Seagulls in the Attic Page 21

  I holler, ‘No, no!’

  Mickey turns to reassure me, ‘Don’t you worry, I won’t get no blood over the upholstery. Just gonna drive it out with this, y’see?’ He brandishes the shovel.

  I pull on his arm. ‘It’s OK, Mickey, honest. He’s not any old seagull, it’s my pet, it’s tame. We raised him from a baby.’

  Mickey drops the shovel and stares at me. ‘You what?’ He says it as if I’ve nursed a baby cobra at my breast. ‘You gotta be joking.’

  ‘Uh, no.’

  He peers into the back of my car again then jumps back quickly as Google flaps his wings at him. ‘You must be daft as a brush, maid,’ he mutters as he walks away. ‘I never heard nothing like it.’

  By the time I’ve finished my round, all the post office workers plus half the village of both St Geraint and Morranport are talking about my domestic relationship with a seagull, taking it around for drives in my car along the seaside. And like the snake, when Elvis first came to live with us, Google is the subject of much larking about at my expense. I get comments all day like, ‘Hey, me handsome, I hear tell you be keeping a home for seagulls, so how about taking away a dozen more?’ and ‘I done give those pesky gulls that hang out in front of me shop your car number, postie, so you can drive them all Up Country somewhere.’

  When I get back to my car at the boatyard, Google is gone. I left the windows open despite the damp fog still swirling around. Everywhere is white, the sea, the sky, there’s no horizon, nothing but this haze.

  I jump when Mickey suddenly appears in front of me, materialising like some lanky spirit. ‘He be gone, my lover. Your bloody gull. Scrabbled outa the car and flew off soon after you’d gone.’

  ‘Oh. Well, I half expected it. I didn’t think he’d stay in the car all day. Do you know where he’s gone?’

  ‘How the hell should I know? Out there somewhere with all the other gulls, stealing food, plaguing the emmetts, splattering the town with bird shit.’

  ‘Right. Sorry I asked.’

  He takes my words at face value. ‘That’s all right. No problem. But let me give you a piece of advice, my lover. Next time you find a baby gull, you ring its bloody neck.’

  I make some kind of non-committal sound and wave goodbye. Sitting in my car, I look at the gulls sitting on some nearby rocks. They look majestic, beautiful and free, especially when they soar up from their perches or dive down after fish. Sighing, I wonder if Google will come back. Maybe he won’t find his way, or won’t want to come back now. I peer through my open window, hearing boat and bird noises in the fog, but I can’t see anything but the swirling mist; even the gulls have gone. I wonder if I’d recognise Google with all the other seagulls but I then remember he’s got a red band around his leg. Ben banded him when he was still a baby, so that if he went off we’d always recognise him amongst the other birds.

  I drive home slowly, stopping every time I hear the cry of seabirds, looking out over fields and cliff tops to see if it’s Google. It’s daft I know, especially as the mist is so thick now I can hardly see anything, but I’m worried about my seagull. The pragmatist in me knows that if he has flown away at last, joining the other gulls on the cliffs, it would be for the best. But he’s my sweetie, my baby bird that came to stay in our attic and has never left home. Not just me but the whole family would miss him if he goes now.

  As I get home the first thing I see is Google, flying above the car as I slow down and park. ‘I thought we’d lost you,’ I say, so pleased to see him that I give him half the cheese sandwich I was saving to eat when I got home.

  The unseasonable fog lifts just in time for our camping trip. August is hot and sunny and we’re on our way to a campsite near the sea. We’ve chosen the West Penwith peninsula, still in Cornwall but a totally different landscape. The coast is more rugged and there are the moors to explore when we want a change from the sea.

  We leave early in the morning so that we can ramble a bit before we set up camp. Stopping at a layby on the edge of the moors we set out for a trek. It’s wild country, with craggy sheep paths, patches of yellow gorse and already purple and pink heather spreading across the hills. Then there’s the granite and the incredible rock formations everywhere. We come across some prehistoric standing stones and stop, not speaking, feeling as if we’ve been whooshed back into some primeval time. Though it’s high summer, we’re the only ones on this spot on the moor and it feels as if we’re the only folk in the world, just us and a lone buzzard that is circling above us making his memorable mewing call.

  We walk for ages, coming across wonderful old clapper bridges across little creeks and inlets, stumbling across ancient archaeological sites – the haunting ruins of the once great copper-and tin-mining works, and the settlements that grew up alongside them. We find stone crosses and circles in the middle of nowhere, and in the expanse of lowland heath we have to find hidden sheep tracks to walk along between the gorse and brambles.

