In Fowey and Padstow--Cornwall's Famous Villages

Friday, March 6, 2009
Cornwall

The view from my window stunned me anew when I awoke this morning at 6. 30 to watch dawn break over the Newquay sky that was tinged a startling pink. Immense cloud cover made it difficult for the sun to break through and the solitary figure walking towards the ocean was a dark silhouette at that early morning hour as he treaded water for a few paces, and then plunged into the foaming waves. I know that I will never again have so breathtaking a view from a hostel window and I want to keep this one preserved forever in my memory.

Devoting a Day to Writers:
Packing and unpacking, washing and dressing and getting ready to meet the day took the next half hour. I found the time to read up a bit of Cornwall tourist literature and discovered that the area on the opposite shore around the town of Fowey (pronounced ‘Foy’) would be a good place to explore. It is also rich with literary associations and it turned out that my day was devoted to following in the footsteps of some of England’s best known writers as I attempted to discover their favorite haunts.

In Search of Daphne du Maurier:
Daphne du Maurier, to whom I became introduced as a teenager, owing to my mother’s passion for her novels, spent a good deal of time in Southern Cornwall and used it as the setting of so many of her works. Jamaica Inn, the title of one of her novels, for instance, still exists in the region of Bodmin Moor but I wasn’t going to travel so far just to see in. Instead, I decided to take the Western Greyhound (“Green” Bus, as it is locally known) to St. Austell from where I was required to connect to another bus that would take me to Fowey.

Menabilly is the name of the town close by in which stands a huge mansion, which the du Mauriers had rented when they lived in Cornwall for a while. This would became the famous Mandalay of her best-known novel Rebecca. Who can ever forget that novel’s haunting first sentence? “Last night I dreamed I was at Mandalay again”. Just typing it gives me goose bumps and my reaction is based not on reading the novel alone but on the many movie versions of it that I have seen. The earliest was made by Alfred Hitchcock starring Laurence Olivier and Joan Fontaine and the most recent that I saw only a few months ago starred Charles Dance (whose work I have enjoyed and followed ever since I saw him play a very young British officer in The Jewel in the Crown many many years ago) and Emily Fox who is one of Britain’s best-loved actors with the inimitable Diana Rigg playing the chilly Miss Danvers.

So, I was keen to go to Menabilly to see Mandalay for myself. Only, when I arrived at Fowey and made my way down the steep hill that led to the harbor where most of the shops are clustered, I discovered at the Daphne du Maurier Literary Center (yes, there really is such a place!), that the Mandalay of the novel is a private residence and not open to the public. One cannot even catch a glimpse of it from the outside. The village of Menabilly does not have any associations with the author except for some shops that are named after her best-known characters. To get to Menabilly, I would have to walk about 4 to 5 miles as no public buses went to the area in the off-season.

Feeling Homesick in Fowey:
Abandoning my plans to get to Mandalay, I focused on Fowey instead and was left feeling deeply homesick for my beloved Southport. For Fowey reminded me so much of my little village in Connecticut. It shares a similar topography in that the river Fowey runs through the town and empties into the English Channel in the same way that the Mill River runs through Southport and empties into Long Island Sound. On both banks of the river are pretty houses rising in steep tiers along very narrow streets. You have to literally flatten yourself against a wall when a car passes by, as there isn’t enough room for both human and vehicle along the same street in Fowey! I realized all this, of course, only after I arrived at the waterside or what they call the Harbor (we call it the ‘Marina’ at home) where the beautifully sunny day had drawn anglers and sailors alike to the quay to keep them busy at their pursuits.

Along the street leading to the harbor were souvenir stores, bakeries selling the region’s specialty—saffron buns—books and card shops, chocolatiers, exclusive designer boutiques and jewelry showrooms and lots of places selling knick-knacks. I took pictures of the harbor because I wanted to show Llew and Chirselle how similar our lovely Southport is to an English seaside resort. I have said for years that Southport is the closest one can come to an English village in coastal Connecticut and the similarity between Fowey and Southport confirmed those impressions.

