Research

Persian delights. Iranian art and architecture

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Behind the Veil: the Arts of Islamic Persia  – John Osborne 

So my second BODFAS approached and I was determined not to make such a mess of it this time. However, the fates are cruel and things cropped up. The phone rang as I was leaving, the car needed fuel, there were massive roadworks and eventually I arrived 10 minutes late and had to sneak in and sit at the back. Naturally as I reached for my glasses I realised I had left them by the phone. AGH! A fuzzy shadow play of pretty things followed. 

 
 

The talk was interesting but had a rather scatter gun feel to it. There was no obvious thread but I did learn an awful lot about the difference between Sunni and Shia Islam. Shia believe in a twelfth prophet coming back to save his people, worship at tombs of various holy men, women and scholars and have a relaxed attitude towards their religion.


Sunnis are far stricter, they only worship Mohammed and are considered to be more fundamental. Persia / Iran is mainly Shia and has a strong population of Jews, Christians and Zoroastrians (the pre-Islamic religion) they are protected religions and have representation in parliament. Iran combines theocracy and democracy in that everyone votes, women as well, but the overall ruler is a religious figure. It’s not my country of choice but it has more going for it than we probably give it credit for.

The main colour of Zoroastrianism is blue and this can be seen all through the religious decoration of Iran, showing the long standing religious feelings of Persia and their tolerance of earlier beliefs.
Islam forbids the representation of figures in its religious buildings which has lead to the most stunning tessellation patterns made in hand cut pieces of tiles adorning the temples.

Beyond the temples we see beautiful decorations of manuscripts and paintings often showing a strong mongol influence, or Persian art heavily influenced mongol art. At one time Persia stood in the centre of the Eastern and Western world. Everyone passed through Persia on there way to somewhere else and there art and culture was shaped and changed by visitors and influenced cultures as it went on.






We didn’t get time to look at much in the way of writings but John did read one poem from Persia’s most celebrated poet Saadi Shirazi. Translated from the original Farsi, this brilliant little poem was written in the 1200s and has very strong echoes of Dr Suess!
 
 
 
Observe this precept whenever you can – 
Never make friends with an elephant-man;
For an elephant-man has a pet to keep,
Eating and drinking, awake or asleep,
And if you are friendly one day you’ll see,
When the elephant-keeper comes to tea,
That, not in the least by chance or whim,
The elephant will accompany him.
Then as soon as the animal’s through the door
You’ll notice cracks in the parlour floor,
And however much you may frown or stare
He’ll sit across-legged on an easy chair,
And swill your tea with his cumbrous trunk
Till you think ‘My Word, what a lot he’s drunk’
And if you should offer a mild reproof
He’ll be up from your table and off with your roof.
In your sorrows you’ll only sink deeper and deeper
If you ever make friends with an elephant-keeper.

SAA’DI
Translated by JCE Bowen
Published in Poems from the Persian (Scorpion Press o/p)

Links – 

 

 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 

The History of China Clay in Cornwall

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In the late seventeenth century, traders from the far east began to bring home beautiful cups and plates made out of exquisite porcelain. To a continent that was used to pottery and stone wear, these pieces were treasures to be desired. The items were as thin and light as bones, they rang when you struck them and the light shone through them. And yet they were strong enough the eat and drink from.

The British couldn’t get enough of these expensive imports and acquiring them was the ultimate display of wealth and privilege. William Cookworthy was aware that if he could only find kaolin in the UK he would be sitting on a goldmine. He searched the country and in 1746 he finally found a deposit of a similar standard to the Chinese kaolin, here in Cornwall. Earning it the nickname of china clay.

The deposit required work to extract it from the degraded granite.  Using water he would separate the decomposing granite and the soft talc like material. Once refined, this material could be worked as kaolin and was quickly taken up and used in the British manufacturing processes. If the Chinese product was finer, this was disregarded, and the Cornish market exploded.  A deposit north of St Austell was revealed to be the largest in the world and a global industry began to rapidly develop.

The material didn’t require deep mining like tin or copper, and was retrieved using open cast mining.  It was then blasted with water cannons, to separate the soft clay from the decomposing granite. The water turned white and ran off into the rivers, and as they ran down into St Austell Bay, the whole sea would turn white. Even in the 1970s, locals remember swimming in milky white water.  For each tonne of clay extracted, there was five tonnes of mica waste. When the two materials were separated, the slag was taken and dumped back on the land, in long hills or in large conical structures. These large white hills were soon referred to as the Cornish Alps or Pyramids and rapidly changed the local skyline.  Finally the good wet clay was recovered and laid out in massive long low buildings, known as dries.  With a chimney at each end, heat was run along the base and the clay above would slowly dried out. Women, known as bal maidens, would shape and turn the mixture until it resembled dry blocks, that could be cut and easily transported up country and overseas to the waiting mills. This industry far out performed fishing or farming and there wasn’t a single family that wasn’t in some way impacted by the new industry.

