Back from a week in Cornwall, which we largely spent eating, moving very slowly from pub to pub, and taking rather Scooby-Doo-esque photos in the dark, whilst demons watched us from the inky night.
I love the wildness of Cornwall, the on-the-edge-of-things feel to it. When you journey through the Cornish countryside and look out at the ominous rolling hills and the dark clusters of trees, you could well be looking out at Narnia, The Shire, or Westeros. In many ways these bits of England are the birthplace of Fantasy, and that pleases me.
Not only that, but the land at the very edges of this country feels old. I’m a sceptic down to my very bones, but when walking past a graveyard in the sort of dark you just don’t get in London, it’s all too easy to believe that a restless spirit might be haunting this tree or that stone. Ancient knights fight ghostly battles, over and over for the rest of eternity in these bleak fields. The shade of a drowned woman haunts the well at the local pub. And, you know, you get more serial killers where there’s lots of grass. Fact.