News from Nowhere

The wedding went very well, and smoothly, with only enough disorganisation to allow guests to feel that they were in on the joke: well, what would you expect...? The weather was kind to us, and the ceremony was held on the lawn without interruption by rain or the full glare of the sun; later it cleared enough for a very satisfactory sunset:



- but that was later. The bride looked beautiful, as did her best woman (I think that was the term used; the bride had a best man, too). Vows were exchanged, poems were read, tears were shed = and thereafter much food was eaten and much wine was drunk. I talked to people I had known for a long time, and people I had never met before, until the disco started and it was impossible to talk to anyone. If we had had our wits about us, we would have left at this point, but a change of plan over taxis meant that we stayed on for another hour or so - my only real regret!

( Wedding Day II )

( A surprise castle )

More driving today, and another unexpected lunch stop: we followed the National Trust signs to Kedleston Hall, which turned out to be an immense Adam mansion built for the Curzon family.

And home.

By the Friday of our week in Cornwall, we had ticked all the items on GirlBear's must-do list: walked the coastal path in both directions, visited the Lost Gardens of Heligan, taken a boat trip to Fowey. We had a number of possible excursions in mind, but none in which the attractiveness of the attraction quite outweighed the length of the drive. durham_rambler wanted to fit in a visit to a vineyard, and there was a small one very near where we were staying, but since no-one had a better plan, we decided instead to head for the Camel Valley - and at the last minute, looking at the map, I said that in that case, we might as well go to Lostwithiel, on the basis that the name sounded like something out of Tolkien, and there was a promising-looking castle. As itineraries go, it couldn't have been less planned, more thrown together at the last minute, or more satisfactory.



Restormel Castle - another magical, musical name - is a gem, a perfect ring of stone on a green hill, and we had it nearly to ourselves (there were never more than three cars in the car park, and one of them was ours and another was the custodian's). Once there must have been an outer bailey and a clutter of buildings stretching down the gentle slope towards the entrance, but all that survives is the circular keep. We made a circuit outside the walls, then another inside the shell of stone, which contains the internal walls but does not touch them: the masonry, despite its solidity, is not keyed in. Finally, some of us climbed the wooden staircase and made a third circuit of the battlements, with views out to the lush green countryside and in to the castle tucked neatly into itself like the spokes of a wheel.

We didn't have long in Lostwithiel, and it seemed to be undergoing improvements: my main impressions were of scaffolding and haste. There were pretty shops, and tempting cafés, and I hid in the former and bought birthday cards while the rest of ther party decided which of the latter was to provide our lunch, and we made a slight detour to admire the old bridge - and then we were off to the Camel Valley.

The Camel Valley Winery is a very polished operation. I'm sure its wines are wonderful - they win prizes - but they are outside my price range, so I was very happy to pay for a guided tour (which included a glass of wine at the end). We were shown round by one of the winemakers, who shepherded a large group of visitors with patience and aplomb: she managed to leave me feeling I'd learned something new without overwhelming the first-timers with technical detail. The tour ended on a sunny patio overlooking the vines, drinking a glass of something fizzy: I chose the sparkling red because I like sparkling red in general, and this was made from a grape variety I'd never heard of before (Rondo) - and it was cool and refreshing and full of dark fruit (they say 'brambly hedgerow flavours', but I was thinking cherries and elderberries).

We didn't stay to explore the Arthurian connections of the Camel valley; we went home and raised a glass of the Wine Society's Celebration fizz (which is a crémant de Loire) to holidays and birthdays and many more of both.

Cornwall is famous for - and rather smug about - the mildness of its climate, and I knew I would see plants there which won't grow here in the north-east. I was still disconcerted by the golden California poppies nodding over the wall of the garden at the end of our lane - and that the ice plants which carpet (and stabilise) the verges of California highways are known here as Hottentot fig, and regarded as an invasive nuisance.

Some of the wild flowers were completely unfamiliar. I was particularly entranced by wall pennywort - also known, it says here, as Navelwort, Dimplewort, Maid-in-the-mist, Pennypies, Penny-grass, Venus'-navel, Wallwort - and took very many pictures of it, in all sizes from tiny to over a foot high. This one was taken at St. Mawes castle, and the circle in the stonework is sone three or four inches across.

However much you may think you are accustomed to the dawn chorus, it still comes as a surprise when the seagulls join in.

The mud giant sculpure at the Lost Gardens of Heligan has at his centre a tree root which was too big to bury and too hard to burn; we agreed that it was a state to which anyone might aspire.

We are in Gorran Haven, on the south coast of Cornwall, for GirlBear's birthday treat (durham_rambler is watching BBC Alba on the television; I don't know how he managed that).

It's been a long drive here, but with its high points - of which the highest was an overnight stay last night at Ramscombe Cottage with my cousins Richard and Vivienne. A warm welcome, convivial company and a fabulous vegetarian dinner - the sort of cooking that makes you resolve to try harder in future.

One of the topics of conversation was the Olympic flame, which had just arrived by plane in the UK: our various travels over the next couple of months bring us and the flame into the same area, but we thought we would narrowly miss it each time - setting off for Lindisfarne as the flame arrives in Durham, for example. Driving west we started seeing warning signs of road closures, but always a day or so off. Then, as we neared our destination, driving through Bugle, we realised that the village streets were hung with bunting, and full of people, many of them in groups wearing matching t-shirts (with messages like'Beating [insert disease here]' or 'Go, Grandad, Go!'). There were no roadblocks, and only one or two solitary police officers, but we began to wonder. Then at Stenalees we were held at the traffic lights when a batch of police motorcyclists whizzed through, followed by a coach, a van and another coach, all bearing the slogan 'Our moment to shine'.

So it seems that quite inadvertently we have, after all, seen the Olympic torch pass on its way.