Winter was finally over, the wild garlic had shot its load, and, although the car boot sale had been rained off, the sun was attempting to prise apart the clouds and just the right amount of refreshing breeze was tickling the infant bluebells in the hedgerows, so it seemed as good a time as any to set out on a long, exhausting walk. As I studied OS Explorer map 107 covering St Austell and Liskeard, something bothered me: one particular patch of land between the strangely soft and forgotten, strangely French-feeling, strangely charity shopless town of Lostwithiel and the sea. A segment I was yet to explore on foot. Rivers, lakes, remote farms. A thing that I was only slightly familiar with called The Giant’s Hedge. Another thing called Boggamill. A field the map said contained a ‘Hydraulic Ram’. So much intrigue. A big oversight on my part. Was it really more than seven months since we signed the tenancy agreement? Clearly I hadn't been on my game of late. Normally I’d be all over this shit within days of living in a place. Distracted by somewhere a few miles to the north called Death Corner, made all the more intriguing by its proximity to somewhere else called Hurtstocks Wood, I momentarily wavered, but then thought again of the hedge that probably reached all the way to the actual clouds, and of the ram. I had met lots of rams in the past and even stroked the chins of a few, but this particular breed was new to me. I wondered if it would turn out to be friendly.
Your description of this walk really evokes the atmosphere of a Cornwall most people will never see.
I remember once going for a fairly harmless bike ride near Bodmin Moor with a few mates. We stopped for a breather in a lay-by overlooked by a nondescript bungalow. Immediately a very angry man emerged from the garden where he must have been keeping watch, saying that we couldn’t stop there, f****** cyclists were always trouble with their littering and swearing. A most odd interlude.
West Looe River, southbound, stick to the West Bank past Sowden's Bridge, Watergate, Kilmanorth, Millpool, along West Looe Quay, arriving finally at The Jolly, an antidote to the Lanreath experience, circa 1516, has authenticated presences and our man Stokey will pour you whatever is thirst quenching. https://www.jollysailorlooe.co.uk/ghosts
I’ve always thought the village of Lostwithiel sounded romantic and ethereal and wistful. Strangely I’ve never been there. I also have a yearning to visit Nymet Rowland, which was so remote that in the 19th century it had no church and the people there had never heard of Christianity (I believe I found this startling fact in one of Ronald Hutton’s books).
Even urban cats have a secret life: they sneak out at night and go to underground cat pubs where they discuss the best poetic metre in which to express themselves, and whether or not to declare independence from humans.
Anxiously awaiting the arrival of my copy of Villager.
THE MYSTIC HEDGE: A PHOTO ESSAY ABOUT ANOTHER QUITE UNSETTLING CORNISH WALK
This was very therapeutic to a city Yank
Your description of this walk really evokes the atmosphere of a Cornwall most people will never see.
I remember once going for a fairly harmless bike ride near Bodmin Moor with a few mates. We stopped for a breather in a lay-by overlooked by a nondescript bungalow. Immediately a very angry man emerged from the garden where he must have been keeping watch, saying that we couldn’t stop there, f****** cyclists were always trouble with their littering and swearing. A most odd interlude.
Great photos Tom.
West Looe River, southbound, stick to the West Bank past Sowden's Bridge, Watergate, Kilmanorth, Millpool, along West Looe Quay, arriving finally at The Jolly, an antidote to the Lanreath experience, circa 1516, has authenticated presences and our man Stokey will pour you whatever is thirst quenching. https://www.jollysailorlooe.co.uk/ghosts
One of your best Tom. I’m sure someone rushes about putting these dead scarecrows and unsettling notices around before you set off.
God that pub!!!
I’ve always thought the village of Lostwithiel sounded romantic and ethereal and wistful. Strangely I’ve never been there. I also have a yearning to visit Nymet Rowland, which was so remote that in the 19th century it had no church and the people there had never heard of Christianity (I believe I found this startling fact in one of Ronald Hutton’s books).
Even urban cats have a secret life: they sneak out at night and go to underground cat pubs where they discuss the best poetic metre in which to express themselves, and whether or not to declare independence from humans.
Anxiously awaiting the arrival of my copy of Villager.
Oh my goodness! That sounded deeply unpleasant and rather scary!