So, I’m back from the annual autumn week in a holiday cottage in the wilds of Britain.
Cornwall this year, staying in an old watch house in Gorran Haven, which is almost as a quaint as Mousehole, but without the crowds and with a lovely beach. The cottage, recommended by a friend, was unlike anywhere else we’ve ever stayed before. The blurb said ‘Distance to beach: 0km; Parking: none for a car, one for a boat’. We don’t have a boat, so the boathouse under the flat went unused, but we did fully enjoy being somewhere where, if one were inclined, one could drop (not throw, drop) a stone into the sea out the window at high tide.
It wasn’t quite as restful as I’d planned, due to editorial deadlines and a delicate constitution. For the first half of the week I wrote in the morning and early afternoon while Beloved amused himself near, on or in the sea. After a late lunch I either joined him or else we both put on sturdy boots and set off over the hills and cliffs in search of scenery and country pubs.
I’d got through most of my work by Wednesday, and the plan was to take a couple of longer trips out on the last few days. However, a chill I’d caught while walking in the rain went to my tummy, meaning further activities had to be planned around easy access to a bathroom. (A Bronte heroine would have got brain fever; me, I get Pendragon’s Revenge). Still, we did have ringside seats for the storms at the end of the week, and got to watch them battering the coast from the comfort of our (temporary) living room.