.

The Victa Cinema first opened in the spring of 1923 as the Victor Theatre. Destroyed by fire in 1934, it was subsequently rebuilt in the Art Deco style from designs by Adelaide architect Kenneth Milne. It was also substantially enlarged, and ever since, it has been a popular regional cinema that is now heritage-listed. We don’t get over there often, but the One & Only and I love this attractive local cinema with its friendly staff, comfortable seats, acres of legroom, and old-fashioned charm.

So, I must tell you about the movie we saw last week. ‘A Boy Called Sailboat’ is a beautiful film written and directed by Cameron Nugent and filmed in Silver City, New Mexico. Cameron came along to this special showing of his movie and took time to talk with the audience about how it came about.

The story is loosely based on a piece he wrote when still at school, although he re-located it from Melbourne to New Mexico. (Oddly enough, the landscape could just as easily have been northern South Australia.) It follows the young son of a dirt-poor Hispanic family, who have inexplicably nicknamed him Sailboat, probably due to an early obsession with boats, despite living so far from the sea.

This is Nugent’s debut as a director, and his movie is a delight. Quirky and whimsical, the story is a simple one: young Sailboat finds a ukelele in a junk pile and teaches himself to play on his ‘little guitar’. Eventually, he makes up a special song for his grandmother, who is lying ill in hospital. The twist? The audience never actually hears the song. Instead, we watch the reactions of his listeners, which suggest he has uncovered a very special talent for music, and writing heart-felt lyrics that strike a deep chord with all who hear it.

Nugent told us that, after testing numerous child actors for the three main roles (Sailboat, his best friend Petee, and his wannabe girlfriend, Mandy) he eventually resorted to using kids from the local school. They are all superbly unselfconscious and appealingly unsophisticated.

The original score was written and performed by the Armenian Australian classical guitarists, Slava and Leonard Grigoryan, known professionally as the Grigoryan Brothers, who actually performed live for this event, which made the whole experience extra-special.

‘A Boy Called Sailboat’ is a lovely family movie that moves along gently. Set in a drought-ridden and economically depressed part of southwest America, Sailboat and his parents live in a lopsided, ramshackle cabin in the desert. Sailboat (Julian Atocani Sánchez) is about eight years old , so named because, despite living hundreds of miles from the sea, he has a passion for boats, which he draws incessantly and pins up on his wall. His tattoed father, José (Noel Gugliemi) – who is as soft as butter despite his mafia-like appearance – is likewise mad about horses, which he endlessly paints by numbers at the kitchen table, while his wife Meyo (Elizabeth De Razzo) spends her days cooking meatballs and stepping gently so as not to cause the house to collapse. Sailboat, meanwhile, creates a song on his ‘little guitar’ for his beloved ‘Abuela’ so wonderful that anyone who hears it can’t stop weeping. The song brings hope and joy to the entire town, a message to the world about the magic of good music that never grows tired.

The film won Best Feature at the 2018 San Diego International Film. It is one that I will definitely be watching again. If only for those delightful moments of humour: Jose’s car with no back doors; Meyo’s ever expanding pots of meatballs; Mandy’s eccentric outfits; Petees eyedrops; Sailboat’s fascinating with a boat ‘for sail’ in the middle of the desert…

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It’s a Wrap!

Posted on 21 June 2026 by sheg4184

The Final Lap: Falmouth to Bigbury-on-Sea

He made it. Yesterday, after a week on the final run up the east coast of Cornwall and across the border into Devon the job is done. Yesterday afternoon, I joined One & Only on the sand at Bigbury-on-Sea to walk the final few hundred metres to the Avon River crossing, as Burgh Island rose out of the sea mist that has smothered the coast in dense fog for three days.

It has been a trek along more than a thousand kilometres of the English coast – bearing in mind that he had completed the Plymouth to Lyme Regis stretch a year or two earlier. This time, as you may remember, we started in Weymouth so he could walk the Jurassic Coast and fill in the gap from Lyme Regis to Poole Harbour. Since then, it’s been six weeks on the long haul from Minehead in Somerset to Bigbury-on-Sea in South Devon, and last night we celebrated at a very pink gastropub in Yealmpton.  

