The Cawsand Diaries

Some thoughts and reflections of a fabulous holiday in Cornwall. Scroll down to "Leuven, 4th of April" to read it in chronological order. Hope its fun to read.

Easter Sunday, 9th April To the Lighthouse

“Becky suggested that our holiday must be just like “To the Lighthouse.” Beatrice commented having just spoken to her over the phone on Easter Sunday.

In the background the kids are screaming “Over here! Over here!” as J. and Mattie kick a ball around the lawn and K.M. weaves in between them. L. is throwing Belle a munched up ganky ball, George is playing with a toy garage and R. is moofing somewhere in between.

Perhaps, if one were to come here sans enfants in November when the storms batter the village and howl around our roof top apartment; perhaps if one were escaping some nasty emotional trauma; perhaps if one were some renowned thespian preparing for a challenging play in the forthcoming season –then yes this would be the perfect place to contemplate Virginia Woolf's darkest feelings and frustrated sentiments.

Glancing around the place on a happy, bright Easter Sunday with the children all high on chocolate after a rather successful Easter egg hunt and us happily drinking shandy with Sally and David in the sun then, no, this place is far too innocent for the likes of Virginia Woolf. Definitely more “Five on a Treasure Island” than “To the Lighthouse”. Not that I have ever read a single book of Virginia Woolf. Its probably because I'm too scared of her. As David said, who is obviously brave and who has read her though “..we’re not exactly in the mood to reach for the nearest stones to stuff into our pockets.”

Easter Sunday is busy. We are not the only paying guests staying at The Woodlands. There are David, Sally, Sophie (11) and Mathew (8) who have rented the flat on the ground floor. Yes, yes, yes - the eight year old boy I was hoping for. I'm telling you everything was working out well. Gill also had her two little grandchildren for the week-end: George and Lilly, both the same age as K.M. and L. respectively.

The garden at The Woodlands slopes up in certain points. As well as freshly planted shrubs and bluebells there are a number of old established trees that grow up the slopes. From one of the branches of these old trees hangs a rope with a stick attached to it – fabulous to swing from. R. wandered his way up there so I followed just in case he got in the path of a swinging K.M. on the way up.

L., R. and I sat on the bench and watched K.M. swing back and forth. Below is just one of the great views over the bay. There is not a spot in this part of Cornwall, seemingly, which does not offer a view of the beautiful clear blue sea. Four year old Lilly came to sit next to us.

“Do you see that Lighthouse over there?” she asks me.

“Yes.” I answer.

In fact I spotted it on our first day here. It sits in the middle of the bay half-way between Cawsand and Plymouth.

“Well. I swam over there yesterday and back again” she told me not battering her eyelids and cool as a cucumber.

“Well done” I responded. “That must have been a lot of hard work. Did you know that I too swam out there only the other day and came across four mermaids on the way. Two of them had long blond hair that curled down their backs. One had red hair and the other dark black curly hair. Did you see them when you swam to the Lighthouse?”

“Yes” said Lilly. “I saw a mermaid and she had brown hair”.

“And was her fish tail made of silver or gold?”

“Oh silver.”

“Is she talking rubbish again?” George her older brother asked who had just wandered up from below. “You know you can’t swim to the Lighthouse Lilly.”

Lilly ignored him.

“Its my turn to go on the swing next.” L. wailed.

“OK then.” I say. “Come on K.M. give the others a go. Next L. Then Lilly and then George.”

“What Lilly before me?” George said looking incredulous.

“Yes” I replied. “She was here before you after all”.

Lilly still ignored her older brother and looked out to sea. Older brothers. “They’re all the same” I think. They have a real problem with younger sisters – especially if they seem to have a wild imagination.

In the end L. and Lilly, at four, are still too small to hoist themselves up on to the stick at the end of the rope and push themselves off. Next year perhaps. Next year, when Lilly manages to single handedly slay the sea monster that prowls the waters in front of the Lighthouse - then she’ll be able to swing on the rope together with L. and give her annoying older brother a run for his money. Perhaps Becky was right. There is a touch of “To the Lighthouse” about our holiday in Cornwall after all. But, in the nicest possible way.

Saturday, 7th April: Enid Blyton

Julian woke first the next morning. He woke just as the sun was slipping over the horizon in the east and filling the sky with gold…..
Dick woke and grinned at Julian. A feeling of happiness crept over him…
The sun was now shining brightly, though it was still low in the eastern sky. It felt warm already. The sky was so beautifully blue that Ann couldn’t help feeling it had been freshly washed! “ it looks just as if it had come back from the laundry,” she told the others. They squealed with laughter at her.

