Rock of all ages
Sarah Standing rediscovers her lifelong love of Cornwall Like Rebecca, I too dream of going to Manderley again. Cornwall has a strange hold over me; never failing to produce a kneejerk reaction of nostalgic yearning. It makes me yearn not only for my own youth but also for that belonging to my three children.
For six glorious summers when they were young we decamped to Fowey, staying next to Quiller-Couch's house and overlooking the harbour. We had proper oldfashioned bucket-and-spade holidays, some full of sunshine, rock-pooling and sandy picnics and some best remembered for drizzly, misty mornings with damp excursions to visit the hauntingly romantic Lost Gardens of Heligan, the Eden Project and Dobwell's rinky-dink theme park. We'd meticulously plan the mass exodus from London at the crack of dawn, the car bursting with luggage, duvets, pillows, toys and snacks; the children playing I Spy and wrangling over who got to hold Jim the hamster. The journey was always hellish. Whenever we got stuck in traffic (which was quite often) and the kids were moaning about the length of the journey and arguing and spilling drinks and relentlessly needing the loo, my husband would suddenly make an announcement. He would tell me that if I ever, ever, contemplated adding a dog to this toxic equation (a dog which for some reason he cast as having halitosis, dribbling over his shoulder and panting while he was stuck on a b-road), he would leave me. But then we would catch our first breathtaking glimpse of the sea and miraculously the kids would stop grizzling and we would both stop bickering about phantom dogs, and would wind down all the windows and let in the happy, salty smells of summer.
I've always loved Cornwall. Even when our children grew older and overnight deemed Cornwall 'lame' and 'sad', I still loved it from afar. No other foreign holiday had quite the same innocent, Swallows and Amazons charm as that of the Cornish coast. Poor, hapless Cornwall got given a mini-reprieve once the kids hit their early teens and relocated their affections across the coast from Fowey towards Rock. Rock was basically Notting Hill-by-the-Sea. Rock was cool. But only if you were without your family, staying with friends. To go with your own family was apparently social suicide; even lamer and sadder than staying at home. Rock aged 15 and 16 was not about sea and sand and sunshine — it was all about snogging on Daymar beach, which at night was a teenage Nirvana. Very dark, very chilly and (from a mother's point of view at least) the veritable gateway to glandular fever.
I wasn't sure I could ever return to Cornwall without my children in tow — really lame and sad of me — but I fretted it wouldn't be the same, and worried that my evocative memories would somehow lose their poignancy if I went back childless. My anxiety was misplaced. Recently cajoled into a long weekend break with four girlfriends, staying in a renovated 18th-century barn on the north coast, the moment the train chugged out of Plymouth and I saw the sea my spirits soared. Mesmear was no ordinary seaside rental. A stone-and-slate farmhouse near Polzeath that sleeps ten, it has been meticulously and stylishly restored. It's a bit like staying in your very own boutique hotel — sensational bathrooms, lofty living areas, state-of-the-art electronics, sleek swimming pool and most importantly: Lucy. Lucy is a cheerful, unobtrusive temptress who comes in every day and cooks delicious, locally sourced food as and when you want it. The fridge is full, candles lit, wine chilled, espresso machine fired up and a freshly baked cake left for tea. This is a Toastas opposed to Boden-catalogue lifestyle. Ecofriendly with wood-burning stoves, solar-heated pool and underground water springs, the interior is modern, comfortable and almost incongruously luxurious.
The weekend was one of com- plete indolence taking long walks along Daymar beach, driving to Watergate Bay to eat at Jamie Oliver's Fifteen Cornwall (fabulous food let down only by the Laurence Llewelyn-Bowen meets Extreme Makeover decor), taking the ferry across to Padstow and stuffing ourselves at Rick Stein's takeaway fish and chip emporium and lazily exploring the picturesque fishing village of Port Isaac where, eccentrically, you are asked to park your car on the actual beach. It was heaven. I can still dream of going back, only now my kids are grown-up I think it might just be time
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