As I’ve finally got around to writing my Travelogues, I thought I’d start with my trip to the tingly-fantastic area that is Tintagel. I was lucky with the weather – August can always be a lottery, even more so in Cornwall where the greenness of the lush vegetation is due to the frequent misting that arrives from brooding clouds, but I was blessed with warm sunshine and sunny days.
An eventful trip along the A30 (I should have known I was in trouble when I was the only car on a road normally over-burdened during the school holidays by over-heating cars and families) culminated in a village although seemingly seething with visitors, also somehow only sleepily aware of life – this was to be a real ‘switch off and relax’ type of break.
I was greeted at my lovely B&B (Pendrin Guest House) by a friendly smile and warm tips about where to eat and visit (including places which will give you a discount if you mention them) – the place was a pleasant surprise. I had booked a single room, and am used to being hoisted up into a small attic needing oxygen to survive the climb with my case. Not this time – I had a wonderful little room with a genuine sea view – I could watch the waves and clouds from my bed. Yes, I had read the few dodgy reviews on TripAdvisor before my visit, but I was looking for a B&B, not the 5 star hotel those reviewers seemed to be expecting for a B&B price (come on, be realistic peeps!). I had a clean bed, tidy room, my own bathroom, sea view, great breakfast (they ask for your food preferences the night before, which is fair being a small business – I chose haddock and poached egg, delicious, but the traditional fry up looked good too), friendly and personal service – what more could I possibly want?
I spent the evening taking a quiet stroll and absorbing the peace – after the city this was a welcome chance to kick back and hope my poetic muse would decide to revisit me. I was not to be disappointed. The general scenery was breathtaking, and promised much hope for inspiration. As a testament to how friendly the place makes people feel, I exchanged chatter with a couple who had just moved to the area from Leicester, and another on their holidays from up North – and it felt natural to talk without the encumbrance of GDPR and social media over your shoulder. We should connect more to humans on a conversational level away from technology.
Late into the evening, I could still pick out the silhouettes of people on the island, making me wonder whether these visages were truly visitors or the imprints of memory on the crystal recordings of quartz hidden below the bedrock – my muse’s imagination was working overtime for no more than the payment of space and beauty!
“What peace feels like/ Evening sun sits upon my shoulders; / Setting breeze whispers the pages of my notebook; / The ink of my pen dries on history. / My breath catches pauses in time; / Ears snatch at gulls’ cries and carried conversation. / Clouds mirror the tides, depths that no camera can capture, / But my eyes imprint them on my soul.“
I had previously visited the village some 10 years ago, without the opportunity to visit the castle or beach for which it was famed – tomorrow morning would be my chance. There’s actually a lot to see for such a tiny village – during my visit there was an art exhibition by the local Camel Art Society, and a plethora of pretty shops (shout out to the lovely ladies at Willow Moon– an eclectic shop which would be at home in Glastonbury – bought some lovely incense and had an illuminating chat!). A side note for visitors – the tourist information centre in the centre of the village does have public toilets, but you need 50p to spend a penny (however even here they take contactless!)
During my strolling, I came across the imposing facade of the Camelot Castle Hotel; allegedly owned by Scientologists (that’s not for me to confirm or deny), it does have a permanent art exhibition by Ted Stourton, which the traveller is free to explore. You’re also welcome to sit on their terrace and inhale the scents of time, history and mystery; they even have a round table (not as imposing as the one in King Arthur’s Halls – which I’ll describe further down).
“Sparkling mirror balls hang from terraced rails / Yet even these cannot distract the eye from the wind-swept foam/ Sharded slate, shimmer of reality / Paths built by the erosion of tumultuous winds and fragile footsteps / History stands stoically firm in our present”
The atmosphere was sophisticated, and almost olde worlde, whilst I sat on the terrace watching the setting sun over the new footbridge to Tintagel Castle installed by English Heritage, which was to be my morning destination. The most puzzling sight was not the brightly painted car out front, nor the heli-pad next to it, but the sight of a small, grassed labyrinth to the side. Unadvertised, just there – I had to wonder why? I’m sure there’s a story waiting to be born. The only feature spoiling the setting was the sound of the kitchens’ air conditioning – which can’t be helped and the view more than makes up for it!