“What’s the matter with you? Don’t you like sleep K?” Bea asked me on our first morning in Cawsand having heard that I woke up at six in the morning.

Oh I love my sleep alright. It has been one of my biggest frustrations that for the past nine years I have been spent more hours awake in the middle of the night than I care for – but that view from our bedroom – I had to be up early to catch the sun in the eastern sky work its way into our blue room. The one with the view of the bay. I was awake before it was already light – went to the kitchen and made a pot of tea sat up in bed and stared out of the window.

It is so beautifully, wonderfully, sacredly quiet at that hour in the morning. The kids are all quiet. It is the only time of the day when my thoughts are still clear and not muddled from tiredness; when I feel fresh and rejuvenated and when I feel free from any form of responsibility or duty. That feeling of complete and utter calm is worth waking up for – in any case it was the first day of the holiday – who isn’t excited on their first day of the holidays?

My dawn, on our first morning in Cawsand, like Anne’s was freshly laundered - alright, alright, squeal with laughter if you must ... but that is just what it felt like.

Cawsand, Friday 6th April: Enid Blyton

“We must watch out for the sea,” said Dick. “I can smell it somewhere near!”
He was right. The car suddenly topped a hill – and there was the shining blue sea, calm and smooth in the evening sun. The three children gave a yell.
“There it is!”
“Isn’t it marvellous!”
“Oh, I want to bathe this very minute!”

Living a cliché can sometimes be great fun. I am just so in the mood for pretending that we are living The Famous Five – hell we even have a “Dick” on the back seat. I have been trying, spectacularly unsuccessfully, to get J. to read The Famous Five. I loved them as a kid. Not so J. … but then again when I read them out loud again I begin to understand why. The language is very, very, dated. Being a kid of the 70ies I’m beginning to realise that our generation was possibly the last to still be in some kind of tune with 1950’s Britain. Millennium kids just don’t get it any more.

In any case, forget all the ginger beer, awfully, marvellous, jolly gosh and Dick jokes. One of the main reasons, I think, that J. can not identify with the books is that he simply can not relate to a bunch of kids who are allowed to go off sailing for a whole week-end with a wave from a grown up and a simple “ … do be back in time for tea on Sunday children.”

Lucky Aunt Fanny, I think. I wish I could wave five kids off my hands for a whole week-end as easily as that. Being a woman of the 1950’s she doesn’t even need to worry that they’ll contact her by mobile phone. Once they’re off over the hill then that’s it for the next couple of days. I imagine what it must be like…

“OK Off you go then, J, K.M, L. R and friend. Rucksacks all packed I see. Jolly good - see you in a couple of days. Have fun. Bye.”

Think of the freedom – just think of all the possibilities. A whole week-end to do the things that I want to do …. but that is in the realms of fantasy… and I digress

We have been given a free CD “Five on a Treasure Island”, which L. likes to listen to on long car journeys. J.’s objections are over-ruled. We discover that G. is very, very good at doing an “Uncle Quentin” impression. He cocks his chin right back into his throat; raises his voice considerably; looks stern, and:

“You, Ann, give that treasure map here at once.” and

“What’s the matter with you children? Don’t you trust me?”

Although I read “Five on a Treasure Island” about 30 years ago I still, to this day, have some vivid memories of the book. One of the first is when Julian, Dick and Ann arrive in Cornwall seeing the sea of the first time and feeling very excited about it. Since then every time I first glimpse the sea – from where ever in the world it may be I get the “Treasure Island” kick out of it. As we drive along the west country leaving Stonehenge behind us and enter Somerset I suggest:

“A prize for the first person to spot the sea.”

“I’m not joining in because I always lose,” is K.M.’s response.

“Boring” says J.

L. looks out of the window.

For once, just for once though, on this Easter holidays, the weather is on my side allowing me to live my imagination. It’s a beautifully sunny day and when we do finally spot the sea over the crest of a hill it sparkles, shines and fulfils every damn cliché that you can imagine.

Upon seeing the sea for the first time Dick shouted:

“Oh I want to bathe this very minute”.

Upon seeing the sea for the first time J. announced.

“I want to catch a wave when we get there?”

The language changes but the desires, seemingly, not.


“I am NOT sleeping in this room”, J. announced when Clive showed us around the top floor after we had all fallen out of the C8 and clambered with bags and books and one toddler up the stairs. I was happy as Larry having already grabbed our room. A light blue room with the most amazing views over the bay. My cliché was just getting better and better. Every thing was going swimmingly.