Leats (small canals) were laid out across the land to provide water directly to the source, and water wheels were built to power the engineering processes. The entire land in this area was covered in dries, villages grew up, simply to extract the clay.   Initially these dries were built right near the extraction points, but gradually as the railways were built, the wet sludge was transported to the docks at Charlestown, Pentewan and eventually the industry was consolidated at the large docks at Par. The expansion of the industrial industries in mid-Cornwall was all to further the china clay industry and over the centuries, vast fortunes were made. Over 250 years, 170 million tonnes of china clay was produced. 70% of this production was exported overseas, making Cornwall the pre-eminent global source of china clay.

China clay was in great demand and not just because of its use in the porcelain industry but because of its other properties.   Any pill you have ever swallowed is coated in china clay to help it go down better, every glossy magazine or brochure is coated in it, to give it that smooth finish.  It is used in toothpaste, make up, light bulbs, in the rubber process,  in medicine, in the paper industry, not to mention the porcelain industry, and many more uses besides. The chances are, that every single day, you come into contact with china clay in one shape or another.

Looking about you today every strange hill you see, will be a slag heap. The largest pyramid towering over St Austell is now only vaguely white but it must have been an incredible sight before nature began to reclaim it. Some of the heaps have been flattened and terraformed providing excellent walks and bike rides, and if you look at the floor you will see, that rather than soil, the ground is made up of a gritty mica residue. Strange building are hidden under trees and ivy, overs can be explored in safety. Some areas of the terraformed lands still seem reminiscent of a foreign planet, others are more established, and the flora and fauna has established itself and smoothed over the harsh scars on the landscape. The world famous Eden Project is built in a clay pit, showing the ingenuity of mankind to reclaim the land. Across the countryside are large lakes where the miners dug down to extract the raw material. As well as the lakes are large shallow pans of water, full of strange glowing green water, each pan a slightly different shade, covering many acres.

Nowhere in mid-Cornwall is untouched.  Although the industry is still active here, it has declined with the discovery of a massive deposit in Brazil. The industry has moved to a fresher source, that is easier to extract with cheaper labour costs.  It is hard to look around at some of the towns and villages today and appreciate that these were once the white hot hubs of industry at the top of a global market. A time when Cornwall led the world.

The Little White Hare of Lanherne

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The Little White Hare of Lanherne

While researching the Vale of Lanherne I came across this lovely old folk tale. I have reproduced it in full courtesy of the magnificent Project Gutenberg.

Unlike most tales about White Hares this is not one of betrayal and revenge. The beauty of Lanherne obviously had a beneficial influence, or the nearby convent of nuns!

 

The Piskey-Purse -Legends and Tales of North Cornwall

by Enys Tregarthen. 
Illustrated by J. Ley Pethybridge. 
1905.
Reproduced via the Gutenberg Project

 

 

 

 

The Little White Hare

When our great-great-grandmothers were young, a small lad called William John Pendarvey went on a visit to his Great-Aunt Ann, a very silent, austere old maid, who lived by herself in the Vale beautiful of Lanherne.

ever went into it, because it was known to be haunted by something, in the shape of a little White Hare which had been seen there from time unknown, wandering like a shadow over the grass, and in and out amongst the trees, or sitting motionless at the foot of a blasted apple-tree.

Great-Aunt Ann being old and very quiet, was the last person in the world that a tender-hearted, sensitive little chap as William John was should have gone to stay with.

The house where she lived was rather small and very gloomy, and had nothing nice about it, but it possessed a large and beautiful orchard, protected from the rough and cutting winds by the escarpment of the downs that rose above it and the valley.

But delightful as this orchard was, nobody except Great-Aunt Ann—and she not often—

Who or what this apparition was nobody could tell, but not a man, woman or child in the Vale, except Great-Aunt Ann, would have gone into that orchard for all they were worth.

Little William John might never have known there was an orchard belonging to the gloomy old house if he had not wandered into a bedroom at the back of the house overlooking the entrance to the orchard and peeped out of the window.

He asked to be allowed to go and play there, as it looked so bright and sunny in its open spaces, but Great-Aunt Ann said: ‘Not to-day.’

It was always ‘Not to-day’ whenever he asked to go into that orchard, and probably he would never have gone into it at all if the old maid had not occasion one day to go to St. Columb, a small market town three miles from where she lived.

She could not take the boy with her, she said, and so she left him at home to take care of the house.

Looking after a house was not in little William John’s line, and Great-Aunt Ann had not been gone more than an hour before he found himself at the small wicket-gate opening into the orchard, where to his joy he saw a great multitude of golden-headed daffadillies rising out of the lowly grass, and a light that was softer than silver moving mysteriously in and out amongst the trees.

The temptation to go into that sun-lighted, fascinating spot was irresistible, and finding the gate unlocked, little William John opened it and went in.

It was the spring of the year, and the spring was late, and there were as yet no carmine buds on the apple trees, but their upper branches were misty with the silvery green of budding leaves. And the pear trees were in virgin whiteness, and so were the plum and cherry trees, which made a shining background to all the yellow lilies in blossom there.

