Guess Where I am today?

 RHYS BOWEN: When you are reading this I am on a train, heading out of London for one of my very favorite places: CORNWALL!

If you're not sure where Cornwall is--it's the far western tip of England, sticking out into the Atlantic Ocean. It's one of the last remaining vestiges of Celtic Britain with its own language (now almost lost but a sister language to Welsh). It has a colorful history of smugglers and wreckers (Du Maurier's Frenchman's Creek) and a mild climate that allows sub tropical plants to grow. It also provides all the daffodils for Britain in early spring. It's lovely to drive past field after field of them.

Driving in Cornwall is not for the faint-hearted: the lines are just wide enough for one car and very winding      

Anyone who has seen Doc Martin knows what a Cornish village looks like. And how Cornish people speak with that lovely slow burr to their sound. And the temperament to go with it. I was once hurrying to catch a ferry when an old man looked up from where he was sitting on the quay. "You don't need to rush, my lovey," he said. "He's still having his dinner."  Everyone is called 'my love' or my lovey. So nice.

TTomorrow I'll talk about the food. Yum.

We stay with my sister-in-law at her lovely fourteenth century manor house (complete with haunted room).  I always loved the relaxed way the family spoke about this. "Will you take these sheets up to the haunted room, please."   The ghost is a young woman and doesn't bother the family. But she once ripped the bedclothes off the bed of a girlfriend one of the sons had brought to stay. Clearly she thought she was the wrong choice for him (he didn't marry her).  I've never encountered her personally but that room is always icy cold.

The manor has been in BIL Tony's family since it was built. They are the Vyvyans--a noble family who used to own much of that part of Cornwall. Now Tony's cousin Ferrers (Sir Ferrers!) still owns the stately home, Trelowarren, and Tony got Merthen Manor. Not too bad.

The manor has around three hundred acres of fields and woodlands going down to the Helston River (right opposite Frenchman's Creek) and we can dig for mussels to barbecue and in the springtime the woods are full of bluebells.  It's magical.  We've taken all our grandkids to stay there and for the first time in their lives they could play outdoors in the woods, only coming home when they are hungry--just like I used to as a child. 

I'll be enjoying myself in the little fishing villages, looking at local crafts, sketching of course. A whole week of being away from the world.  So I won't be chiming in much next week. But I'll be thinking of you.