Admittedly this particular children’s room was painted a very pretty lilac and had lace sheets on it. Just so not J.

K.M. and L. pushed past us.

“We want this room, we want this room”.

Luckily another “boys” room was available also painted blue and with beds covered in a sailing boat fabric. The sheets were still frilly but J., seemingly, was prepared to ignore that on this occasion and plonked his bag down.

By this time it was around 3.30 in the afternoon and we still had to unpack the car and get some food for supper. We’d been living off biscuits, chocolate and bread for the past three days.

Beatrice rang.

“Hi, there train is still on time. Are you still on for picking us up at 6.30 from Plymouth.”

“Sure, no problem. Looking forward to seeing you and George.”

6.30? I was so sure it would be 7.30 – this made timing tight. It takes roughly an hour to the station.

“G. - lets just go for a quick walk into Kingsand and get some stuff for supper because you need to pick Bea. up an hour earlier than I had thought and I need to be back to cook supper. Otherwise we won’t be eating until nine or so and the kids will get hungry”

“Sure.”

“Children, we’re going for a walk into the village but it’ll be difficult to go swimming because we have to be back on time to pick Aunty Bea and George up.”

K.M., as usual, is happy with whatever. R. is too small to care. J. and L. on the other hand have their own determined views of how the next hour should played out – and it does not involve a quick walk around Kingsand and a trip to the village shop.

“No, you promised I could catch a wave – I’m going swimming. You promised.” J. glares at us and defies us to change our agenda.

“ I want to go swimming. I want to go swimming. I want to go swimming. I want to go swimming.” L. wails incessantly.

“I know, I know, I know but we don’t want to keep George and Aunty Bea. waiting at the station. Sometimes plans change. Tomorrow we will go down to the beach I promise you. First thing tomorrow.”

The time by now is pushing 16:00 – there is just not enough time to get all the swimming gear sorted out, carry it to the beach get all four kids ready for a swim; give them enough time to get out again; dry, dressed – and go to the shop and get back again. In any case R. will probably start being difficult at some point because he is getting hungry and tired …and I don’t want to face it all on my own whilst G. goes to Plymouth.

“You liars! You promised us. I’m going to catch a wave. You promised! You promised!”

“I want to go swimming. Ahhhhh ahhhhh ahhhh. I want to go swimming.”

G. and I are tired and still have a lot to do. We’re not getting anywhere with J. and L. We have no parental authority.

“Try and be flexible. Plans sometimes, unexpectedly, have to change. Its getting late and there is just not enough time left. Tomorrow we go to the beach.”

But we just get more of the same anger from J. and L. who can’t control their disappointment. In the meantime R. decides to join in the swing of things and begins to wail and cry as well. The noise level in the flat is beginning to reach nasty, ugly proportions. It begins to work on our nerves. No tactic will work on these two kids. My happy cliché is crumbling around me.

G. gets seriously fed up. He has driven all day. In the end I just go with K.M. into Kingsand and to the shop. I enjoy the peace and harmony of having just K.M with me and the freedom to walk around the village at will. K.M. is so flexible and happy to come along. I, quite clearly get the pleasant deal.

G., on the other hand, is left at the top of the stairs trying to deal with a crying R. an outraged J. and a wailing L. We haven’t even been in the house for an hour and already we are shaking its beautiful old walls with dragon noise. Poor G. – and his impersonation of Uncle Quentin is so convincing - so authoritative.

Great Bedwyn, Thursday 5th April

Its very strange revisiting a place, which was once so familiar. The "cottage" in Bedwyn, for close on twenty years, was a fixed point of security and comfort. In the heart of Wiltshire is was a place where nothing nasty could possibly happen.

When situations became a little edgy at University or when incidents got dangerous abroad, then I would think of the woods, fields, villages and towns around Bedwyn and think of complete and utter safety. “Why am I allowing myself to have a beer glass smashed into my face in this unfamiliar town in France when I could just be at home in Bedwyn.” I once thought having come home with six stitches in my chin after a night out with friends in Pau. Or, “Why am I driving along this God forsaken road in Galicia at 1 in the morning with this loser of a boyfriend when I could just be at home in Bedwyn.”

