It has been a family day, and a family tree day. DW determined that a line of her dad's family hailed from Cornwall, or Kernow, England's most south-westerly county, so we decided to head down there to see some old family haunts. We took DW's dad and stepmum for the day out, too.
Cornwall is where I spent a lot of childhood holidays. Being an extremity in England, the place always seemed a bit remote, and because it sticks out into the Atlantic Ocean, it always seemed windswept. We have been back in recent years, but I haven't driven beyond Liskeard and Looe for nigh on thirty years, so the first thing I noticed was some vast improvements to the road system. It was a bit squirrelly for the first twenty miles, up hill and down dale, but once on the main A30, it was all plain sailing. That said, this was a Tuesday in March, not a summer Saturday, so we were seeing traffic at its lightest, thank goodness. Speed enforcement is a serious business in Cornwall, because the accident statistics were horrible, so we kept our speed down, not wishing to get caught by the myriad fixed cameras and the mile-upon-mile of average speed cameras. Not that it mattered, we were in no rush.
We were heading to Truro, Cornwall's largest city, its only city, and its administrative capital. But first we were stopping short of our destination, at the village of Tresillian, conveniently on the road to Truro. There was a house there listed in one of DW's census records and we knew it was still standing from looking at Google StreetView. It had been a smithy, a blacksmith's shop, and was marked on the 1892 historic map. Well, we drove past the house, but couldn't stop thanks to the busy road, but we'd seen it, which was the aim. About half a mile further on we did stop, only this time to visit Marys Pastys (sic), a purveyor of locally made Cornish Pasties. If you've never had a Cornish Pasty then I can genuinely say that you've missed a treat. It's a melange of potato, Swede (Rutabaga), onion, and a little meat (usually beef skirt), seasoned with ground black pepper and wrapped up in pastry. In my view it's best served hot, but it doesn't have to be, and can be eaten from the hands. There are many variations on the theme, but a good traditional pasty is very hard to beat, even though it tends to be flaky pastry and not shortcrust these days, and they put far too much meat in. I say that because the original pasties were supposed to be meals for working men, who would wrap the newly baked pasty in a cloth, pop it into their shirt and keep it there until it was time to eat; at the tin mine, or in the fields, wherever. Meat was expensive so there was usually very little in the pasty, but I suppose modern times require modern solutions. That may be an apocryphal tale, but it sounds plausible to me.
Anyway, Mary came good with the traditional pasties, but had no vegan offerings left in the oven. That was a triple shame because one, they didn't normally sell out of vegan pasties, two, there was nothing for DW, and three, these vegan pasties were the best, apparently, because they weren't gussied up in any way, just a regular pasty without the meat. No peas, no sweetcorn, no curry powder, just the original ingredients. Mary (it wasn't really Mary, just the woman working in the shop) suggested we drive up to their production facility in Grampound Road, about ten minutes away, because they were sure to have vegan pasties. She was right, because a quick ten minute diversion (past the aforementioned smithy again) to a little industrial estate, and DW came out of Mary's workshop armed with a couple of vegan pasties. We devoured them in the car, there and then, and they were very, very good.
Then it was on to Truro (past the smithy for a third time), which is an 'andsome town indeed, with a fabulous little cathedral right in the centre of the city. We parked up and had a wander around. Leaving the folks to finish their coffee in Waterstone's book shop, DW and I legged it up to Andrew Place, a short walk away, to look a a house once occupied by her 3 x great grandmother. The census of 1911 had listed the house as number eight, but there wasn't a number eight. We put our detective hats on and decided that number seven was actually numbers seven and eight knocked together. The houses had once been a part of the Truro Union Workhouse and were very small, all in a terrace, so I can well see how two could have been made into one, especially as number eight had been on the end of the terrace. Whether we were right or not didn't matter because we were there treading on the streets of DW's direct relations.
Truro is a lovely little city, and we decided that if we were ever forced to return to England we'd like it there, not least because some of the houses looked to be affordable. That's often the case in extremities. We're not planning on fleeing Canada, but you can never be certain of these things.
Before heading home, we went for a drive to Old Kea, another place mentioned in the Census. The drive, just a mile or two south of Truro, took us through some tiny, tiny lanes, all worthy of Devon. We were unfortunate enough to have to pass Kea School at kicking-out time, and those tiny lanes were lined with the parked cars of parents picking their kids up. If ever there was a case for a school bus, this was it, because the roads were all but impassable. Old Kea was a collection of ramshackle farm buildings and an old church tower, not particularly exciting in itself, but exciting to think of the rellies living right there in times past.
We had to negotiate the school again on the way back, with open car doors blocking the lane, people walking in front of our moving car, and a massive dump truck insisting on coming up the narrow lane when there were cars coming down it. I had to effectively park in the muddy bank to let that bugger by. Thankfully, the rest of the run back to Plymouth was uneventful. The weather had been dull and overcast all day in Cornwall, and had moved to low cloud and drizzle by the time we were on the road, but as we approached Saltash, the Tamar Bridge, and Devon, the clouds melted away and the sun shone beautifully. DW's stepmum had predicted exactly that, too.
So nice was the evening that after we'd dropped the folks home, we decided to head for Ashburton by going across Dartmoor. The view from atop the moors was just stunning, and although the navigation system took us along some narrow lanes, even by Devon standards, some steep hills and even a ford, the run was lovely. Lots of sheep and semi-wild ponies all over the place, including in the road, and very few other vehicles. Dartmoor is a beautiful place, especially when the sun shines, and we were feeling very content as we came down off the heights to our little cottage.
That had been a lovely day in the extreme south west. This may be a small country, but there's so much to see, and we are very lucky to be able to explore, even just small parts of it.
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