Lost Gardens not lost shock

July 13, 2010

tags: Eden Project, Ex Pats Golf, Living In France, Lost gardens of Heligan, Moving To France

It seemed a good idea at the time. After the football, and several nightcaps we retired to bed. But then Rupert “Toad” Scott discovered we had a balcony, and some quite decent Pomerol, (he heard us uncork from his room just above) and he gate-crashed with the delectable Sophie and proceeded to help me demolish a magnum whilst waking up most of the village.

Apparently this impromptu gathering ended with me going to sleep mid sentence, so, jaded and weary now that the Scotts and the Warners have left The Slipway Hotel, we had a recovery day ahead.

That nice lady garden designer is particularly jaded, actually initially refusing to accompany me, but relenting, on our last night out in Port Isaac before we head off for the Eden Project and the lost Gardens of Heligan this morning.

Rather grumpily, I tell her that If the Gardens are lost then we won’t find them, and if we find them they are not lost. The Eden project however sounds a lot more up my street, I imagine to be some kind of vast sexual experiment.

Adam and Eve in a tropical garden environment? The forbidden fruit? should be interesting, however, once the garden designer (not the Eden Project garden designer) has put me straight on that one, I admit to losing some interest.

A drive down to Porth beach then to visit my uncle in Newquay does nothing for the hangover, even a Cornish cream tea fails fully to settle the stomach.

My uncle explains the difference between a Devonshire cream tea and a Cornish cream tea. Apparently it depends on whether you administer the cream first or the jam. I do not have the heart to tell him that you can turn one into the other simply by turning the scone upside down.

This is the self same uncle who 50 years ago bred pigeons in his loft, sold them on Clapham Junction market and then waited for them to fly home so that he could resell them in Balham the following week.

He was a keen fisherman and was also guilty of giving me, aged 5, and at that age fascinated by the idea of fishing, a stick with a piece of string on to dangle in our paddling pool.

Seemingly it kept me entertained for hours as he would pop back regularly to ask me if I had caught anything. It is almost certainly why now I consider fishing to be the most boring occupation known to man.

I had wondered why the beach car park at Port Isaac has been closed, and the reason is clear from my picture today. The high tides are particularly high at the moment meaning that the beach car park is submerged at high tide.

Beach car park at Port Isaac, closed due to high tide

It has so far rained on every single day I have been in England, that’s now over a week, and my summer clothing lays unused in the suitcase, whereas the winter attire that I wisely packed has been fully employed despite the remonstrations of heat waves, hose pipe band and the like from friends whom I am too kind to mention (but Moya and Simon will gaze uneasily at this statement).

Chris France

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