Yet, at the same time, although Great Bedwyn was great as a place of recuperation – it was good for only a couple of weeks or so. Or so I thought as a teenager/eraly twenty something. Any longer and the quiet, cosy, comfort of the village felt suffocating and the need to be away and live life again took a hold. That year in France was one of the best years I’ve ever had and, OK, so the guy was a tosser but we still saw loads of sights and looking back it was a great experience given that we did drive off the beaten track all the time and saw bits of the Iberian peninsular that most tourists don’t. So, here I am back again. This time with four children. My life perspective has changed, of course, and the cosy security of the village seems appealing rather than suffocating.

We are spending a couple of nights in The Cross Keys pub on the corner of Farm Lane. It’s a perfect place to stop before we hit Cornwall and time we met up with some old friends. Having lived in The Middle all these years my senses are on high alert; sensitive to all that I once took so much for granted but haven’t experienced in years. Has England changed? What will be new? How will I feel?

Has England changed? Well Great Bedwyn hasn’t. Not physically anyway. No new housing developments, no new roads, no new trees planted. Same Post Office; same Spa Shop; same pubs with the same names … it has, if possible, got even posher though with some distinguished people having moved there, or so I hear, and a lot more families with young children making it their home …. or so I gather. Its picture postcard, pretty properties, perfect – if you can afford it of course. House prices are exclusive and I doubt we could afford living there. Oh yes, G. did note that a tree on the cross-roads in the middle of the Savernake forest had been cut down. That is quite a change.

Still, there are a number of differences between England and The Middle. Attitudes, customs, habits that I once considered so “normal” now seem oddly different:

Pets. Practically everyone we visit has at least one pet … from dogs to cats to gerbils to chickens to rabbits to birds … and I had so much anxiety about buying three goldfish.
Dr Kipling’s “French Fancies”: The children were offered these and they looked so enticing all covered in bright pink, green, orange and yellow icing. The kids all grabbed for one, took one bite and said (rather impolitely) “I don’t like those Mummy” – so to make up for their impoliteness I ate four “French Fancies”.
Carpets. The Middle, being rather Nordic/Germanic does not do carpets. I can honestly say I don’t know anyone who has a carpet apart from us (we have one room carpeted). Its not a snobby thing although to English readers, no doubt, this sounds very snobby. Its just that people don’t think of using carpets here. Instead they plump for underground heating/tiles/wooden floorboards etc. I am reminded though of how warm and comforting carpets can be. The combination of pet cats and carpets, though, is bad news for G. and his cat allergy. He begins popping Zyrtec like a first year undergraduate popping e-pills at a rave in Essex.
Crooked houses: Six years ago when we were renovating our first house in The Middle some young people had bought an old terraced house up the road from us. It had been renovated only two years before. The new couple, however, decided to knock all the plaster out and start again because the previous owners, when renovating, had not got the walls exactly straight. The plaster followed the angle of the old wall and was not an exact 90°. No such nonsense here. The floors in The Cross Keys were so crooked that K.M. and I thought we were still feeling dizzy from the ferry until we realised that the carpeted floor of the children’s bedroom was undulating.

When we drove into Marlborough to buy some food for a picnic the first things I bought were milk chocolate Hobnobs and Hot Cross Buns. Sod the healthy apples. Milk chocolate Hobnobs - the best thing ever with a nice steaming cup of tea after a day out with too many children.

Leuven Tuesday, 4th April

Strange time of year April. Yesterday, and most of the week-end we, in the middle, basked in glorious sunshine. Today it is overcast and freezing. Of course, the children and I are inappropriately dressed… – but we don’t care really because tomorrow we are off for a ten day holiday to “old Blighty”, of which one week in Cornwall. I’m drooling to see a National Trust Property. Filled with excitement at the thought of a cream tea. That’s what nearly six years away does to you.

Our holiday apartment is called “The Woodlands”. The on-line snapshots look gorgeous. Almost too nice for our grubby family. Very “Homes and Garden” with white arm chairs and very tasteful bedspreads. Our family has a reputation for being noisy and I wonder what kind of grubby state we will spill out of the car in upon arrival. When I rang the owner and tentatively told her that we would be coming with four children, plus sister and nephew, she responded:

“Oh well then this place is perfect for them. We have a games room downstairs, plenty of buckets and spades, it’s a ten minute walk to the beach and a lovely place for children”.

Although she was £100 more expensive than the other holiday places I had goggled I booked there and then.

The other day under the shower I was imagining who the groups in the ground floor apartment would be. In my fantasy world it would be another family with at least two boys J’s age so that J. would have someone to hang out with. But then again, I decided, it could so easily be one of those people who book a holiday to be away from children and later complain:

“Its not that I don’t like children. We just made a conscious decision NOT to have children. Is it too much to ask for a bit of piece and quiet on our holiday?”