The winter has been harsh, we have had rain and gales, high seas and crashing waves. The wind has whistled through our home and spooked our cats. One night we ventured into a quaint harbourside town, so much smaller than ours, seeped in even more legend and history. The wind was so strong it nearly blew us away and made the little one cry. We holed up in the only pub, the fire was lit and the fishermen were on dry land, drinking the bar dry. I felt safe and warm and knew this is what the wild Cornish winters were all about, finding your sanctuary and safe haven.
We had friends come to stay and we took them to another town, a town filled with art and wonderful views, but alas the storms took hold again and we could only jump out of the car and run for the save haven of a coffee shop this time. The sea raged and looked angry, and again the little one cried. I worry about her childhood memories of our life here on the remote shores.
The following day the sun did shine, though the wind was bitter, even sunny corner was struck, but we walked round to another beach in our little town and found a sheltered spot, the children played with waves, and got soaked, we painted rocks and built the first sandcastles of the year. The sea looked less fearful and we found two dead sharks on the shore, which saddened us but intrigued us all the same.
I took our friends to my favorite beach which I only discovered last year, yet so close to home, I dream of living there one day, even if only for a summer, I wanted to share it with them. The waves crashed in and we had to walk further up the beach to find sand, it was an adventure. The children ran with crazy dogs and laughed and played. We drank tea from a flask and fed the littles ones cake to keep them going. On arrival home, windswept and wet with frizzy hair we felt alive and felt we had survived. So be the Cornish Winter.