In winter Cornwall can be a mysterious place with damp white fogs and many funny shaped trees looming out of the mist; the eerie trees were long since caught in a wicked wind that froze them in their least attractive pose so that forever they are forced to stretch their outstretched boughs as if in fear – or perhaps in anger – but they will not break when they are visited again by the prevailing Atlantic winds.

It was sunny as we left our home in Devon and began our journey to foreign parts – our neighbouring county. We were full of excitement because we were going to have an unexpected break at Rosie’s fairy-tale cottage in North Cornwall; we had only made up our minds in the morning and we were away around four in the afternoon.

The clouds gathered and a mist was forming before we even reached the border. Once in Cornwall the fog became thicker and wetter, wet enough to require the windscreen wipers, and the headlights were already on. But our mood was happy, not gloomy, and we laughed as we zoomed through the fog in my sporty car (roof on, since the services at Exeter Forest). We passed a clump of trees on a hilltop above a thick blanket of fog.

“Just look at that,” I said, “they form a perfect circle!”

“Have you ever seen Brown Willy?” asked Chris.

“Do you mean Brown Hilly?” I giggled.

“No, Brown Willy. It’s a place in the middle of Bodmin Moor. I laughed, too, when my geography teacher taught us about it.”

“Have you ever been there?” I asked.

“No,” he chuckled.

“Do you want to?” I roared with laughter.

“Certainly not – Brown Willy is right in the middle of the moor,” Chris snorted, “honestly! Besides, we need to get to Rosie’s before dark.”

~~~

The mist recovered itself as we left Port Isaac this afternoon, having had a wonderful time at both Padstow and the little fishing village where the television series “Doc Martin” was filmed.

“Would you like to go to Tintagel and then on to Boscastle?” Chris asked. “It’s a while since I went to Tinagel.”

“I’d love to,” I said, “it’s been a while for me, too.”

We parked in the car park nearest the ruins of Tintagel Castle and looked in vain over the wall. We could see nothing beyond a few yards ahead of us.

“Is it worth going?” Chris had his reservations.

“Oh, come on,” I beckoned.

“It’s £3.00 to park here – flat rate,” he sneered.

“Well let’s just leave the car and check out whether or not we’ll be able to see the castle,” I cajoled.

We risked leaving the car and walked down a path to a sign coming out of the fog.

“My goodness,” said Chris, “now we have to pay to go to the ruins.”

“We didn’t have to pay when I came here last either,” I agreed, “but of course, I haven’t been here for thirty-nine years!”

“It has to be nearer to sixty years for me!” said Chris.

We didn’t fancy a long walk in the fog to see ruins in the fog so we came home… to Rosie’s warm cottage with spring flowers in the garden and a tidal creek flowing beyond the garden wall.

By the way, Chris showed me the map and there really is a place called Brown Willy. Sorry, but it still makes me laugh.