‘It makes me feel happy only to be here,’ whispered little William John to himself; ‘and oh! the daffies are making golden dawns under the trees!’

He wandered about to his heart’s content, staying his young feet now and then to listen to a blackbird’s liquid pipe, and to touch with reverent hand a daffadilly’s drooping head, or to watch with puzzled eyes that thing of brightness moving on in front of him amongst the trees and blossoms.

He lost sight of this wandering light when he had gone the length of the orchard; but he saw it again as he turned across to its top, and when he got close he saw, to his astonishment, it was a little Hare of silvery whiteness.

It was sitting on its haunches under the blasted tree, and did not move away as the boy drew near.

A thrill of gladness filled William John’s kind young heart at so fair and strange a vision, and his delight was even greater when the small White Hare suffered him to stroke its fur.

‘Oh, you dear little soft thing!’ he cried. ‘I am so glad you are not afraid of me; I love all animals, and would not hurt any of them for worlds, nor a hair of your beautiful white coat.’

‘I knew you would not,’ answered the little White Hare. ‘I was sure your heart was gentle and good the moment I saw you.’

‘What! Can you talk?’ asked little William John in amazement. ‘I never knew animals could speak like human beings before. I am so glad you can. It is so nice to have someone to talk to. Nobody hardly ever speaks to me here, and I have felt so lonely.’

‘Poor boy!’ said the little White Hare; ‘I can sympathize with you, for I know what it is to be lonely and have nobody to speak to. You are the first human being who has spoken to me since a wicked Witch turned me into the shape of a hare.’

‘What! Are you not really a hare?’ asked little William John, more and more amazed.

 

‘The small White Hare suffered him to stroke its fur.’

‘No,’ answered the little creature sadly; ‘I am a maiden in the shape of a hare, and I have had to bear the hare-shape ever since the Witch worked a spell [upon me, which was back in the days of the “giants.”’

‘What a shame!’ cried the boy. ‘Whatever made her turn you into a hare?’

‘She had a spite against me because I would not be wicked like herself.’

‘How dreadful of her!’ cried little William John indignantly. ‘Will you never be able to get back your real shape, you poor little thing?’

‘I am afraid not,’ said the little White Hare sadly, ‘unless somebody who is really sorry for me, and is not afraid of me, can find the Magic Horn—by the blast of which Jack the Giant-Killer overthrew the Giant Galligantus and Hocus-Pocus the Conjurer—and blow over me three strong, clear blasts.’

‘Where is the Magic Horn?’ asked little William John.

‘I do not know the exact spot, but it is buried somewhere in the ruins of an old castle called the Castle of Porthmeor, which is on a cliff above Porthmeor Cove.’

‘Why, that old castle is mine, or will be, I am told, when I am of age!’ cried little William John. ‘It is not a great way from where I live, and often I go there to play. I wish I wasn’t only a little boy, and could look for the Magic Horn,’ he added, after a moment’s silence.

‘Age is no barrier to your seeking it,’ said the little White Hare. ‘All that is needed to loosen the wicked old Witch’s spell is what I have now told you.’

‘Then I will look for the Magic Horn directly I get home,’ cried little William John, ‘and if I can find it I’ll come back and blow it over you, if you think I can.’

‘I am sure you can,’ answered the little White Hare. ‘You must go now, for your Great-Aunt is coming into the valley. It is not wrong to come into this orchard, since she has not forbidden you; but she knows it is haunted by a little White Hare, and is afraid if you see it it will work you harm. So you must be patient with her.’

The Hare vanished as it spoke, and little William John found himself alone with the yellow-headed daffadillies, and the trees and dear little birds, and he soon went back to the house.

‘Have you been out anywhere?’ asked Great-Aunt Ann, when she had come in and taken off her bonnet.

‘Yes, into the orchard,’ said the boy truthfully. ‘It is a lovely place, full of song-birds and flowers.’

‘Was that all you saw there?’ she asked anxiously.

‘No,’ answered little William John again, lifting his clear child-eyes to the stern old maid’s. ‘I saw trees with snow on them, and a dear little Hare with fur as white as milk.’

The old lady shook all over like a wind-tossed leaf when he said that, but she did not scold him or say he ought not to have gone into her orchard, but the next day she sent him home.

At the end of three years William John came again to stay with his Great-Aunt Ann—not that she wanted him, but because his guardian thought the balmy air of the lovely Vale would do him good.

The spring was very early this year, and when William John arrived the daffadillies had gone, and the pear and cherry trees had scattered all their snow-white blossoms on the grass; but the apple flowers were out in rosy splendour on the gnarled old trees, and where the daffadillies had made ‘golden dawns’ there were blue-grey periwinkles trying to lift themselves to the heavenly blue shining down upon them.

William John was anxious to go out into the orchard directly he came, but Great-Aunt Ann said the grass was too wet.

