It was late evening and the sun was setting: a golden ball sinking into the green fields above Port Isaac. As the shadows lengthened the fishing boats rocked against the old granite quay, their ropes creaking like tired bones. Slowly, the weary band wound their way up the hill to the lonely farmhouse where Steve slaved over a barely warm Aga.
It was late. The customs men had been in Boscastle the night before and it was only a matter of time before they moved their operation down the coast. It was a constant battle of wits to bring in the contraband without being caught. Each man in the party carried a backpack from which there was a quiet clinking with every step.
As they approached the house, they could feel the faint glow from the window draw them in. It had been a long day. The cliff top path had been steep in the hot weather, and the wind made the ferry crossing at Padstow particularly treacherous. The bottles of brandy were heavy - they should have gone for the jerry cans of cider instead. At the door they knocked slowly three times - the agreed signal - and Steve pulled open the door, releasing a delicious waft of baking pasties as he did so. It was just what the weary travellers needed.
They fell into the hallway, dropping the bags and bottles as they went.
"When's dinner?" Dave asked.
"I'm just serving up now" Steve replied.
The exhausted crew threw themselves into chairs around the rustic wooden table as Steve dished up supper. There was a hush as they got down to the serious business of eating and slowly the tension evaporated and everyone started to relax. The pasties were delicious and pudding was equally traditional fruit scones.
A few bites in and there was a hammering at the door.
"That's not the signal!" said Steve.
The hammering started again, more urgent this time, so Steve went to the door and cautiously pulled it open. The customs men surged in, pushing him aside.
"Stop in the name of the law!"” cried the lead officer "We have reason to believe that a crime against Cornwall has occurred on these premises."
The diners were frozen in their seats as the customs men surged into the kitchen. The lead officer rounded on Dave and pointed a long, gnarly finger in his direction.
"You, sir, are an ABOMINATION!" he snarled.
"Wha-what have I done?" Dave bleated.
The lead officer lowered his finger and pointed to the half-eaten scone on Dave's plate.
"Where do you think you are, boy?" he bellowed. "This is Cornwall. CORNWALL!"
"Eh?" Dave puzzled.
"Jam first, laddie, JAM FIRST!!"
- *the above article is a fictional representation of events that didn’t happen. Our week in Cornwall was full of fine walks, fabulous meals and several cream teas without any official intervention.
Ali
How to Survive a Heatwave
Here are some of things we learnt while exploring some rural Hertfordshire villages during our walk on the hottest Spring Bank Holiday ever:
-
Walk slowly and enjoy the scenery – make 7 miles last all day!
-
Take an interest in church interiors – they are cool.
-
Make use of the playground zip-line for a cooling breeze.
-
Have plenty to drink (The Tally Ho in Barkway, The Woodman in Nuthampstead and The Blind Fiddler in Anstey all helped us quench our thirst).