Next on the agenda? Perhaps the new King Charles III England Coast Path of 2,700 miles around the coast of England? Minus the SW Coast loop, of course. Personally, I am hoping for a more sedate stroll along a river or canal, so I can confidently join, without the fear of climbing despairingly steep, hills to reach dramatic cliff tops only to be blown into the Atlantic Ocean or the English Channel. While I am extremely proud of the One & Only’s monumental effort, the challenge of the coastal path has not inspired me. Is that sacrilegious? Or just wimpy? For many, the coastal path seems like a pilgrimage: a purposeful, challenging and hopefully transformational journey, on foot. As I write this, it does start to sound tempting – the opportunity to immerse oneself in these glorious surroundings, spending days in the moment, living, breathing, and observing the world around you, putting one foot in front of the other, day in day out. Still, I think I would prefer a flatter – and less windy – route!

For me, driving through England this summer has been a joy – despite the stresses and strains of which I have frequently grizzled. Yet, those potholed, uncharted lanes like gnarly, knotted knitting, the often calamitous parking arrangements, in the end they just added a touch of spice to days of adventuring among quirky, cobbled fishing villages, wide, tidal beaches, secret coves, buttercup besprinkled cliff tops, thatched pubs and quaint coffee shops, glorious gardens and elegant, ancient manor houses – let’s face it, I’ve actually completed my own version of a pilgrimage without the physical output (although tell that to my shoulder muscles, as I clench the steering wheel to edge past an enormous tractor on a road barely wide enough to overtake  a bicycle!)

So, highlights on this last section? There have been so many, I may only have time for a selection. (And yes, I have still found time to study.) We have also stayed in some great B&Bs. There was a tiny blue carriage house converted into a one-up-one-down cottage that felt like a treehouse, perched on a terrace above the high street and just large enough for our needs, although not much bigger than a wardrobe. Then, there was a garden flat with an indulgence of elbow-room overlooking a wooded valley and an immensely high viaduct for trains. I have wandered through Truro and Falmouth and Mevagissey and a handful of National Trust properties full of summer flowers and huge bumble bees. And I have had to dodge and weave through hobbit-sized villages which were never designed for cars. This stretch has also been particularly generous with waterways: rivers and streams; estuaries and harbours. And sea mist.

***

Early one morning, while delivering the One & Only to his starting point, I came across a small café, hidden down in a damp and shady hollow in the hills, beside a picturesque and peaceful millpond. And, unlike most coffee shops in Cornwall, it was open before 10am. So, after he had set off, I found my way back to Millensey Mill.

For once, I must extend my thanks to my Google Maps navigator, (long since nicknamed Daphne) who guided me unerringly to the mill, where we found a nice roomy carpark and the best coffee I have had since arriving in England. Generally, I have been holding Daphne entirely responsible for her propensity to entangle us among inconceivably narrow country lanes these past two months. I know she has been thinking that it would be a much prettier journey to head along a perfectly lovely cart track hemmed with foxgloves and pink campion than a dreary old motorway. And that would have been fine, had I been driving a tractor. Or a horse. But all was forgiven as I relaxed in the sun beside a tranquil millpond with my coffee and an extremely tasty ciabatta roll crammed with spicy mushrooms, avocado and rocket.  The tables were made of old mill wheels – thick, circular slabs of granite – and I was soon joined by a couple of cheeky robins keen to share my breakfast. Most unexpectedly, I also had an excellent internet connection, so I was able to call the kids in Australia and share the view of Arum lilies reflected in the pond. (And it turns out the Northern Irish barrista learned his trade in Melbourne, hence the excellent coffee!)

***

Another morning, I dropped off my keen and dedicated hiker and went a-wandering to Caerhays Castle, a nineteenth century creation nestled into a nook in the hills overlooking Porthluney Cove. Renowned for its impressive collection of magnolias, azaleas, camellias and rhododendrons, it would definitely be better to visit Caerhays in early spring. While I had missed the hillside garden in its full regalia, I still enjoyed a gentle stroll up woodland paths and along grassy trails, which provided the occasional peek of the castle and the sea beyond.