The grass was always ‘too wet,’ according to the old maid, and the boy was afraid she would not allow him to go into the orchard at all.

When he had been there two weeks and a day, Great-Aunt Ann had again occasion to go to St. Columb town, and as there was only room in the gig for the driver and herself, she was obliged to leave him at home.

The moment the gig was out of sight William John made his way to the orchard, where he found the grass as green and beautiful as spring grass could be, and his little friend the Hare sitting under the blasted tree, whiter and smaller than ever.

‘I began to fear you would never come into this orchard again,’ said the White Hare plaintively.

‘I began to fear so myself,’ responded William John, stroking very gently the little White Hare. ‘This is my first opportunity of coming here.’

‘Have you found the Magic Horn?’ the small creature asked anxiously.

‘Not yet, and I have never stopped looking for it since I was last here. I have searched all over the old castle, and every stone has been lifted on the place, and the ground dug up both outside the ruins and inside, and I am afraid the Magic Horn was not hidden away in that old castle, as you said.’

‘It was hidden there, and is there now,’ insisted the little White Hare, ‘and I do hope you aren’t going to give up looking for it.’

‘I won’t, for your sake, you dear little soft thing!’ cried the boy, and again he stroked her gently and tenderly; ‘and as you are sure it is there somewhere, I’ll search until I find it.’

‘Have you looked in the cave under the castle?’ asked the little White Hare.

‘No,’ returned William John; ‘the entrance to it is not known, and even if it were, the passage leading down to the cave is so foul with bad air, my guardian said, that it would be death to anybody who went through it.’

‘If you are not afraid to go down into the cave, I can give you a plant that will purify all the foul air you pass through.’

‘I will not be afraid for your sake, dear little White Hare,’ said the boy.

The Hare vanished, and in a little while became visible again, and in her mouth she held a strange-looking weed, the like of which he had never seen before.

‘It is called the little All-Pure,’ said the White Hare, as William John took it in his hand. ‘Keep it close to your heart until you have discovered the passage to the cave, and when it is foul hold it in your hand until its brightness shines on the Magic Horn.’

Again she disappeared, and the boy, after waiting some time to see if she would appear again, went back to the house, where he found his Great-Aunt Ann limping in at the front-door.

The old lady had hurt her leg in getting out of the gig, and when he told her he had been in the orchard, she made her slight accident an excuse to send him back to his home, which she did that same day.

William John did not have the chance of paying another visit to his Great-Aunt Ann until he was a youth of nineteen, and he would not have come then if he had waited to be invited.

The old maid was now terribly old and feeble, and had to keep a servant. Unhappily for William John, the servant was quite as crabbed and silent as her mistress, and even more opposed to his going into the old orchard. She even locked the orchard-gate and kept the key in her pocket.

But William John, being now no longer a child, but a handsome youth with a strong will of his own, was determined to get into the orchard with or without permission, for he had found the Magic Horn.

He watched his opportunity, and one day when the servant was out he went to the wicket gate and sprang over it, and quickly made his way to the blasted tree, where he found, as he had expected to find, the little White Hare sitting on her haunches under it.

She was very white and ever so small—so small, in fact, that she did not look much bigger than a baby hare.

‘You have come at last,’ she said, as the tall handsome lad knelt on the grass and caressed her. ‘Have you found the Magic Horn?’

‘I have found it,’ he answered gladly.

‘When did you find it?’

‘Only yesterday,’ returned the youth. ‘Every day since I last saw you I have searched for the entrance to the cave, and at last, when I was in despair of ever finding it, I came upon it under my bedroom window. I discovered it quite by accident, as I was planting maiden-blush rose-trees. I never knew till then that our house was built on the old castle grounds. The passage opened on to steps, which led down and down till they ended at the door of the cave.’

‘Were you not afraid?’ asked the little White Hare very softly.

‘I was a little bit,’ confessed the youth, ‘for I did not know where it would lead me. But love and pity for poor little you made me go on. And I had the little All-Pure to cheer me; for it not only made the foul air through which I passed pure and sweet, but gave out a soft clear light. I found the Magic Horn on a slab of stone in the corner of the cave. I took it up quickly and returned the way I came, and started the earliest moment to pay a visit to my Great-Aunt Ann.’

‘Have you brought the Magic Horn with you?’ asked the little White Hare, with deep anxiety in her voice.

‘Yes,’ he said, with shining eyes, ‘and here it is;’ and he laid a black thing in the shape of a horn on the grass beside her.

‘It is the Magic Horn!’ cried the little White Hare joyfully. ‘Will you blow over me three strong, clear blasts, dear William John? If you are as pure-hearted as you are kind-hearted, as I am sure you are, the last blast will break the Witch’s spell, and give me back my own shape. The Horn should be blown at sunset.’

‘It is sundown now,’ said William John, looking westward, where between the trees he could see a splendour of rose and gold painted on the lower sky.

‘Then blow it now!’ cried the little White Hare; and stiffening herself on her form, she crossed her paws on her breast and waited.