  Our campsite is on the top of a cliff. There’s a narrow path and rocky ledges down to a cove and a sandy beach. The children are over the moon. I’m a bit less enthusiastic. Camping is a challenge for me as I love my creature comforts especially a bed and a cosy duvet.

  All goes well as we set up the massive tent. It’s a perfect day and when the tent is up, the children walk to the tiny nearby village shop for freshly baked bread. I slice it for lunch, along with farmhouse cheese and tomatoes we picked up from a roadside stand. Ben spreads a blanket on the sweet-smelling grass in front of our tent and we eat with relish as we watch the sea which is still and smooth, with not a whitecap in sight. A gentle breeze prevents us from getting too hot and all my misgivings about camping vanish.

  It gets better and better. In the late afternoon we walk down to the cove and spend a lovely couple of hours swimming and sunning. Because this is such an isolated beach with no access other than the fairly long, rather precarious walk down the cliff, dogs are allowed even in summer. Jake is delirious with the fun of it, bounding in and out of the shallows playing in the gentle waves. And though the walk uphill to our campsite is steep and tiring, we all feel fit, healthy and glowing when we finally reach the top. I sauté a vegetable mixture for dinner with courgettes from the garden – they are all ripening at once, as courgettes do – mixed with more fresh tomatoes, onions from the allotment and garlic. The village shop has local ham for sale and it tastes delicious with the vegetable mix.

  We sleep well, after the day of fresh air and exercise, and breakfast is heaven. Emma’s friends, who live in the farmhouse, are friendly and helpful. We buy new-laid eggs from them and scones the woman bakes herself, as well as her own clotted cream. In the tiny shop we stock up on locally reared, cured bacon as well as more fresh bread. We take our hoard back to the campsite, delighted with our purchases.

  It’s another glorious day and this time we start with a walk along the cliffs, planning a good hike before lunch and an afternoon lazing on the beach. The walk takes us past stupendous views of the sea with a horizon gauzy with heat mist. The rock formations are rugged and majestic. A turning in the path leads us off the cliff top as the trail meanders through a wild meadow. It’s lush with late summer foliage and I revert from holidaymaker to my foraging self and look for something we can pick to eat. While Ben and the children find a mossy spot under a shady tree at the edge of the meadow for a drink of water and an apple, I start poking about in the long grass to see what I can find.

  I’m in luck. After ten minutes or so searching I find big clumps of sorrel, tucked away in a small patch of grassland. With a shriek of delight, I run back for my rucksack and start stuffing it with sorrel leaves. I’m not quite sure what to do with them but I know from my research that they’re edible. And I know this really is sorrel as Edna showed me the leaves she’d collected one day.

  That time she was absolutely positive what it was. ‘I’ve been making sorrel soup for years, m’dear. Before your parents were born, I should imagine,’ she had said.

 
; That’s what I’ll make for our dinner this evening. We’ll have sorrel soup and fresh bread, with local butter, cheese and tomatoes.

  I couldn’t get a recipe from Edna, though, when I asked her she looked bemused. ‘Recipe, dear? Goodness, I merely throw in whatever I have to hand – maybe onions, or mushrooms, or whatever. Anything.’

  I set about making the soup while Ben kicks a ball around with Will and Amy. All that energy, after a long walk this morning and swim this afternoon, not to mention climbing back up from the beach. But we all had a siesta after lunch, Mediterranean style. The weather is so incredible we could be in Greece, Italy or the south of France.

  I chop up the sorrel leaves as finely as I can with the one sharp knife I brought, toss it in a saucepan with some butter and onions and let it cook for a few minutes. From the farm I’ve bought local potatoes so I throw some of those in, cut into small pieces, add water and let it all simmer. When it’s cooked I add a few herbs I’ve brought along, some salt and pepper. As the family gathers around for dinner I taste first, just to make sure.

  It’s not that tasty. It’s too bitter for a start. For a moment I’m stumped then remember how often, when the spinach soap tastes too strong, I add a little cream to it which dilutes that strong spinach taste. We’ve got some of that homemade clotted cream on hand, so I slowly add a small portion to the soup before pouring it into bowls. As I stir it in carefully and not too quickly, I’m horrified as it starts to curdle. This never happened, ever, to my spinach soup. My sorrel soup is now nothing but a curdled yucky mess.

  ‘Never mind,’ Ben says as he looks at it. ‘We’ll have bacon butties instead.’