Although the Williams family still lives at Caerhays, they open it to the public each spring, so everyone can enjoy the garden in all its splendour, and get a glimpse of the castle, too if they so desire. It is also popular for weddings and fetes, with its broad terrace facing the sea, it also starred in Tim Burton’s 2106 movie, Miss Peregrine’s Home for Peculiar Children and the 1972 BBC adaptation of Daphne du Maurier’s Rebecca.

The crenelated walls of Caerhays castle make it appear well-fortified against invaders, but it is in fact a glorified folly, designed by the 19th century architect John Nash, who was responsible for Regents Street, Piccadilly Circus, Clarence House, and the Royal Pavilion at Brighton, and for converting Buckingham House into Buckingham Palace.

I joined a tour group of three, and we were escorted through the castle by a very informative and enthusiastic guide named Michael, who also provided excellent tips for neighbourhood restaurants. And low and behold, there was a table inlaid with Australian opal and topped with a rather stubby nosed porcelain kookaburra. Michael was delighted with my discovery.

Afterwards, I dropped into the Magnolia Café for morning tea in the old stable yard, which included a leaky tea pot and a slice of Cornish lamington cake. It was nothing like the original Australian lamington – a cube of light sponge dipped in chocolate and desiccated coconut – but this Cornish variety was infinitely more filling: a dense coconut cake, topped with strawberry jam and sprinkled in more coconut.

***

I will finish off with a beautiful dinner at One Polkirt Hill, a restaurant highly recommended by our tour guide at Caerhays Castle. This pocket-sized restaurant serves seafood plucked fresh from the harbour and cooked with a French twist. It is owned by Andre McCowan, once the executive chef at Chelsea Football Club, and his lovely Thai wife Pey, who hosts the dining room and welcomed us like old friends.

We chose a lovely bottle of rose (or maybe two!) and perused the menu. I chose a smoked mackerel pate to start, followed by a Red Thai Curry with prawns, scallops and monkfish, was served with jasmine rice and crunchy prawn crackers. The One & Only went for a beautifully constructed ‘cocktail’ of crabmeat, avocado, and smoked salmon, followed by something from the specials board – monkfish in a brandy and cream sauce. (Of course, there were vegan and red meat choices as well, but it seemed like madness to eat anything but fish when we were sitting only metres from the fishing boats.) It was all, to quote a much-touted TV show, absolutely fabulous.  

As we were starting on our appetizers, our guide from Caerhays Castle turned up with his wife, and was pleased we had approved his recommendation. Dessert? No chance. No room. But a postprandial walk around the harbour before bed was an effective way to settle overstretched stomachs and clear our wine-soaked heads!

Mevagissey has the sweetest little double harbour, which was built on the site of a medieval quay. Once largely dependent on pilchard fishing, it now houses a mixture of fishing boats and pleasure craft, including a passenger ferry to Fowey (pronounced Foy). The town fans out above the harbour, an abundance of slate roofed houses snuggling into the crook of the hill. Apparently, it’s the second largest fishing-port in Cornwall, and we discovered that the locals love fishing from the harbour walls too. I am definitely going back for a longer stay – and a trip on the ferry to Foy!

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Of Tin & Tea & Tidal Rivers

Posted on 15 June 2026 by sheg4184

The penultimate phase: the Lizard Peninsula

I have just been looking at a map that divides Cornwall into six areas, like stripy socks, and noticed that the southern end of the county looks something like a crab claw. So, we have spent the last few days navigating the left-hand claw, which contains the southernmost point of England, Lizard Point and notoriously treacherous coast line, once known as the Graveyard of Ships. We also moved our base to a very pink, very comfortable apartment in Helston.

While nothing is very far away in Cornwall, this 11th century market town is a little off the beaten track as far as the tourist trade is concerned, despite being only a stone’s throw from Lizard Point, Falmouth and St Michael’s Mount. For me, it was equidistant – or almost – to the various drop off and collection points I needed to reach this week, so it proved an incredibly handy place to stay, and it was kind of fun to be in a ‘normal’ town after weeks of tourist towns overflowing with holidaymakers. Even Lizard Point seemed far less commercialized than some of the other popular sites of Cornwall.