 

‘Took up the Magic Horn and put it to his mouth.’

William John took up the Magic Horn in his strong young hands and put it to his mouth, and in a minute or less there sounded out through the orchard, all gay with apple-blossom and melody of birds, and over the Vale of Lanherne, a great blast, so rich in sound that the thrushes stopped their singing, and the people in St. Mawgan village came rushing to their doors to know whatever it was. It was quickly followed by two more blasts, richer and louder than the first. When the last blast had died away, William John, looking down at the foot of the blasted tree, saw in the place of the little White Hare the most beautiful maiden he had ever seen.

 

‘He had not expected to see her half so beautiful.’

The Magic Horn fell from his hand at so lovely a sight, and he blushed red as the buds clinging in rosy infancy to the apple-trees, and stammered something out that he had not expected to see her half so beautiful.

‘I am myself now, thanks to you,’ laughed the maiden; and William John thought it was the sweetest laugh he had ever heard in all his life. ‘I can never be sufficiently grateful for all you have done for me.’

‘Mine is the gratitude for having been allowed to find the Magic Horn and loosen you from the wicked spell,’ said the lad, still stammering and blushing.

‘You are very good to say so,’ said the lovely maid, blushing in her turn as she felt the gaze of the handsome youth upon her. ‘Now the evil spell has been undone I must go my way.’

‘What way?’ asked William John eagerly, drinking in the beauty of her face.

‘To a country beyond the sun-setting, where all who love me are,’ she said gently.

‘If you go, I must also go,’ said William John in a masterful way, still keeping his eyes on her face. ‘I learnt to love you in your hare-shape, dear, but I love you a thousand times more now I see you as you are. I could not live without you now.’

‘If you love me as you say you do, and cannot live without me, you may come,’ said the lovely maid, lifting her shy eyes to his. ‘You have the right to come with me by the good you have wrought. It is a fair land whither I am going, where there are always buds and blossoms on the trees, where the happy birds are always in song, and where the Foot of Evil dare not enter. It is time I was away. The sun is setting, and his path of glory is narrowing on the sea. Come, if you will. I love you, too, dear.’

And giving him her little hand, which he gladly took, they went both of them together out of the old orchard in the glow of the setting sun; and as they climbed a slope above the place of blossoming trees, an old man crossing the downs wondered who that handsome youth and lovely maid were making their way with locked hands and steadfast faces towards the sunset. But he never knew.

 

‘In the glow of the setting sun.’

From that day onwards the little White Hare was never again seen in the old beautiful orchard, and nobody ever knew what had become of William John.

Blackberries and Cornwall

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I have a theory and it’s this. Blackberries grow best on tin.  Now my proof for this is sketchy and my explanation is even poorer but bear with me.  I walk a lot, all over the place, and the best blackberries each year are in the Polgooth area. They are great big, fat, sweet berries.  Even better they seem not suffer from grub infections. What does the Polgooth area sit on? A great lode of tin.  It’s in the soil I tell you! That said, plants riddled with heavy metals aren’t normally a selling point.  Maybe you need to give it a hundred years before it becomes a feature worth bragging about?

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Now, did you know that there is a cut of point to the picking of blackberries? Ask anyone in Summercourt, they’ll tell you. You never pick a blackberry after the Summercourt Fair as that’s when the Devil pizzles on them. The Summercourt Fair is always around the 29th of September and I think this year you’ll be lucky to find any blackberries in Cornwall still pickable then. The weather this year has been a pickle for the harvest.  That said, it is still a very late date for blackberries in Cornwall but I have another theory about that.

The Summercourt Fair is one of the oldest in the country running for the last 800 years, and certainly the oldest in Cornwall.  Originally it was held around 14 September until 1752 when Britain adopted the Gregorian Calendar and the extra eleven days pushed it back to the 25th of September.  Now the 14th of September makes much more sense for Blackberries to be almost finished in Cornwall.

In his book “Cornish Saints and Sinners” J. Henry Harris also told of how the Devil gorged himself on blackberries on the thirteenth of September and they made him so ill that he cursed them as unfit to eat. Fits in with the change of the calendar. Henry Harris also refers to an ancient tradition whereby on one day of the year the Cornish cover themselves in blackberry juice!

A traditional dish that turns up again and again in the old writing is blackberry pie of blackberry and apple pie, either must be served with clouted cream.

Blackberry and Apple Pie

300 grams short crust pastry
300 grams wild blackberries
500 grams cooking apples (Bramley’s)
100 grams sugar
1 teaspoon cinnamon

How to Make Blackberry and Apple Pie
Heat the oven to 190 °C (Gas 6).
Peel and slice the apples into a deep pie dish and add the blackberries. Sprinkle on sugar and cinnamon.
Roll out the pastry slightly larger than the shape of the pie dish. Seal the pastry onto the dish, crimp edges with a fork and trim off any overlaps.
Use the pastry off cuts to decorate the pastry with leaf-shaped pieces. Make a small hole in the centre.
Brush over the top with a little milk.
Place on a sheaf and bake for approximately 30 minutes until golden brown.

