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We're now back from Cornwall. Took about 2 and a half hours to get to Truro, through the huge, rolling landscape of mid Cornwall. Some of it is beautiful; some of it, thanks to the china clay industry, looks lunar. We had lunch in a pub specialising in crab, which I love but can't eat (the only thing that gives me migraine), booked into a B&B via the tourist board and then went to the handfasting venue, which was a rather stunning Victorian mansion built on ancient foundations, incorporating a de-consecrated chapel. Due to the de-consecration, the stained glass windows, which from the outside were obviously somewhat Wm Morris, were covered over, but the inside was lovely - fan vaulting and dozens of candles.
We did the handfasting, which went well. The groom's father, who is not pagan, was blown away by it and kept saying so, which was lovely ('the only time in years I've seen my son cry'. Usually the only time British males cry is at the football).
After this, T and I went to the B&B - a place called Resparveth Farm (origins in 1277, and meaning ' a little hill between 2 hills' in Cornish) - and then out to dinner at a pub in the hills above the Roseland peninsula. I had scallops and sea bream, for the foodies amongst you, and T had mackerel with rosemary and garlic. Excellent. It's called the King's Head, near Tregony, if anyone is down that way.
In the morning, after one of those vast B&B breakfasts, we drove home, via Tintagel and Boscastle. I don't know Cornwall well, so this was my first visit. Tintagel castle is a magnificent ruin on its island, with the caves below; a thundering Atlantic surf even in August. We went right through one of the sea caves, slipping and sliding on weed, and then sat above the sea, whereupon the cave was filled with the loudest sounds I have, probably, ever heard: the roar of a F1-11, very low and echoing through the rock. We saw it dip and flip over the sea and then it was off on its flight path.
Tintagel village is pretty tacky. A lot of New Age shops, but a lot less classy than Glastonbury (which is saying something, in certain cases). It's also got something called King Arthur's Halls, which we didn't visit, but which is some stained glass round table extravaganza. This looked like it might be fun, but we did not have time and went on to Boscastle and the Witchcraft Museum, which is run by friends of T's. Boscastle, as the Brits reading this will know, got pretty much flattened a couple of years ago by a flash flood plus mudslide, which tore houses apart and carried cars out into the harbour. Miraculously, no one died, but the Museum was wrecked. Its proprietor finally got accepted by the locals (who were not hostile, but not over-friendly either) because rather than concentrating on saving the Museum, he spent two days as a coastguard shoring up the cliffs.
But the Museum survived through hard work and donations from the pagan community and it is flourishing again. It has some very interesting exhibits, but also some rather murky ones: mice in wax and dolls with pins and that sort of thing. Modern Wicca is a lot less icky. Or so one hopes. One realises how much Gerald Gardner sanitised the whole thing. Our cunning folk ancestors had *no problem whatsoever* in laying hexes on people, sod the Threefold Return and all that.
We did the handfasting, which went well. The groom's father, who is not pagan, was blown away by it and kept saying so, which was lovely ('the only time in years I've seen my son cry'. Usually the only time British males cry is at the football).
After this, T and I went to the B&B - a place called Resparveth Farm (origins in 1277, and meaning ' a little hill between 2 hills' in Cornish) - and then out to dinner at a pub in the hills above the Roseland peninsula. I had scallops and sea bream, for the foodies amongst you, and T had mackerel with rosemary and garlic. Excellent. It's called the King's Head, near Tregony, if anyone is down that way.
In the morning, after one of those vast B&B breakfasts, we drove home, via Tintagel and Boscastle. I don't know Cornwall well, so this was my first visit. Tintagel castle is a magnificent ruin on its island, with the caves below; a thundering Atlantic surf even in August. We went right through one of the sea caves, slipping and sliding on weed, and then sat above the sea, whereupon the cave was filled with the loudest sounds I have, probably, ever heard: the roar of a F1-11, very low and echoing through the rock. We saw it dip and flip over the sea and then it was off on its flight path.
Tintagel village is pretty tacky. A lot of New Age shops, but a lot less classy than Glastonbury (which is saying something, in certain cases). It's also got something called King Arthur's Halls, which we didn't visit, but which is some stained glass round table extravaganza. This looked like it might be fun, but we did not have time and went on to Boscastle and the Witchcraft Museum, which is run by friends of T's. Boscastle, as the Brits reading this will know, got pretty much flattened a couple of years ago by a flash flood plus mudslide, which tore houses apart and carried cars out into the harbour. Miraculously, no one died, but the Museum was wrecked. Its proprietor finally got accepted by the locals (who were not hostile, but not over-friendly either) because rather than concentrating on saving the Museum, he spent two days as a coastguard shoring up the cliffs.
But the Museum survived through hard work and donations from the pagan community and it is flourishing again. It has some very interesting exhibits, but also some rather murky ones: mice in wax and dolls with pins and that sort of thing. Modern Wicca is a lot less icky. Or so one hopes. One realises how much Gerald Gardner sanitised the whole thing. Our cunning folk ancestors had *no problem whatsoever* in laying hexes on people, sod the Threefold Return and all that.