So, just a teaspoon of local history on this sunny Saturday morning:

Helston was chartered by King John in 1201. For those of you – like me – who are looking slightly bamboozled by the term ‘chartered’, this means that the monarch has granted the town municipal privileges and the right to self-government. Historically, this allowed Helston to hold markets, collect tolls, and free residents from serfdom. And indeed, there was not a serf to be seen, and Helston still holds regular markets to this day.

Helston’s Guildhall

Helston was also one of four towns in Cornwall in which tin was assessed, formed into coins, stamped and sold in a ‘Coinage Hall’. These were known as Stannary towns. While tin has not been used for making coins since 1838, Helston’s main street is still known as Coinagehall Street, and there we stayed, in an apartment called The Stannary, right above one of the old banks and looking out over the Guildhall. So, hopefully you’ve learned two new and incredibly useful words – if you happen to be in Cornwall!

It’s obvious from the quality of the municipal buildings in Helston that it was once a reasonably wealthy town, largely thanks to the local mine, which once employed over a thousand people. While the outskirts of Helston are hemmed with council houses – practical but not particularly picturesque – the centre of town has a wonderful collection of old stone cottages, terraces and a lovely stone church perched halfway up the hill, where they were holding a choir practice the evening we popped by for a peek. Another evening, we were again entertained by the bell ringers practising on the church bells.

***

Lizard Lighthouse

While the One & Only circumnavigates the Lizard Peninsula on foot – a ‘high point’ or ‘headland’ in Cornish, not a reptile – it has been great fun exploring the coastal villages, tucked into nooks and crannies along the route, or perched atop dramatic cliffs overlooking the Celtic Sea. As I stand on the edge of the precipitous and craggy cliffs at Lizard Point, and face south, I might, if my sight were telescopic, spot Brittany, 200 miles off the coast. Or, turning to the southeast, it’s about 100 miles to Guernsey in the Channel Islands. Too far to swim, but with a small fishing boat perhaps, I could follow the route of the Cornish smugglers to France…

***

I know I’ve said it before and will doubtless say it again, but England never ceases to amaze me, for all the ‘stuff’ that is squeezed onto such a small island. Doctor Who fans will understand the concept: England is an absolute Tardis. Honestly, how is there possibly room for 70 million people, countless towns and cities, endless miles of motorways, copious airports? Yet there is still so much space? I haven’t seen a city in weeks, just lush fields edged in thick hedgerows, broad expanses of empty moorland, uncluttered coastline, lakes and rivers and streams and old stately homes surrounded by acres of parkland. It is gobsmacking.

***

Not far from Helston, on a rare day off, we discovered one such estate at Godolphin. Hidden away in a maze of shady lanes, this fascinating mediaeval estate was built on the wealth of the tin and copper found on the property and was once a significant and rather grand abode. Then the promise of power and position in London tempted the family to leave Cornwall for the capital, and for a hundred and fifty years, Godolphin was left in the hands of tenant farmers, who pulled down the Great Hall and repurposed the stone to build outbuildings, such as stables and byres for the animals, and a cider house.

Godolphin is only open to visitors on the first week of every month (except January), and it was pure fluke that we landed there that week in June, just in time for had an introductory talk about the stew ponds (for fish), the deer park, the orchards and of course life in the house itself, which has housed Sheriffs of Cornwall, Dukes and farmers, when the King’s Chamber was repurposed to store potatoes. The rest of the month it becomes a holiday house, so if you should fancy a holiday in a mediaeval manor house – with all the mod cons of course – it sleeps up to 12 guests. Perfect for one of those 19th century country weekends – without the serfs or the servants!

