Cornwall art and culture from genius loci

SEPTEMBER GLORIOUS SEPTEMBER

This is a story of my infatuation for a breed of hound known as a Greyhound, and of my love for early morning walks before the rest of population is awake and slurping at the first cup of tea or coffee for the day. We have had three greyhounds to date and have found them to be mischievous, playful, loving especially with children but definitely NOT cat or small furry animal friendly! Drawbacks are they can be stubborn at 05.30 am when they decide it’s time to be out there in the world, they love to stretch out on furniture (and beds) and have a madcap attitude at times when in a playful mood! Lucy our latest hound will tear around the house in a silly posture quite different from that when running for the sheer love of being a canine athlete.

So, just like her forebears Lucy will literally creep upstairs and then leap up on my side of the bed and start the process of getting me out of my warm haven of sleep. An arm waved vaguely at her from under the bedclothes is A. easily evaded and is B. immense fun causing her to tread on Margaret (dangerous, not a morning person) and to tug at the bedclothes. I have to give up now because now that she has infuriated long suffering Margaret it is safer to retire to the bathroom and perform the daily ablutions to a chorus of whinges because it is just not happening fast enough.

At last we get out the door and what a day! On this morning the air is fresh and soft, not even a breath of wind and the smells from the waking plant life in the garden is tremendous, attacking the senses in a succession of perfumed smells from the last of the carnations and pine trees and other unidentified twinges that tickle at the nose.

We walk up through a still sleeping estate, disturbing the cats that are sitting below the hedges waiting for the unwary bird; all is quiet except for Lucy straining at the lead hoping she can make a mad dash at the latest cat to appear. There is not a sound from the houses, the air is charged with the promise of a fine September morning and the farmyard smell of horse’s drifts on the air. In the distance the old cock pheasant is making his usual racket up in the distant woods, the peculiar hard sound echoing on the still air. Now we are in the fields but I dare not let Lucy off from the lead, the carnage among the young bunnies would be dreadful. Instead I let her out on the extended lead and she joyfully snuffles at the night’s events along the dew damp hedgerows.
Mist is laying in huge pools in the dips and furrows in the fields, young cabbage plants whose tops are appearing like triffid’s above the tendrils of mist. Lucy is happily snuffling still like a Hoover, but now I can smell the Honeysuckle layering the air, and what a perfume! The gorse is here too, that strange coconut smell faint but definite and as the first warmth hits the seedpods from the rising sun they POP! I can stand for minute because Lucy has found something very interesting from last night and I can look now out over St.Ives bay.

Breathtaking is the word! The water is like a sheet of molten gold as the rising sun hits the water, and the Carn Brea is backlit and stands out like nothing else in the world, ancient and timeless the old iron age fort up there backlit and standing out clear and defiant
to the world. Below the Pool/ Camborne area is shrouded in pearlescent gleaming mist. At last we move on and disturb the farmyard lurcher dogs in their kennels. A strong smell now of horses and warm air from the stable to my left, Lucy growling her warning at the fierce eyed Cockerel who is the undisputed boss hereabouts. Kittens are defiant to Lucy, bouncing on four stiff little legs and tail like a small bottle brush, spitting their courage at her. We move on now, the mother cat is about somewhere and I want no problems today. Peace at last as we stroll down the farm lane, the different shades of green are endless, and down on the road the stream that has never to my knowledge ever dried up chuckles it’s way down through Tregenna woods to the sea at Porthminster beach. Rabbits hop through thinning mist like the fabled Pixies of old. The metalled road is sunken here with hedges over six foot high, and at last we start on the homeward trek.

The sun is higher now, and the popping sound of the mackerel boats engines can be heard from over two miles away.
I have heard the men out at sea talking to each other from up here on such days, the air seems to carry sound perfectly somehow. Now we can see the specks out beyond the Island, drifting on the ebbing tide as they hunt the fish and carry on their calling, while we two walk home, refreshed and peaceful inside at the day, while the world around us is now awake and trucks and cars take folk to work leaving the stink of diesel and petrol fumes behind them.

It is still the most magnificent morning, and I have filled my head with the best that my country of Cornwall can provide for free, just for the sake of looking and breathing the clean air. How perfect is that?
Clies Stevens
Kernow Kensa

Back to Cornwall art and culture from genius loci