Alternatively make it as a pasty, as suggested here by Rick Stein.

Blackberry and apple pasties.

Mary Taylor, one of the best pasty makers in Padstow, gave me this recipe. We ate the pasties cold, the top having been sliced off and the filling spread with plenty of clotted cream. There’s another old saying that the Devil never visited Cornwall because he was too afraid of the Cornish women’s’ habit of putting everything into a pasty. This might prove his point!

Makes 5

Ingredients: 2lb (1 kg) shortcrust or flaky pastry

2lb (1 kg) bramley apples peeled, cored and chopped into 1/2 in pieces
8oz (225g) blackberries
4oz (113g) brown sugar
pinch of powdered clove
pinch of powdered cinnamon
2oz (56g) butter, chopped

Preparation: Mix ingredients in a bowl and fill pastry circles. Cook in oven for 35 mins at 200C/400F/gas 6.

Clouted Cream – Take Milk that was milked in the morning, and scald it at noon; it must have a reasonable fire under it, but not too rash, and when it is scalding hot, that you see little Pimples begin to rise, take away the greatest part of the Fire, then let it stand and harden a little while, then take it off, and let it stand until the next day, covered, then take it off with a Skimmer

This appears in Elizabethan recipe books and is pretty much identical to how clotted cream is made today.  The name only seemed to change to “clotted” in the early twentieth century.  A clout was with a scrap of cloth (cloutie trees are often found by holy wells with scraps of cloth tied to them) or the other definition of clout, is to be hit.  Neither seem relevant in the making of cream.  Maybe a third unmentioned definition of clout, is to clot, which does make more sense with what happens to the cream.

UPDATE

OED to the rescue. “Clout” = archaic and dialectal, meaning clod or lump from the old Dutch / German.  A much better explanation of clouted/clotted cream.

So, there we are the Devil, clotted cream, blackberries and some strange ritual where the Cornish stain themselves in blackberry juice.

 

 

Frustrations of building a new walk

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For a while now I’ve been convinced that there must be a decent walk that links Roche Rock, St Dennis Church and Castel-an-Dinas. It would be a big walk, around 10 miles I think, so it’s one to build up in stages.  Of course all three sites can be linked by roads but where is the fun in that? Especially when all three sites sit on the edge of the wonderful Goss Moor.

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Day One.  Have a quick mooch around Goss Moor, see if I can incorporate the Fritillary Trail and the source of the River Fal, into the walk. Took the dogs as it was finally overcast, hadn’t planned on a big walk, given that I was only in flip flops. Four miles later, I was left wondering if my flips were going to survive the walk.  I just wanted to see if i could find the footpath off the moor and up to St Dennis. Eventually I found it, it was down a track which suddenly wound around towards a caravan and a house. In the middle of nowhere. A proper Hansel and Gretel moment. Walking through the overgrown junkyard, keeping an eye out for Baba Yaga, I found the kissing gate and decided that that was as far I would go today.  I’d  explore that path another day, as it was, the dogs were beginning to finally run a bit slower.  Heading back we came across a herd of wild ponies which were all very chilled about the dogs.

Back in the car we drove over to Roche Rock to have another bit of an explore. Wow. Love Roche Rock. What a oddity.  Wanted to climb up the metal ladder leading up to the hermitage but dogs and flip flops said otherwise. Anyway, back in the car determined to add it to the route.

Day Two.  Walking boots and no dogs. Today I was looking for a route across the railway line and the A30 to get to Castel-an-Dinas. Parked in the same place as yesterday. Need to find a proper place to park.  This spot is too small and hidden.  Set off onto the moor trying to find a route to the railway line. Found loads of butterflies, lots of friendly cows, took lots of lovely snaps of butterflies drinking cowshit. Charming, and then found the path I wanted with a gate that was padlocked.  Very frustrating.  This is pubic access land, meaning there is a right to roam all over it. Now this is very annoying as just beyond it is a level crossing point heading straight towards Castle -an-Dinas. Bugger.  There was no going any further day so I wandered back into the Moor to see what else I could discover. I often right rights of way blocked or deliberately restricted and whilst it’s incredibly frustrating I usually let it go.  After all, if someone is deliberately trying to deter walks, me recommending the walk to others could make for a miserable experience for the walkers. My books about having an enjoyable day out not campaigning for access.

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Anyway I turned around and continued to explore, and was treated to a huge lake with swallows dipping all over it in a swarm.  Paused for a while and just watched their antics.  I continued along the track until it opened up on to a wide open section of the moor and realised that the track had dwindled down into a tiny trail and was now pretty much gone.  I was really tempted to continue but the last thing I wanted to do was get lost in a moor, the path was disappearing towards trees which also suggested water. Lost on a boggy moor.  Nope.  Time to retrace all those miles. Damn.  Back pass the swarming swallows, back pass the locked gate, back pass the friendly cows, back pass the butterflies, swishy swooshy, swishy swooshy. Back along the boardwalk. I love the boardwalk, the boardwalk has to be part of the route.  And back to the car which was surrounded by yesterday’s ponies.  Said hello again.  Drove over to Castle-an-Dinas, to see if it is really worth the effort.

