Thursday 11 September 2014

Staycation vs. Vacation- The Cornish Chapter...



A few weeks ago, in between extracting my head from a stranger’s (rather pungent) armpit and desperately trying to control my overwhelming urge to stare creepily at the fellow commuter applying her mascara (I failed...), I busied myself with a little quiz in Stylist magazine. Yes, as everyone else was listening to snippets of Bach or the Beach boys on their Desert Island Discs podcast (ok, that was me too) or looking at pictures of Nikki Minaj’s gigantic assets on the Daily Mail app, I was about to, finally, find the answer to the BIG one.

Staycation or Vacation; that really is the question...




Now, I know what you are thinking, how could I even consider finding the answer to this age-old quandary on a twenty minute, sweat ridden journey on the Northern line? Well, as it turns out, I am the British Tourism board’s target audience absolutely personified. Yes, my fate was decided after the first line of the 4th question- ‘do you own any of the following- Your mum’s cardigan...’ Bingo. I not only own my mum’s cardigan, but my Granny’s, my Granny’s Granny’s and, due to my slightly crippling charity shop addiction, many other Granny’s cardigans in between. So, the UK it was. And I for one was very happy about that.




Yup, avoiding traipsing to Magaluf with a bag of knitting and phone full of Radio 4 podcasts, Mr R and I instead opted for a nine hour drive, in the pouring rain to (as the weather forecast gleefully informed me in the days leading up to our big adventure), a very wet and windy Cornwall. Stopping midway for a brief all-you-can-eat breakfast buffet (well, as brief as unlimited pancakes, bacon, cheesey ommelete triangles and the all-consuming excitement of your own personal table-top toaster can be) at Brody’s in Exeter; we pulled into the field at the back of the Eden project that was to become our home for the next week; tired, full and, if only for the small obstacle of putting up the tent, desperate to crawl into bed.




The campsite, nestled in a small field surrounded by woodland only a few minutes’ walk from the plastic honeycomb structures that house the incredible Eden project, was, despite the slightly stressful hot and cold shower situation, completely perfect. Pale lilac and blue hydrangeas cascading in frothy prongs from the hedgerow enclosed picnic area, we were surrounded by a tangled forest ripe to satisfy the firewood collecting instincts of my action man and, perhaps more importantly, within walking distance of a fridge to chill this city girl’s bottle of Marlborough Sauvignon Blanc.

Priorities settled, tent erected, barbeque assembled and airbed inflated, we crawled into bed at 9pm and settled in for a night that, thanks to the invisible hole in said airbed, would end in waking up at 4am lying directly on the very hard, lumpy field. Things could only get better...


And, thanks in part to a smear of superglue and a slightly disproportionate amount Gaffer tape (what else?) things certainly were looking up. After a campsite-classic brekkie of slightly charred bacon and neon yolked fried eggs edged with a lattice of golden brown crispy bits, we set off to explore the beautiful, rugged coastline which dragged this staycation-er the 9 hours from London in the first place.


From the incredible, rocky cliffs and crystal blue waters of Kynance cove, where flamingo pink blooms bordered the pebble strewn beach and cream teas flew in droves from the clifftop cafe, to the never-ending sandy stretches of surfers paradise Gwithians; Cornwall blew my flip-flops off. Falling in love with the fortress like whitewashed port village of Charlestown, where cider on the sea wall is pretty much a legal obligation, slurping clotted cream ice cream and playing Frisbee until we were blinded by the West Country sun; the amazing views, incredible atmosphere and lovely people made this corner of the UK my new number one. Add crisp, peppery, piping hot pasties a-plenty, scones dripping with strawberry jam and gold-topped clotted cream (the Cornish way, of course...), 
incredible piri-piri mackerel tacos from the famous (and hence ironically named) Hidden Hut nestled on the cliffs of Porthcurnick, and the food was the icing on the Cornish sticky cake.



And not one to leave the eating to the confines of spotty table clothed cafes and fancy fish restaurants, the gourmet fayre continued to the campsite. In between smoking our fellow campers out of their tents, and collecting twigs to build fires prime for marshmallow roasting and warming of icy toes; plastic plates were adorned with paprika and garlic rubbed steak, salmon with lime spiked charred corn salsa and chilli flecked, smoky sweet potatoes and parcels of chicken with white wine, wild mushrooms and cream, cooked in the coals with charred asparagus spears and smashed potatoes. A last-night foray to the olive tree packed Mediteranean Biome in the Eden Project, sipping rose and gorging on Cornish crumbly cheese, Eden foccacia and hunks of chorizo, great bowls of paella and creamy twists of crab and broad bean fettucini; if you are hungry for wicked, fresh, exciting food, Cornwall is the only way to go...




‘Ansome. Take me back...


Ps. Apologies for the crappy quality of my photos- Since my camera charger went walkabout my iphone and instagram has had to do...

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