Cornwall, it’s like England but different, and then there’s Wales
Dateline Abbeytown, England.
Monday 16th June, 2025
Series 2 Instalment 3.
The beautiful country lanes of Cornwall.
It’s good to be moving again. There is something about being on the road that just seems right to us. Perhaps that’s what human beings are meant to do, travel. I’m sure evolution didn’t intend for us to lead sedentary lives, stuck in the same spot, doing the same things day in day out. As a hunter, gather species we are meant to spend our days seeking our next meal, looking for a place to sleep, discovering the world around us. The concept of living in the same place for years and years is anthropologically very new so being moto nomads has taken us back to our ancestral roots.
Leaving our temporary home in beautiful leafy Surrey we head west into a wall of water falling from the sky. The names of the towns we pass through seem oddly appropriate. Puddleton is a ton of puddles, Swanage is suitable only for swans and as for Poole, well you get the picture. A solid day of boating/riding sees us arrive in the quaint village of Redruth in the west of Cornwall. Along the way there are glimpses of the landscape through the gloom and what we do manage to see is gorgeous.
Glimpses of Cornwall through the gloom
Rolling green hills dotted with slightly sodden and bedraggled sheep standing in fields divided by miles of hedgerows. It is postcard pretty. The further west we go the more the countryside opens up. The tall forests we found in the east have receded to reveal verdant pastures and the rows of red brick houses have given way to stone cottages in tiny nameless villages.
Our accommodation for the next two nights is another super comfortable cottage perched on a windswept hilltop with a stunning view across the valley to a ruined castle. We dump our gear inside and head into town for supplies but I stuff up and lose my footing in loose gravel in the drive and the bike topples over with Sally landing on her bum on a strategically placed rock. Result, Sally nasty bruise but otherwise fine, Rex dog house, bike not a scratch. Our host who also happens to be a biker and a paramedic sees the whole thing and immediately comes to her aid. She provides ice packs, hot water bottles and offers pain killers. I, quite deservedly get no sympathy at all.
The relentless meteorological onslaught continues unabated the next day so we grit our teeth and battle our way to Land’s End, the western most point in Cornwall.
The last place in the UK, or the first?
It’s a proper tourist trap of course but we see it as some kind of rite of passage. We’ve come this far so we are damn well going to get the photo in front of the sign.
Taking our host’s advice we miss some of the other tourist spots and make our way to the ancient north Cornwall coastal town of St Ives. We get lunch and a pint of ale in a 712 year old waterfront pub. The place has feel and character like few other places we have ever been. The flagstone floor is worn away, the ceiling is so low I almost hit my head, the timber beams are smokey and etched with initials carved through the centuries. As I contemplate my pint, ghosts whisper from the walls telling tales of the high seas, of storms and pirates, battles won and lost, of wenches and rum and duels to the death and fearful encounters with monsters of the deep.
A pint of ale in a 712 yo waterfront pub. It doesn’t get much more authentic.
Snapping back to reality we plunge once again into the deluge and make our way to the very famous tiny village of Port Isaac. Not ringing any bells? What about Portwenn? Doc Martin? Ten seasons of the classic BBC show were shot here and all the buildings used in the show are still there, most of them still in use today as private homes, holiday rentals or other businesses.
From here we had wanted to go to Tintagel, the castle and fortress said to be the inspiration behind the legend of King Arthur, first written about by Geoffrey of Monmouth in the 12th century and later expanded on by Sir Thomas Malory. How much is truth and how much is fiction is still debated today by much brighter minds than ours. Sally and I decide, however to let the legend rest today as the weather is just too vile and Sally’s bruised bum too uncomfortable so we make our way through the gloom back to our tiny, windswept and toasty warm cottage, this time without falling over!
Some of you may know that Sally’s paternal seventh great grand father was Phillip Gidley King, third governor of the colony of New South Wales and first Commandant of Norfolk Island. He was born in 1758 in the Cornish town of Launceston (pronounced Lonston, I told you Cornwall was different.) As we explore the streets, diving for cover from the pissing rain we ask a local man if he knows where 5 Southgate St is?
The 3rd Governor of NSW, Phillip Gidley King was born just beyond this arch.
He points to a building across the street and proceeds, without prompting to tell us the story of how a famous naval lieutenant was born there and later went on to great things in Australia! When Sally informs him of her connection to King we are all quite surprised at the serendipity of the rain bringing us together in that moment in a tiny shop in Cornwall. He then escorts us to the local museum which we would never have found without him as it is in temporary premises while the main building undergoes renovation. Sometimes fate can intervene in the most positive way. In the museum Sally finds several references to her ancestor including a small book outlining his life story. It confirms much of the other research we have done on the man and reiterates his non conformity for the time in that he was a humanitarian and a conservationist, not traits one would expect of a colonial governor in 1800. The whole experience is quite uplifting for Sally and takes her mind off the pain in her bum and the lousy weather.
From here we head for Wales where we are assured it will definitely rain even heavier than Cornwall, but you guessed it, the moment we cross the Severn the sun comes out and all is right with the universe again. I haven’t set many specific goals for this trip but one has been to visit Tintern Abbey and for the somewhat selfish reason that perhaps my best and longest suffering friend Keitha, has a farm in NSW called Tintern and I needed to send her a photo of the inspiration for her property’s name. The Abbey itself is a total ruin now but what is left indicates that there would have been a magnificent structure here once.
All that is left of what was once the magnificent Tintern Abbey.
Navigating your way around Wales is complicated by the totally impenetrable Welsh language. Most of the road signs have both English and Welsh place names but when they leave off the English version there is no hope of understanding where you are. It seems that all Welsh words are in competition with each other to use the most consonants without a vowel. I mean how the hell do you pronounce Cwmystwysth. I asked a local how to pronounce the word Cymru, the Welsh word for Wales. Any guesses? It’s cum-ree! I gave up ever trying to speak another Welsh word again.
From Tintern we follow the beautiful Wye River valley into the heart of Wales. At first the countryside is almost featureless but soon we climb into the hills and everything takes on a much more pleasing appearance. The hills are alive, the sun is shining, the world is a wonderful place to be then, swoosh, biblical rainfall! Torrents of water flood the road, visibility is almost zero and an old guy determinedly sets about building a boat and compiling a list of animals. Then no sooner had it started than it ended again and we sloshed our way into our next Airbnb at Abberystwyth for the night.
Welsh traffic jam.
The next morning Sally decides to put her feet up while I go exploring. With a few pointers from our host I find the dam where the movie Dambusters was shot. Spoiler alert, they didn’t really bust it! Then I find the Devils Bridge where legend has it an old woman tricked the Devil into building a bridge for her cow though she did sacrifice her dog in the process. There is a beautiful waterfall just below it though to see it one must pay, just like everything else. They make up new and better ways to separate us from our money all the time. Later in the day I pick Sally up and we go into town for fish and chips and a poke around another ruined castle, this one was free!
Sally’s maternal ancestors are from the Scottish border regions. There are legends of them being raiders, there is even a family castle in there somewhere so that is where we are off to next. The weather forecast looks much more promising but this is Great Britain after all.