So lovely up here, this Iron Age Hill fort sits on the other side of Goss Moor, from the top you look across to the north coast, east towards Bodmin Moor and down over Goss Moor and across to the Clay country.  I suppose I can knock it out of the walk but it’s so still and serene up here. It’s not Maiden Castle or Badbury Rings but it’s still lovely.  Will have to investigate further.

With Pola Negri, trying to track down The Woman He Scorned, in Mevagissey

Pola Negri

When you write a history you need to make sure you are not simply repeating facts without establishing the truth of them.  This involves lots of enjoyable detective work hunting down primary sources.  One established “fact” was that Pola Negri, a very famous, silent film star, had featured in a film called The Woman He Scorned and that it had been filmed in Mevagissey.  Got to admit, I thought this was very exciting as we would have moving images of Meva from the 1920s not just frozen images caught in postcards, so I started to try and track down a copy.

 

First problem was the name, back in the day films were often distributed under several different names depending on the country.  This one was also known as:

The Way of Lost Souls
The Street of Abandonned Children
Rue des âmes perdues
Almas Perdidas
Die Straße der verlorenen Seelen
Kadunud hingede tänav
Son dernier tango
Traquée
Az elveszett lelkek utcája
Donna perduta
Ulica potepionych dusz

Which made tracking it down a chore in the search engines.

The next problem was that apart from a newspaper article in the 2000s I couldn’t find any evidence that it had actually been fimed in Mevagissey. The first reference to Mevagissey being given as the location, was in an article in The Independent in 2005

“This year’s festival looks at Britain’s cinematic relationship with continental Europe. “The films give a rare insight into the European film industry and alliances before the domination of Hollywood,” says Porter. Features will include the melodrama The Woman He Scorned (1928), in which the European actress-turned-Hollywood star Pola Negri plays a prostitute in a love triangle with a boyfriend and a lighthouse keeper. “It’s a masterpiece, which, despite being set in France, was filmed at Mevagissey!” says Porter.”1.

All articles since then name Mevagissey as the filming location and then Wiki said it was so, and it became some sort of established fact.

Well that was all well and good but I still wanted to see a copy and it seemed that it had been lost to the mists of time.

Suddenly after a year of searching I found a distributor that had re-released it without any fanfare, in a back catalogue over in Arizona. I sent off my money and eagerly awaited the film.  Well, it was fabulous, lots of over the top dramatic acting, hands to foreheads, furrowed brows, clasped bosoms and placards describing the action.  It was great fun but nothing looked like any angle of Mevagissey that I had ever seen.  There were a few distinctive shots so I decided to go from there.  The first shot was very clearly Godrevy Lighthouse.  Not a promising start.  But with the help of Google and Google Street view (what an incredible tool that is)  I began to track down various locations; Mullion, Helford, St Ives and Penzance. Oh dear. Not promising.

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Next stop to the local newspapers. Sure enough in 1929 Pola Negri had been in Cornwall staying in The Queen’s Hotel in Penzance.  Both the Cornishman and the Western Morning News reported that she was filming in the area for her new film.  She even put on a free show for the residents of Mullion.

So, not Mevagissey at all. I think what had happened was that Laraine Porter, when speaking to The Independent,  had become confused with the filming of Johnny Frenchmen. A film that was supposed to be set in both a French harbour and a Cornish one.  In fact both harbours were Mevagissey.

And there we are, fact checked. Not true. Which is a shame but there are some other great films filmed in the village including Next of Kin, 1942, Johnny Frenchman, 1945, Never let Me Go, 1953 & Bad Education, 2015.

 

p.s.  I have amended the Wiki page. 😀

 

  1. https://www.independent.co.uk/arts-entertainment/films/features/silence-needs-no-translation-8566.html

 

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Who put that river there!

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Well, I’m a bit embarrassed, fancy not spotting a stream in a place you’ve lived in for nearly twenty years.  Not having a car for a while has meant that I’ve had to walk everywhere and I’ve been discovering loads, it’s like being a kid again. Today I discovered a stream.  In the middle of part of the St Austell sprawl, I was walking along Sandy Lane which is an absolute nightmare of suburbia, estate after estate, cul-de-sacs, modern developments, picket fence after bird bath after paved driveways as far as the eye can see. Suddenly I heard running water, looked over what I thought was someone’s garden wall and discovered a stream running under my feet. WTF. Where did that come from? I grabbed my OS map and discovered that yes, there was a stream and better yet a green dotted line along it.  So off I went. Two minutes later I discovered a massive chimney! Blow me down, a dryer, right in the middle of a housing estate.

