Trebarwith Strand

Twas the day after the Birthday.

To be more accurate it was also the day after Clover's Mum's birthday. Coincidence? Yes, but an old one.

And because it was the day after and because the day before was misty, windy and rainy, time was spent on an expedition across the Tamar border and into North Cornwall. The itinery: lunch at the Cobweb in Boscastle, followed by a romp on Trebarwith Strand.

At least that was the intention.

Also present was Jack and Jack's Mum; Jack because he's got a mullet and Jack's Mum because she's Jack's Mum. Clover was there by default.

The Cobweb Inn for those who don't know - which I'm guessing will be a rather high percentage of the internet population - resides in what appears to be an old stone-built warehouse or dockside building. Three stories tall, it's square built of dark stone, matching exactly to the surrounding cliffs; and likely there's a good reason for that.

Inside it's busy. Not just busy with people, but busy with stuff. Nik Naks generally, but also old wooden furniture including a couple of dramatic arm chairs, nice old photos of locals, impliments, the inevitable water jugs ... stuff. Which is great when the conversation dries up, though yesterday wasn't one of those occasions.

They also serve a good selection of real ales which, as anybody with a passing knowledge of British mores will know, is a must. Food is your standard pub fayre though with a greater selection of specials and most likely a notch or two up in quality. I had a steak and onion baguette. Jack's Mum had a bacon and stilton baguette - the rich blue cheese melted over the top of the bacon - and Clover's Mum had the inevitable tuna mayo sandwich (on brown).

Usually, lunch at the Cobweb would be preceded or followed by a trip down to the harbour wall, but since we were pressed for time, that particular regularity was cancelled as will any description of what that entails. From Boscastle then it was post-haste to Trebarwith Strand ...

Now, it's important to remember that research had been carried out. High Tide (and there's an article or two!) was in at around 10 in the morning and we were on location around 2.30 in the afternoon. It should have been past mid-way and approaching a low tide situation. But no, such was the ferocity of the sea (for any Hawaiians reading this you need a sense of the relative), such was the anger of the sea, that the waves were still encroaching on the rocky gully that serves as the approach to the beach. Of that beach, there was no sign.

Not convinced ...


I'm not sure that's exactly proof, but it'll do.

We did, out of politeness to Trebarwith, take the dogs up onto the heights for a while, but it wasn't quite the same as beach romping, so it was back in the car and a twenty minute drive, through Boscastle and on to Crackington Haven where the same troop was once filmed by the local BBC weather unit.

No, seriously. We were on the evening news for ... oooh about eight seconds.

Fame is a difficult beast at the best of times.