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At the end of a long day’s hike, the One & Only is more than happy to wait for me at the nearest pub. On one occasion, this was a beautiful, thatched pub at Helford, overlooking a tidal river not far from Frenchman’s Creek. If you are at all familiar with Daphne du Maurier’s novel of the same name – and another called Jamaica Inn – this should instantly remind you of the long history of smuggling and piracy that goes hand in hand with the history of virtually every coastal village in Cornwall and Devon. Driven by heavy government taxes on imported goods, fishermen and their families worked together to sneak illegal goods from Europe into England, hiding chests of brandy, tea, and tobacco in tunnels, sea caves, and cellars along the jagged and inaccessible coast that was so awkward to police. The more professional smugglers, successfully dodging the customs men for decades and providing employment and contraband for the locals. Also at work, were the wreckers, who purposely lured ships onto the rocks for salvage.

Yet on a mild, summer afternoon in this peaceful riverside village, it is hard to imagine such scenes of violence. As the tide drifts up the estuary, the boats rise off the mud and start to bob about. Bumblebees are purring busily, as they dip in and out of the tall, purple foxglove flowers. Robins and finches dart hither and yon, in and out of the hedgerows, and around our feet checking for crumbs, chirping merrily, like ‘Disney birds,’ as my brother calls them. And the cider is the best I have tasted.

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Combing the Penwith Peninsula

Posted on 7 June 2026 by sheg4184

Phase 6 of the Salt Path: St. Ives to Prussian Bay

‘By Tre, Pol and Pen, Shall ye know all Cornishmen’

On the south western tip of Cornwall (or Kernow as it is known by the Cornubians) is the rugged Penwith Peninsula, wrapped around on three sides by the feisty Atlantic Ocean. From St Ives to Marazion, punctuated by St Michael’s Mount, the lofty, gnarly granite cliffs cup an area of Outstanding Natural Beauty: rolling hills, lush fields and deep wooded valleys, tiny stone villages and steep, winding lanes, ruined remains of old tin mines.

Traditionally a land of farmers and fishermen, the Penwith peninsula has also been one of the most significant areas in the world for tin and copper mining since the Bronze Age. Sadly, the very last working mine closed in 1990, and the area now relies heavily on tourism. But it does explain the vast number of chimney stacks that litter the Cornish countryside – and the Cornish miners who made their way to South Australia in the mid-19th century to take part in the copper boom. Their mining expertise and advanced equipment helped to make the Copper Triangle in the north of the state such a runaway success, and more than repaid the colony for the assisted passage granted to so many of them. By 1865, Cornish settlers made up more than 40% of South Australia’s immigrant population, and the Yorke Peninsula would later become known as Australia’s “Little Cornwall” as Moonta’s copper output surpassed that of Cornwall.

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Meanwhile, we are staying in the picturesque village of Marazion, overlooking that celebrated little island of St Michael’s Mount. It was once a site for pilgrims, like its cousin across the channel, Mont St Michel, and lies just half-a-mile offshore. At low tide, a causeway is exposed, and you can cross to the island on foot – in fact you don’t even need the causeway, you can just stroll over the sand – but at high tide, it’s necessary to find a willing boatman to bring you back. From almost anywhere in the town, and around Mount’s Bay, you can spot this iconic, fairytale island.

On a mere fraction of a square mile, this rocky outcrop is a microcosm of Cornwall with its granite cliffs crowned by a mediaeval castle and church, wooded slopes to the sea, terraced, subtropical gardens and even a tiny village and a pub. But be warned, there is no access on Saturdays, and you have to be off the island by 5pm any day, presumably to give the thirty-odd residents a break from the onslaught of curious sightseers.

As I have been working as we travel – when I am not playing chauffeur for the obsessed, long-distance walker in my life – I realize there is not always time to visit all the popular tourist destinations along the route. So, I intend to return another day to see Tintagel and Land’s End, the Minack Theatre and St Michael’s Mount, which, despite its proximity, is closed to the public on the one afternoon I am free. So selfish!