Like Southport, Fowey is dominated by the square tower of its local stone church with its gold clock face. Southport, of course, has two landmark churches—the Trinity Episcopal Church and the Congregation Church. Here too, in Fowey, stained glass windows in a Pre-Raphaelite style were visible as I passed by the steep path running along its side. But unlike Southport, Fowey can also boast what looks like a castle with its square turrets rising sharply against the bluest skies. It was only later, at the bus stop when I got into conversation with a local resident that I discovered that it wasn’t a castle at all but a private house—one that had remained in the same family, that of the Trefoys, not just for centuries, but maybe for a millennium! The lady’s son happened to be a stonemason who was at work on the house as keeping it up to snuff after all these years does take a lot of skilled local labor.

She lamented the fact that wages are so low in this part of the UK, that despite having been born in Cornwall and living there all their lives, none of her four children can afford to buy a home in the town which has been taken over by “holiday homes”—meaning seasonal houses that are rented to holiday-makers during the summer.

“I have no neighbors”, the lady lamented, “as the houses next door to me remain shut all year except for the three months of summer. I live alone and if something ever happened to me, no one would know. It’s awful!” she said.

Then, she continued: “My God, things have changed beyond recognition since I was a little girl growing up here. When I was a teenager, if I got into any kind of trouble, before I got home, you could be sure that mother already knew about it as a hundred eyes were watching my every move. Every one knew every one else in those days in the village of Fowey. I could not possibly expect that today—the place is full of strangers".

And still later: "You don’t want to be here in the summer. It’s just crawling with city folk splashing around their money. It’s awful!”

She wasn’t quite done. “And you should see how much they are building here! Who do they expect to buy all these places? Why don’t they try to fill up the empty houses first instead of eating into more parcels of green?”

So there I was getting a lesson on the changing face of Cornwall from someone who certainly knew the area intimately. And this again is similar to Southport, isn’t it, I thought? There were all those condos being built by developers out to make a buck during the real estate boom only to lie untouched. All that lovely unspoiled Southport scenery forever altered by the arrival of those condominium colonies. It’s truly a travesty, I thought. All over the world, the same story…


Back on the bus, I arrived at St. Austell, then connected to another bus to Newquay, but not before I popped down another steep winding road into the town to buy a Mince Pasty from Nile’s Bakery as it was close to lunchtime and I was hungry. I have to say that I have become a convert to the Cornish pasty—probably because they are so much more satisfying and delicious than the ones I have tasted in London through the Cornish Pasty Company and other similar chains. This one was filled with thinly sliced potato and ground beef, the two flavors melded perfectly to make a very delicious lunch indeed.

In the bus, I enjoyed both the passing landscape and my travel companions. Many knew each other and cheery greetings were often exchanged as the bus passed through a village. Some had amusing names such as High Street and Higher Bugle! Many of the little villages had names that started with the letters “Tre’ as a kind of prefix and I believe it has something to do with some ancient language of the region. Women got on with their shopping strolleys to take a bus ride to the nearest Morrisons or closest town. The village houses were small with very modest gardens that were slowly coming into their own for the new growing season. I saw daffodils everywhere in places that made me believe they were wild—though I have always believed that since daffodils grow from bulbs they have to be planted and do not seed spontaneously as wild flowers do.

Back at Newquay, I had only enough time to browse in some of the shops on the main road before it was time for me to catch another bus—this one going to Padstow.

Padding Around Padstow:
Padstow, it is said, would have remained just another small Cornish fishing village were it not for the arrival of TV chef Rick Stein who put it firmly on the country’s culinary map and created a mini-empire in the process. His presence in the town is so ubiquitous that folks something jocularly refer to the village as Padstein. Of course, being a foodie, I was keen to eat in one of his restaurants, but since I never enter restaurants when I am traveling alone, I did not think that this would be a possibility.

In Search of Sir John Betjeman:
Apart from Stein’s celebrity, the town is renowned for the presence of another great literary figure—the poet John Betjeman whose work I have loved for years and with whom I also have a personal connection—many many years ago, when I was but a young teenager in India, I had run into his wife, Lady Penelope Chetwode, in Simla, in Northern India, and ever since then, I had followed his career with interest. Betjeman, of course, passed away a few years ago, but he lies buried in the village of Trebeterick in the graveyard at St. Enodoc Church where his tombstone is engraved with some of his most haunting lines celebrating the beauty of and his fondness for this part of Cornwall which he had made his home for most of his life. I hoped very much to see his grave and make a pilgrimage of sorts to one of my favorite poet’s worlds.

