Mrs de Winter and her neighbour Jenny

September 10 2012

The wharf St Ives

Well I am totally useless as far as the Brits are concerned. Wandering the narrow, uneven streets of the beautiful village of St Ives feels like being in a postcard at every turn. My few hundred year old cottage is just off the Digey in the centre of the old Fishermans Quarter. The cottages are solid, weather beaten stone, with the sloping street worn down by the steps of generations of fisherman and the dragging of fishing nets.

Watching retired Brits attempting to drive their brand new, four wheel drives down a street narrower than their cars is a highly entertaining tourist pursuit. We all stand and watch and breathe in as the shiny metal scrapes with unforgiving stone. Why is it that men with tweed hats think they can somehow bring Land Rovers down streets made for fishing rovers? The great chats that occur in the street and the collected breath holding as the car gets stuck, with the irritable English man attempting to reverse a stuck car, with his nagging wife reminding him that she told him so, creates a sense of friendship that traverses country of birth. We all give directions, reassurance and collectively groan as the car gets wedged tighter and tighter.

 

The lovely retired Brits hear the Aussie accent and express rushed excitement that I am not American; and then it starts. You might know my sister’s second cousin Tim who lives in Toowoomba, you might know my Uncle Henry’s first wife’s daughter in law Cheryl – hmm where does Cheryl live – in Sydney do you know her? – My neighbour Jenny moved to Australia – I know it is a big country but I thought you might know her – she lives just outside Perth – No I am so sorry – I live in Bendigo, two hours north of Melbourne – OH WELL you will definitely know … Percy, what is cousin Emma’s, boyfriends, sisters, father in law called? – oh that is right – it’s Cyril.  I am sure you know him – he lives in Melbourne.

The very lovely, broad English accent from the crowd – oh we do love Australians – we know all about Australians – Neighbours is our favourite telly show – we never miss it – and the whole crowd starts the discussion of Neighbours – The dumb founded look on the faces of my great English hosts when they realise British Border Control have let someone into their country who is so uncultured she has never seen Neighbours or Home and Away has me slinking off past the glorious Porthmeor studio and cellar.

The studio and cellar is a couple of minutes from The Loft (my cottage) and dates back to the 1800s. It is a wonderful old stone building, with the cellars the workspaces of pilchard fisherman and the lofts the studios of wonderful artists, drawn to the light of St Ives.

I love standing on the massive beach walls looking out to the Celtic sea. The walk around the Island Head makes one convinced they can see mermaids, pirate ships and smugglers– the salty air and walk to the medieval Church of St Nicholas that stands on the hill high above the steep cliffs; a fantastic viewpoint down on the village.

All that sea air sure creates an appetite – have developed a penchant for custard, rhubarb and clotted cream ice cream – I wander back along the Cornish cliffs imagining blinding rain, high winds and  shipwrecks – back to my oh so fitting reading ‘”Last night I dreamt I went to Manderley again”

The wharf St Ives