There have, however, been some fascinating, off-the-beaten-track discoveries, like St Columb, Boscastle, the Bude Canal and Hive Beach. And I have learnt the little ditty (above) that explains how the ancient Celtic prefixes still denote historic Cornish surnames and villages: ‘Tre’ is an ancient Cornish word meaning ‘homestead’ or ‘settlement’ as in Tregony and Trelissick; ‘Pol’, which meand a ‘pool’, a ‘pond’, a ‘well’ or a ‘cove’, as in Polperro or Polruan; ‘Pen’ which means headland or hill, as in Penzance or Pendeen. There are others, too, such as chy (pronounced ‘chee’) which means ‘house’ or ‘home in Cornish, as in Chyvarloe.And then there’s Cornubia, the ancient Latin name for Cornwall meaning people of the horn, referring to the shape And then there’s the Morrab Library & Gardens in Penzance…

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Arriving early in Marazion – hours before we could gain access to our latest abode – we followed the trusty oak leaf to Trengwainton Gardens, just outside Penzance. The gardens were, of course, reliably beautiful, mixing wilder woodlands with tropical plants and a huge expanse of walled gardens. We do love a walled garden! So, we wandered through the mizzling rain, and eventually discovered a café and a second hand book shop. It was here that I inadvertently found my hideaway for the week: a private library in the heart of Penzance. And my heartfelt thanks to Kelvin, who suggested it might be an interesting place to study. So, I overcame all the aggravations of parking issues and impossibly narrow lanes to find this wonderful library, surrounded by the splendours of another rather lovely garden.

The Morrab Library (Cornish for ‘by the sea’) is one of only fifty independent libraries in Britain, and was founded in 1818 by ‘the great and good’ of Penzance who were apparently tired of hearing themselves mocked by the Londoners, and decided to indulge in a spot of reading to improve their minds and their social kudos. Over the years, the library has outgrown several homes around Penzance,  and now lives in stately splendour at Morrab House, a splendid Victorian house with high ceilings and large windows, and walls lined floor-to-ceiling with bookshelves. The house has gradually filled with donations from generous Cornish benefactors, and many of the books are incredibly old and rather special. I even found one by a 19th century female travel writer, whose trip to China provided amazing context for my own research.

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The One & Only has taken on the wind and rain this week, as our steamy, summery May turns into a wild & woolly June.  Luckily, he had a couple of friends for moral support earlier in the week. And despite the unpredictable showers, he managed a bit of seal spotting between St Ives and Pendeen Lighthouse, while I was sipping coffee (undercover) by the sea pool at Penzance, during a short study break. Everything here is such an easy distance. Having moved house, I was gobsmacked to see we were still only 8 miles from St. Ives. Even our local pub – The Fire Engine – is no more than 50m from the front door with glorious views of St Michael’s Mount.

Our cottage – which shall be renamed Bumblebee Cottage as it is so themed – is a quaint little gem a few steps up the hill from Marazion’s market square. For anyone over 5’5″ there’s a bit of ducking required to avoid concussion, but it is beautifully appointed, with a terraced garden at the back that hangs above the rooftops, as long as you don’t mind clambering up a dozen very steep slate covered steps. (They very wisely left us plastic wine glasses for outdoor boozing! Did I mention I love cider?)

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Today, as I was about to wrap this up on a wine-sozzled note, the Wild and Woolly has turned into a proper tantrum. The wind whistled around the house all night and this morning the roads were strewn with leaf litter and stray branches. And still the One & Only was not deterred. I am so proud of his persistence – but is he just a little bit mad? Apparently the wind on the track is almost blowing him backwards!

Anyway, our devoted GPS “Daphne” decided, in her infinite wisdom, to take us off the main road this morning and redirect us down a back lane that rapidly grew narrower and narrower, with no place to turn and hedgerows that were closing in on us like some horror movie. Would it come to a dead end? How on earth could we ever reverse? Would there be any paint left on the car at all?! We made it out eventually, but it was more like a pedestrian track by the time it found the main road again. I am now back in Penzance enjoying a savoury cream tea to settle the nerves: cheese scone, Philadelphia cream cheese and chutney. Anyone got the brandy??

Thank goodness we are moving to the east coast tomorrow – I have my fingers crossed for calmer weather once we are no longer facing the tempest-torn Atlantic.

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