Meanwhile, I walked along the path leading from the harbor to the town where colorful sailing boats bobbed in the water surrounded by a number of equally colorful shop fronts. A visit to the Tourist Information Center told me that my wish would not be fulfilled as Trebeterick lay across the shallow waters of Padstow Bay and I needed to take a ferry to get to the other side. Once on the opposite bank, I would need to cross a golf course and then make my way into the churchyard to see the gravesite. Though the walk would take me less than 20 minutes, once I was on the other side, the ferry had stopped plying for the day at 4.30 pm and I would have to return on the morrow. I could see the general area, however, in which Betjeman lies buried and I have to say that this sight served to satisfy my deepest longings to pay my personal respects to the man that a recent poll named Britain's Favorite Poet. As I gazed upon the tranquil land in which he lies buried, I thought of his own words:

"Lark songs and sea sounds in the air
And splendour, splendour everywhere".

Prideux Place:
Instead, I walked through the little coastal town and on seeing signs for Prideux Place decided to climb the steep hill that led to it. My guide book had informed me that this old pile is a favorite haunt of directors of period films and TV shows as it has all the correct atmospheric details to authenticate a location.

When I did get there, passing through a jumble of narrow winding streets with modest homes whose front doors were painted in strong primary colors, I arrived at a gray granite mass complete with square turrets and a forbidding gateway. There was a sign that informed me that the place was open to visitors only after Easter (I love how Easter is used here as the equivalent of a date though it changes every year depending on the Lenten calendar!)

Right opposite the mansion is a deer park and, as luck would have it, the herds of deer for which the park is known were obligingly close at hand. A few photographs later, I wound my way own the hill, once again, pulling my cashmere scarf closer around my throat for I had begun to feel the damp chill that sudden bouts of rain can bring.

Padstow's Pleasures:
I did not see Padstow at its best. Indeed, the rain clouds that had been swirling all morning finally dropped their moisture as my bus had woven through the narrowest country lanes from Newquay to bring me to this seaside settlement. I had a few hairy moments on the front seat of a double decker as it speeded on the single lane roads occasionally coming upon a car headed in the opposite direction.

In the baffling code of etiquette that exists among drivers on these single-lane country roads, the car backed up for quite a while, as my heart remained caught in my throat, until it found a tiny space in which to wedge itself before the bus that had advanced menacingly upon it, found enough room to squeeze through. This is not the first time that I have been witness to such a happening. Indeed, when Llew has been behind the wheel of tiny rented English cars on our many holidays in this part of the world, we have encountered the same occurrence on a couple of occasions. But never have I watched the spectacle from a double-decker bus—and believe me, I felt as if I were witnessing the denouement of a hair raising drama.

Pasdstow’s lanes weave in and out of little squares each one punctuated with another one of the cafes, delis, gourmet food stores, patisseries and restaurants that comprise the Stein empire. Many of them were winding down for the day as it was close to 5 pm. I keep forgetting that in this country, as a rule, shops still close at five, though Londoners might be used to later closings. Once the shutters come down and the cleaning begins inside, towns suddenly become shrouded in mourning for all the gusto goes out of them like a balloon that has been suddenly pierced. Apart from the suddenness with which evening descended upon Padstow in this manner, I was also conscious of the fact that last bus out to Newquay was scheduled to leave at 6. 35 pm from the harbor. Not wanting to miss it, I made my way back towards Rick Stein’s Fish and Chips Restaurant and finding that it was almost as casual as a fast food place, I made an exception to my rule and decided to dine alone.

The Stein Empire:
As soon as our bus had disgorged its passengers on to the quayside at Padstow, the presence of Rick Stein was everywhere. Rick Stein’s Fish and Chips is on the harbor front and you cannot miss it despite its very modest exterior. Since it only opened at 5 pm, I resolved to return there and have my dinner inside.