I continued to explore along the path of the stream and it’s lovely. There is a good path beside it as it weaves between everyone’s back gardens. It’s a totally urban stream and yet has a tiny strip of the countryside within it. There are no shopping trolleys or tyres, instead, there are flowers and willow trees, birds and I bet small mammals.  How lucky are the residents that can go to sleep listening to a babbling brook running through their dreams all night long?

I got home and looked up some old maps, sure enough, there is the valley, free of houses but alarmingly full of mine shafts.  Not sure how much I’d want to listen to sounds in the night trying to decide if it was the stream or my foundations 😀

Anyway, a really enjoyable little explore.

The Launch of a New Book

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A History of Mevagissey by Liz Hurley
A History of Mevagissey by Liz Hurley
A History of Mevagissey by Liz Hurley

Well, all bar the sweeping up and a bit of publicity, my book is done. It is written and published and yet here I sit feeling concerned and deflated.  When it launched as a digital version over the weekend I was nervous but began to receive some lovely feedback. As nice as that was there was a large part of me that wondered if they were just being nice.  Rubbish, I know. But still.

Then the physical version arrived and as I unpacked the book I looked at it and thought. Oh. Is that it?  I knew it was only 72 pages but still, until you are holding a thing the penny doesn’t properly drop.  A year’s work for this!

You see non-fiction, real non-fiction is tough. Up until now, all I have written have been columns, essays, I just opened my brain and let the scribbles pour out, nothing was incorrect as it was simply my opinions and observations.  Admittedly I have to try to master grammar, punctuations and spellings, not my best friends, but beyond that, anything goes. But a History, well that is all about Facts and facts are the bedrock of the entire book.

I have had to go back to primary sources to verify facts and discovered that some aren’t true at all. I have confirmed until I was blue in the face, then when I discovered an error it took months to try and work out what the actual truth was and where the alternative history started.  Then, of course, there were the events where there were no records, those damn saints! So I would have to extrapolate, summon my educated opinion or in other words, guess.

Finally, after all those longs months, I had to try and put it into words that were readable and engaging without being too dry, dreary, long winded or overly chatty.  I failed on the overly chatty front.  For many years my tutors lamented on my academic voice and it would seem that I never mastered it.  Having written the book, it then had to be proofed and re-proofed (and re-proofed) and then I worked with artists, typesetters, printers and a whole array of very talented professionals that all helped turn my endeavour into an actual book.

So, I sat there holding my chatty book, my slim book and I thought, Oh. That’s  what a year of work looks like? And then I think people will look at that and not understand why £5.99 seems a reasonable price to me.

Ah well, publish and be damned.

A History of Mevagissey

Also available in Hurley Books, Mevagissey and more retailers as I get my act in gear.

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All posts are written by Liz Hurley, author of SCRIBBLES FROM THE EDGE and LOSING IT IN CORNWALL These two books are collections of her columns, written for the Cornish Guardian. They available from Amazon as e-books or paperbacks as well as from Hurley Books.

The Great and Terrible Blizzard of 1891

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What a fabulous day.  I was very lucky to be allowed to look through the Mevagissey Harbour Trust’s historical records.  I have been browsing through their ledgers from their inception in 1774 and looking at schematics for the various stages of pier buildings, there really is something exciting about getting to look at such old documents. The first ledger is dated 1774 and minutes the inaugural meeting of the Trustees, held in The Ship. The book is bound in Ling skin! Ling is a long thin cod-like fish. It’s marvellous.

Anyway, exciting bindings aside. I soon discovered that it was almost 126 years ago, to the day that the harbour was devastated by the Great Blizzard of 1891. Beginning on Monday the 9th of March and lasting for around a week a massive blizzard blew across the country from the east. Across the country, 200 people and 6,000 animals died. Twenty-eight ships were sunk and the cost to shipping, businesses and individuals was incalculable. An easterly wind is the cruellest for Mevagissey but this wind proved to be Mevagissey’s greatest devastation.  The south pier had been extended and rebuilt in 1888 at great expense and yet three years later the storm lashed through the pier, breaking it down and leaving massive breaches where the sea stormed in.  The outer harbour was full of stone from the pier and the lighthouse on the end, whilst standing, was now inaccessible, and the storm and snow raged on.

Sometimes this book just writes itself!

 

 

 

 

Gathering stories

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I’ve been having a lot of fun chatting to people about the history of Mevagissey.  Up until now, I have been poring over books, newspapers, archives and ledgers but over the past few weeks, I have been out and about.  I’ve been chatting to priests and doctors (ah, what sets them running across fields) I’ve been chatting to fishermen and curators, I have learnt more than I can possibly publish from my hairdresser, I have supped coffees with living legends and listened to the tall tales told by some of the village elders.  The fun thing about people is that you can say “I read this but what does it mean?” Oh boy, talk about fleshing out history.  I’m going to be adding lots of snippets and stories but wow, the stuff that I have had to leave out to protect the innocent 😀 (and the others!)

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