Having imbibed both the refreshing air and a cheeky glass of fresh rosé on the terrace of the Camelot Castle Hotel, food was definitely in order to quiet the growls of my stomach. A tasty fare was offered by the family friendly Wootons Inn – even the solo traveller feels relaxed and finds a welcome upon entering, and part of the congenial fun and chatter emanating from the tables. I was delighted by the sight of two friendly chocolate labradors who exquisitely and perfectly nosed out any crumbs left by careless diners (or maybe they had been dropped on purpose!). There was a mix of young (everyone is by my standards these days!) card players, a large-ish family enjoying the last moments of the school holidays, and quiet couples enjoying the blush of an August sunset. I felt a gentle warmth and peace as I supped Kraken rum (got to be a bit of a pirate when in Cornwall!) and digested a tasty meal of cajun chicken while the day set about my soul (the heat of the cajun spice delightfully cooled by the homemade chunky coleslaw). I can thoroughly recommend this place, good value and tasty. My second night’s meal consisted of a ‘proper’ Cornish pasty from Pengenna Pasties, sat on a bench overlooking the sea and feeling the sunset cloak my shoulders – a perfect evening.
The bruised dusk of sunset heralded a night’s sleep, then off to face my fears in the morning – never good with heights, yet I was determined to brave the bridge then the climb down to the beach and Merlin’s Cave. Wow! All of these lived up to the promises I had made myself. The island itself had so much more to offer than I had anticipated (decent footwear is to be recommended, many of the paths are arduous at best) – various spots are interspersed with fact-boards for context, and the brutality of a truly stunning landscape are preserved in attempts to keep visitors to footpaths and off the precious fields of biodiversity (please heed the signs so we can preserve this site for future generations!). How on earth people built and lived here is to be wondered at!
“The wind was my cloak, hugged tight / Striding the hills / Bruised pink glow brushes purple clouds clouding Day’s end / Awaiting the moon / The skyline rests awhile on the silhouette of church and castle”
The story of Iseult and Tristam, of Uther Pendragon and Igraine, intermingle here with history and myth until it is impossible to determine which is fact and which fiction – my advice? Embrace the magic, the mystery, suspend belief and absorb the emotion, feeling, that this place offers.
Tintagel footbridge 
Tintagel footbridge at sunset 
Tintagel footbridge from belowe 
Tintagel footbridge approach 
Tintagel footbridge from the beach
“The silence grows louder as you move further onto the island away from the present and into the past / Today reawakens when you regain the footprint of the Great Hall at the gate’s edge / And the links to the present are reforged anew”
The climb down the steep ‘steps to Mordor’ (as described by the smiling English Heritage guide at the bridge) to the beach, and Merlin’s Cave, were a feat in bravery and determination, and rewarded with a sight not to be missed. Admittedly, I was unprepared for the end of the steps some 5 foot from the beach, requiring a scramble over large boulders not designed for elegance or those challenged in height – but so glad I slid my way to a corner of unspoiled nature. Unlike the increasingly despairing social media posts showing an avalanche of plastic detritus on beautiful beaches around the world, I spotted only a single piece of discarded rubbish, which had the look of being washed up from afar – it seemed visitors to this special corner of the world took their responsibility for nature seriously. I rested my fatigue-proclaiming legs in the proximity of a tinkling waterfall under the cliff edge (a surprise – didn’t expect that to be there!), then allowed myself an exploration of Merlin’s Cave. Despite the humans crawling and calling through the echoes of rock and stone, the undeniable sense of magic pervaded for those willing to hear it.
