I set off for a walk around the parish at 5pm yesterday, ostensibly to ‘catch some rays’ (a brilliant plan, at dusk). After slithering down the hill & crossing the wee stream that borders Wooda’s acreage I clambered up the hill & turned round to witness the farm & my temporary home from a new angle & in a different light. Very bonnie it looked too, quite in keeping with the landscape, even with the addition of a wind turbine (just about visible on the right).
For some folk wind turbines are monstrosities but I find them rather attractive, in an eerie way. They make amazing sounds, acting like amplifiers of change in the wind’s mood. After recording some very vocal & confident sheep with their newly-borns, I followed country roads all the way to Tresparrett, I guess about two miles from Wooda, to check out a pub recommended by Max called The Horseshoe Inn, hoping perhaps to find some sunshine there.
It was pretty dark when I finally ambled on my torchlit pilgrimage through Marshgate towards Tresparrett. Being a crisp, clear night the stars were already emerging, twinkling their uncanny ditty We Are Not Alone. It was a beautiful evening. Crisp & clear conditions seem to enhance the sense of smell, or perhaps even the smells themselves.
My olfactory journey towards & eventually into the bosom of the boozer followed this rather heart-warming sequence of odors:
Cows dung & straw (locked in for the night). Ready-meals in the oven (kids, get ready for bed). Coal on the fire & shirts in the tumble dryer (tomorrow’s Monday). Musty Antiques Roadshow on TV (poetic license). Intermittent diesel (for me, notes of an ice storm, Chicago ’96).
Cornish pasty (lingering infusion). Tommy Girl (barmaid, overwhelmingly, not unpleasant). New born babies (families welcome). Ale (fruity, good, well poured). Broccoli & stilton bake with garlic bread & salad (very good indeed).
Thereafter I smelt – smelt of? – little else except ale & garlic & like the Joy Division track, I Remember Nothing. However, their singer Ian Curtis was probably singing about the Nazi Holocaust, not a trip to a country pub. Although I would like to have heard him have a stab at that topic. Two existing Joy Division tracks may lend themselves well to adaptation: Glass, or perhaps Twenty Four Hours. Anyway, I’m telling lies for effect. Of course I remember things, like emailing unwanted proof-reading tips to anonymous at 2am.
‘In North Cornwall, those Inns and Public houses that are not situated to take advantage of the tourist trade, are disappearing. The Horseshoe Inn is one of the few remaining that depends on local custom, and blessed we are that the village still has a heart.’ (From The Horseshoe Inn website)
Here is my own little review of the place.