St Ives

Whatever the weather St Ives is one of our favourite places to visit. The old part of town is a jumble of narrow streets, it's crammed with art galleries, good places to eat and several lovely beaches. A red dot marks where we stayed, parking our car at the island car park, shown as the big red square on the map. In summer it's a nightmare to negotiate these streets and extremely difficult to find anywhere to park at all.

In mid-week November we were in luck, staying only moments from the slipway with access to the surf beach.

Out for a walk before breakfast

to the far end of the beach.

The weather can change very quickly.

I scurried back past the Tate, the ugliest building on the seafront (which is saying something because indiscriminate building has sprung up all over St Ives). It's on the extreme left of the photo looking like an abandoned pill box.

I was soaked by the time I got back to the apartment. And look at the front door - sand gets everywhere!

But our accommodation was warm and comfortable, a good place to be as we listened to rain battering the windows and the surf roaring on the beach!

 A few surfers were out on the small headland beaches.

The tide comes right in to the harbour, rushing up the slipways, hitting the walls and splashing any unsuspecting passersby.

But when the tide is out you can walk dry foot right across the harbour mouth.

Can you spot this little window in the photo above? There must be times when it is completely under water!

There are plenty of interesting corners

and properties reaching skyward in search of a view.

The lifeboat station was open down by the harbour and the crew were practising their drill.

The lifeboat looks a big sturdy craft when seen stored in the boathouse

But a photo of the boat at work demonstrated it's frailty when set against the power of the sea.

 Information boards on the walls of the boathouse listed the many call-outs, not all with a happy outcome. How brave the lifeboat crew must be.

I prefer to keep my feet on solid ground in rough weather,

especially if it leads me to Porthminster Beach Cafe

for coffee and cake

or a Cornish cream tea!

Zennor

When we are in Cornwall we usually fit in a visit to the small village of Zennor, along the coastal road from St Ives. It's a lovely drive, with the Atlantic ocean to one side pounding the rugged, harsh coastline. D.H. Lawrence wrote 'Women in Love' while staying here. In the past we've had good food and convivial evenings with friends at the local pub, the 'Tinners Arms.'  The grand American abstract artist, Mark Rothko spent an evening here in 1959 together with like-minded friends from the Cornish art group. Rothko and his wife were in Cornwall for a total of three days and it sounds as though they had a great time, fitting in a meal at the Tinners, another at Gunnards Head, a bit of dancing and a lot of socialising. A good time was had by all! It always rather amazes us to think of Rothko in this small place.
On this occasion we were meeting friends for lunch at the Gunnards Head so we just stopped by briefly to look in the 12th century church of St. Senara.

The interior of the church is pleasingly simple

There are always fascinating histories to discover in old churches. What great praise for the character of yeoman John Quick who died in 1784 - hospitable, sociable, peaceable, humble, honest and devout, all of that before they even get round to mentioning his good manners!

But nowhere in Cornwall are we far from being reminded about the sea.

I like the way that the church roof resembles the structure of the hull of a boat.

The church of St. Senara is best known for the carving of Morveren the mermaid, the 'Mermaid of Zennor', depicted on a bench end that is 600 years old. The legend is that Morveren was enthralled by the singing of a handsome young villager called Matthew Trewalla. She would slip into the church to hear him sing the closing hymn then leave without being seen in time to catch the high tide. But one day Matthew caught a glimpse of her and fell instantly in love. He followed her, swimming out to sea to join her. They were never seen again.                      

Remember

Autumn

You can always tell what season of the year it is from the fruit that tops my bowl of breakfast porridge. Yesterday I finished picking autumn raspberries and took the net down from the fruit cage. Sadly, this morning at breakfast none of the food was home grown.

As ever, the gardening year has been a mixture of success and failure.

The leeks that looked so promising a short while ago have started to bolt. How annoying, I usually rely on them as a prolific and well-behaved crop.

The seed heads look rather pretty, but that's not the point!

I've picked some to put in the house.

The brassica bed is another hit and miss affair; sprouts only middling, lots of caterpillar damage on the primo cabbage and the red cabbage a disaster!

But there is a new crop of mange tout to enjoy while the mild weather continues.

The garden looks bedraggled and our main activity at the moment is leaf sweeping. There's colour to be found

but the flowers can be appreciated more easily when brought inside away from the wind.

Some of the auriculas are giving a second flush of flower.

It's jam-packed in the greenhouse

with seedlings and cuttings for next spring

and anything else that might benefit from a bit of cover.

My friend Molly lost her battle with leukaemia and last Friday I went to her funeral. She was a great gardener and we had many good times together, weekends away exploring gardens in differing parts of the country. We liked the same things and often shared a purchase, choosing plants that looked promising for division. We thought that we were being very economical but of course it was just an excuse to buy more than our conscience would otherwise allow! In typical character she planned her funeral in every detail. We were to wear bright colours and bring pink roses. I picked a bouquet from the garden because I know that she would have appreciated that the most, flowers whose names she would know, some that she would have remembered from our various jaunts. I added rosemary and rue. 

In each season of the year I have flowers in my garden that will remind me of Molly.

Her service ended with  a track of Frank Sinatra singing, 'fly me to the moon' so here is tonight's moon with pink roses for Molly 

and for Friday Skywatch.