Friday, 9 September 2016

Dreams of Cornwall

I wish I had a great aunt in Cornwall. The kind of aunt that has collections of tea sets, paints pictures of the sea, wears her hair in a bun and talks of her youth as if it was yesterday. Sadly, my grandparents have long since gone, so have my great aunts. I miss hearing about the past. That sense of connecting with history that can only be felt when someone recounts their experience of being there.

I always wanted to move to Cornwall. In fact I had intended to but it's not something I'd do now I have a child. Her relationship with her family is too important to stretch over many miles without good reason.

I'd like to travel South again soon though. I need to tramp barefoot through Cornish sands and watch the blue of it's sea. Somehow, Cornwall feels like coming home. There is no logical reason for this. I've never lived there nor holidayed for longer than a week but there is a sense of unexplainable belonging.  

It would seem that I need to buy a tent. Big enough to move around in, small enough to carry on the train. Either that or borrow someone's aunt every Summer. Obviously, I lack the sufficient level of pennies for hotel stays. This is ok because camping is great fun. Although I've never camped on my own with a four year old. It's probably still tremendously exciting, from a certain angle, if you squint a bit and apply heavy duty rose tinted spectacles. I care not. We are absolutely going to do it anyway.


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