At the Mouth of the River Fal

At the Mouth of the River Fal

Otherwise known as Falmouth.  We don’t know if there’s any link to the town of Falmouth, Kentucky.  Falmouth is more or less the opposite kind of harbor from the one at Padstow.  Instead of a large shallow sandbar that has washed down blocking the harbor, Falmouth has a natural, deep water harbor full of freighters, in addition to the swarm of pleasure boats that surround them like ants around sandwiches.  It also guards the entrance to the English Channel, and so out on the promontory sits Fort/Castle Pendennis.  Actually, there is a series of forts and embankments and gun emplacements dating back to before Henry VIII.  Henry VIII’s gun fort, however, is the most visible and picturesque, and so it is the version that most of the site is devoted to.  Henry VIII built a whole series of these along the south coast of England to keep the Spanish and the French at bay.  They were not named after the axed-wives.

Freighters and Small Fry

Henry VIII's Gun Fort Pendennis

Living On the Harbor

One can keep busy all afternoon winding around inside and outside of the main tower and then the warren of tunnels and ditches and bunkers that were built for various wars.  We are told that in WWII, the artillery could heave a shell over 13 miles; pretty impressive.  If they turned the guns inland they could probably just about shell our little cottage in the vale, a half hour away at Cornwall road speeds. 

The gift shop is a hoot, with lots of great toys for kids, which of course we love the best.  Miniature trebuchet pencil sharpeners that really work!  (Catapult for us novices).  Foam swords for the kids, but for £50 the grownups can buy a full-sized replica.  Try taking THAT on the plane.  “Really, sir, it’s a golf club.”   They do have an interesting array of fruit wines, which our hosts have recommended to us, so we come away with some Black Currant (we have some notion of what that will taste like) and some Nettle wine (no clue).  Other choices included Dandelion, Elderflower, Gooseberry . . . you get the idea.  

Black Currant Wine, Sunshine, and a Granite Bench

The Falmouth Harbor is busy with boats and people and the Market Street that stretches for about a mile, parallel to the harbor but not actually facing it; in that space is an almost continuous line of dwellings, right at the water.  We had a long chat with a transplanted Londoner who sells and rents formal attire, including Cornwall’s distinctive plaid skirt, which  us Yanks know as a kilt.  He carefully explains how it works, including the symbolic plastic dagger tucked in the sock.  You just never know….

The Cornish Kilt

The Stylin' Shoe

We continue our survey of local brews.  Since our arrival we have tried at least 10 different St Austell ales, pale ales being their specialty.  In Falmouth there are other ales, including some casks set up at the bar that they are happy to give samples from, and everywhere there is a good choice of ciders. Lovely.  Patrons are a mixture of tourists and locals, and the bars are all equally slightly dark and dingy, overcrowded with photos of regulars, awards and medals from god knows where, and decorative prints of generic Cornwall. 

The roads and signage are still somewhat of a mystery.  Finding a destination on the first try can only be considered a roaring success.  Even though we could see the castle from across town, and could park at the base of the castle, we had to ask locals for directions to actually get to it.   However, sometimes the path is both charming and challenging.  We decide to walk into Stithians for dinner at the local pub, and noticed on our first trip that we had missed some Public Footpath shortcuts that would keep us off some of the narrower bits of road.  In fact, it turns out we could walk all the way to the pub on footpaths that cut across pastures, down stream beds, and through playgrounds.  This works well for the most part, with some charming wooded paths, but then includes some of the dreaded ‘mud crossings’ that are nearly impossible to negotiate without mudding oneself.  

Inside the Seven Stars, in Stithian

The Path to the Seven Stars

Gretchen's Special Doggy Friend

The Seven Stars is unassuming, typical, and tended by a taciturn gentleman.  At first we think it’s about us, as outsiders.  Then a man who is clearly a regular walks in, orders a pint, and sits down.  He and the bartended exchange about 5 words.  Then for the next 15 minutes neither of them says anything to each other, and he barely touches the pint.  We speculate they are conducting some secret conversation by means of body language we cannot see. Or we are more interesting or daunting  than we think.

Regardless, the food is the reward.  On the board are a series of £5-8 meals, with the ‘splurge’ being the £11 lamb shank in mint/rosemary sauce.  It is without a doubt the finest lamb I have ever eaten—slow cooked in the sauce -- they don’t even bother to bring you a knife—you simply pick it off the shank with a fork and drown it in the remarkable sauce.  I had nothing even close to this in Paris, France.  At the end we were sopping up the sauce with Gretchen’s chips so we wouldn’t leave any of it behind.  And the leftover bits went to the owners’ attentively quiet little dog. We indulged in desserts, deliciously including variations of Cornwall’s famous cream. There was none left to offer the brown dog with the curling tail.

The walk back at sundown was a bit longer as Gretchen was unwilling to further muddy her sandals on the path. Another wonderful day!