When I did get there, I foudn that the restaurant had opened fifteen minutes earlier at 5 pm and already had a few early diners seated within. Done entirely in white subway tile (as it is known in New York) with occasional touches of navy blue as in the fish tiles that march around the restaurant, the interior is simplicity at its most classy.

I settled myself down at a wooden bench and awaited a waitress who brought me a menu. I had decided to have what everyone else was having—the Winter Special Cod and Chips with bread and butter and a pot of tea—I chose peppermint—all for 6. 40 pounds. Nothing could have been more welcome for Padstow had been an overall chilly experience for me and my insides craved the warmth of good food and drink.

They were not disappointed. When my meal arrived, in a thick paper container, I found a fillet of cod superbly fried in the lightest, crispest batter I had ever seen or tasted. It simply melted in my mouth. Indeed, it was so good that I did not even need to request tartar sauce. My chips, however, were sorely disappointing. I had, quite obviously, been given the last scraping from a batch for I received nothing but a handful of tiny fried crispy bits and but for three or four real chips, i.e. chewy meaty larger fries, the chips were a disaster.

I debated whether or not I should point this out to the waitress and then, being accustomed to American ways, I could not resist it, and showed them to her. She shrugged and appeared unable to deal with my complaint. The fish was hearty, however, and the few chips that I had eaten, had filled me up.

Then I saw her approach the chef and have a word with him and, a few minutes later, she returned to my table to say, “Chef would like to know if you’d like another small portion of chips”. I thanked her for the offer but declined as I was already too full and there was still my steaming tea to be drunk. In the end, I was grateful that though she did not apologize to me for what was obviously a huge culinary faux-pas, especially in a restaurant of such an acclaimed celebrity chef, she did at least try to address my complaint and make amends.

I did board the 6. 35 pm bus and was the sole passenger in it for almost the entire ride. When we arrived at Watergate Bay, another part of Cornwall associated with a TV celebrity chef—Jamie Oliver’s Fifteen Cornwall is located here--I looked everywhere for it but saw no signs. When I asked the driver if he had an idea where it might be, he responded with the kind of candor that is characteristic only of the English.

“Would you happen to know where Jamie Oliver’s restaurant is?”
“’Fraid not. Not the kind of place I could afford”.

So, while I was still mulling over his answer, the bus swung upwards along the cliffs and in just a little while deposited me at the Newquay bus stop. When I finally did find a strong enough signal, I had made telephonic contact with Alice of NYU who informed me that our student coaches had arrived there at 4 pm, leaving them with ample time to explore Towan Beach.

We made plans to meet at St. Christopher’s Inn and when I did get there at 8pm she arrived soon enough and led me down to The New Harbor Restaurant located at the water’s edge. There, I joined more colleagues, David Crout and Valerie Wells, who had just ordered a bottle of wine and were nibbling on some bread. They did ask me to order as well but I was still stuffed with my own dinner and decided to sip on a glass of white Bordeaux instead and then join them for dessert.

I wished I hadn’t eaten already when I saw their offerings which were simply enormous and superbly presented. Over fresh seafood (cod and plaice and crab for starters), they had a lovely meal while I looked on. When it came time for dessert, however, I caved in. It was close to 10 pm anyway and I had eaten at 5, so I was ready for some ‘pudding’. I chose a creamy dreamy Irish Coffee Crème Brulee which was exceptional—the brown sugar crust concealing a scrumptious custard that was delicately flavored with Irish whisky. I have to say that I have never tasted so novel a creme brulee and I thought so much of Chriselle as crème brulee is her favorite dessert!

When I did make my way up the hill to St. Christopher’s Inn to retrieve my bag, I was ready to wind down for the day. I checked in with the rest of the group at Sunnyside Hotel which overlooked the beach—though, sadly, I no longer had the stunning view of the last couple of days. My room was freezing and it was only after I fiddled around with the controls on the radiator that it started to feel better.

On a last literary note I wrote this blog and fell asleep after midnight, mindful of the fact that we had decided to meet at Pistachio Restaurant located on the ground floor of the hotel for a full English breakfast at 8. 15 am.