Black & blowy; Cornwall is Grand
It’s just gone eight in the evening. It’s a black and blowy night - I know this since I’ve just ventured out to the outer harbour and sniffed the air; black sea, looming cliffs, a stiff breeze, the beginnings of rain. Glorious. Only Cornwall does glorious drizzle.
Over the village a few noisy but undemanding fireworks are going off; small back-garden family affairs just squeezed in before the weather worsens and the kids have to go to bed. Beyond the lighthouse a confusion of masts, spars and rigging is visible where the lights of a moored tall-ship, swung bow-to in the strong off-shore breeze, shine and dazzle. Two masts, maybe three, cut with the strong horizontal lines of the yards, a tangle of ropes as rigging is layered over its neighbours by perspective. It’s a stirring sight.
It’s a stirring place.
Cornwall is grand.
