Fowey is not pronounced Fow-ee. That’s the most surprising thing about this small Cornish fishing town. Everything else is exactly as it should be. Steep narrow streets, quaint cafes offering Cornish cream teas, crooked 16th century pubs, seagulls, little shops (selling postcards, chunky jewellery, floaty dresses and those tiny wooden sailing ships you’re supposed to put in your bathroom), pricey art galleries (selling driftwood sculptures and ugly things fashioned from sea junk that will be bought exclusively by second-homers) Kelly’s ice cream shacks, smugglery-looking coves reached via hairy scrambles down rocky cliffs, and of course the ever-present scent of drying kelp, warm pasties and fish and chips.
I am currently perched on top of a cliff in the evening sun overlooking the mouth of the river Foy and the broiling, wind-whipped, white-capped Atlantic beyond. I’d feel like a du Maurier heroine waiting for her sea faring lover to return from a long voyage on a packet ship, if it wasn’t for the fact that a) my husband is right here next to me, and b) I’m wrapped up in a very unromantic Mountain Warehouse coat, typing this on my phone and listening to Bon Iver through my headphones. I would like to have lived in pirate times. That’s my favourite historical era.
What would also be nice, is if a humpback whale decided to breach in the bay below me right about now. I’ve seen them on YouTube splashing about off the coast of Cornwall. I know they’re out there. They’re just never where I choose to look at any given time.
Tomorrow we’re heading off to Falmouth, where I went to university about a bazillion years ago.
We have to go and get the ferry back to the other side of the harbour now. Oh by the way we are staying in an old inn that is haunted by a ghost called Alice who doesn’t like men with beards. My husband has a bit of a beard at the moment so I’m going to use him as bait tonight and see what happens.
Until next time!