“A single strand of a spider web vibrates, calls to the wind’s tune / Calls to Merlin below / The roar and crash of the waves the backdrop to my presence, being / It’s a travesty to talk / Silence increases and the young’uns and dogs whine / Ears flatten / As the darkness of Gorlois, Mordred, Morgan le Fey, / And even the starred Merlin / Shine through
“Purple and grey speckle the currents / Shoals flow above, beneath / Underbelly of clouds mar the sun’s awakening”
The following morning, before I shook off the cloak of mystical history Arthur had wrapped around my shoulders, I decided a final visit to the village, and the bemusing King Arthur’s Halls, were in order. Bemusing, since on their website they appeared to be a wedding venue, which they are, but also so much more! Their stained glass windows rival anything I have ever seen (only St Vitus Cathedral in Prague can beat them, in my opinion). You would be excused from thinking the venue is a tacky attempt to cash in on the myth of King Arthur, but having had the privilege of a private tour by the Knight Seneschal ‘Roly’ Rotherham, I can assure you they’re anything but. The Order of the Fellowship of the Knights of the Round Table of King Arthur is actually a ‘thing’, and interestingly for a seemingly patriarchal society accepts women on equal standing. Somehow it felt wrong to photograph all the windows, as the special feature of the halls is the ‘wow!’ factor gained when you enter the Great Hall following the introductory talk by Robert Powell (yep, the actor – just a recording, but even so his voice is so…..you’ll understand, just go!). Definitely not to be missed.
My muse was dancing in ecstasy in here, and once she’s calmed down will ink her thoughts and emotions for you all to read.
My journey home was en route to Totnes – a place I was told to be akin to Glastonbury (which I love, especially the Chalice Well Gardens) but without the commercialism.
As I drove across the county from Tintagel to Totnes and through the woods, I felt a sense of timeless Magick (the old timeless kind, hence the spelling), with elves and pixies frolicking along the attempts of human-kind to push through their lands.
Apparently Tuesday’s in Totnes sees medieval markets – I arrived the wrong day for these, but did partake of a tasty (and perfectly cooked) jacket potato in the Hill House Coffee Shop on Fore Street – I could easily see myself as sitting here and writing away, a treasure to be valued amongst writers who often find themselves feeling like they stolen a space when sitting in the corner and scribbling (I did have a silent chuckle at the couple sitting next to me – upon visiting the gents’ facilities he rewarded his female companion with the comment “nice loo and handwashing facilities” – not sure why this made me laugh, maybe the eloquent Britishness of it, the impression they seemed to have that this was a provincial establishment along with their misplaced sense of wondered superiority?). I found it lovely that they had a bookcase supplying local papers, guides, colouring books – a pervading sense of suspended time and a genuine emphasis on the customer prevailed – nothing was too much trouble for the staff – a real gem!
“The book is my friend / I know there are kindles and such / Technology to carry the muse. / But the hug of scent, the warmth, / Ability to flick back and forth amongst the memories / The touch of words / Fills my heart and veins.”
Car parking in the centre of town can be found at a reasonable price (£2.50 for 3 hours) but I’d suggest out of town parking if staying longer.
Another gem was the local history museum – be aware, this is run by volunteers (who are lovely!) but I was almost locked in to become an artefact (an easy mistake!) as they closed earlier than advertised and forgot I was there (I like to take my time and absorb the exhibits) – get there early! It has an interesting history of Charles Babbage (the computer genius guy ) and Eric the Robot (never heard of him before Totnes, but this gave me disturbing dystopian thoughts inspired by Asimov’s ‘I, Robot‘ series – incredible to realise the depths of inventiveness our country has harboured).
I was also delighted to find Country Cheeses – I used to delight in visiting their branch in Tavistock when my father lived in nearby Gunnislake. Cheese calls to me in a way cake calls to others. That’s tea sorted for the next day or two!
Totnes is definitely to be revisited. Medieval markets, castle (a long walk up a steep hill; it seems to have a brooding presence, avuncular yet possessive), a quaint market town only slightly spoiled by the few chain brands sprinkling the main thoroughfare – a place to write – what’s not to like for a travelling poetic pixie and her muse?
Revisit me soon for my other travels………
Pixie Muse Poetry & Prose 