  He doesn’t look at all disappointed and the children are positively beaming with delight. I have to admit that my face lights up too and in moments we’re all grinning in glee at the thought of our new dinner plans.

  The smell of cooking bacon on a campsite is pure heaven and after we’ve rushed to the shop (which luckily never seems to close) for more bacon and fresh rolls and eaten our meal, I decide that bacon butties are my favourite camping food. I could never be a vegetarian, if for no other reason than bacon butties.

  I’m chided affectionately about my occasional foraging disasters while we eat but I have the last laugh. I produce a few handfuls of wild strawberries that I also found on our walk and picked while the others hiked on ahead. They make a wonderful dessert, sweet and perfect. Everyone goes to sleep that night happy, peaceful and satisfied.

  What follows is the most horrendous camping night imaginable. It begins to rain. Softly, gently, at first, so that I wake and hear soothing drops on the tent and think how cosy and dry we are inside. Then the drops get heavier and the wind comes up. Our tent moans, blows and yes, the worst scenario, it begins to leak in the children’s section. They wake up and pile into our side and none of us get any sleep. I’d had the idea of making contingency plans for sleeping in the car if a storm came up but realistically it couldn’t be done. Minger is old, small, and far too uncomfortable for four people to bed down. Besides, it’s a dog kennel now. Jake was restless in the tent, keeping us awake, but he loves sleeping in the car. We’ll just have to stick it out in the tent.

  The storm is fierce with thunder, lightning, the works. I begin to worry about being struck by lightning but before my worries get too out of hand the storm seems to pass. It doesn’t stop raining though, even when the wind drops. It drones on and on.

  When daylight dawns having somehow found our waterproofs we stagger out in the wet to inspect the damage. We’d put the tent up at home in the front garden and left it out during a rainy day to check for leaks but it seemed fine then. Now Ben finds that the trouble is a slight tear, probably caused by the wind. It’s an old tent and not as durable as some of the modern ones we’ve seen on the campsite. But Ben has come prepared with the stuff needed to patch it up. The trouble is, it won’t stop raining. Most of the children’s clothes that I couldn’t rescue from the leak in time are soaking, and I have no clue where to dry them. At least they have some to last them a day or so and surely it must stop raining soon.

  It doesn’t. Not all day and not the next either. I finally make Will and Amy some sort of bed in Minger, one on the front seat the other on the back, and bring Jake into the tent. The rain beats on the canvas all night and Jake whimpers. Our air mattress deflates in the middle of the night, for no reason we can think of other than pure dejection. It’s probably feeling as soggy as we are. But we’re used to Cornwall and know that the weather can change dramatically in a couple of hours, so while the rain lasts we decide to explore a bit more of the Penwith area and head for St Ives not far from our campsite. The only parking places are way outside the town and we’re soaked by the time we have walked in. When we finally get there the place is packed with sodden holidaymakers; you can’t even get into a café for a cup of warm hot chocolate, which is great for business but not for us. We look around the Tate gallery but it’s packed with visitors as wet and steaming as we are.

  Outside the Tate we stand in the pouring rain wondering what to do next. Porthmeor beach is right opposite, entirely empty except for the all-weather surfers. It’s a wonderful beach, crescent-shaped with golden sand, and despite the weather and the choppy water, it looks amazingly tempting.

  ‘We can’t get any wetter,’ I suggest. ‘So why don’t we go into the sea and swim?’

  Like maniacs the four of us run to the beach, strip down to our swimsuits which we were wearing in case the weather changed and jump into the sea. It’s such exhilarating fun that we rent body boards and do some gentle surfing. Before long we’ve totally forgotten that it’s still raining.

  I’ve put our waterproof jackets over our heaped pile of drier clothes and towels so we surreptitiously take off our wet swimsuits, get dressed quickly and decide on a brisk walk to warm up. From Porthmeor beach we go up the slope leading to the island, which isn’t really an island but a hilly mound of grassland surrounded on three sides by the sea. We walk along the clifftop path around the island and it’s fantastic, great waves crashing on the rocks below us, purple and black storm clouds above, and the noise of sea and sky thundering above and below us. It’s awesome and dramatic, a theatrical performance just for us.

  We walk down from the island to the end of Smeaton’s Pier. The tide is in and the nineteenth-century harbour, once home to around four hundred pilchard boats, is filled with small fishing craft and motorboats. Looking over the side we’re thrilled to see a seal gazing up. It’s a big one and stares at us with huge brown eyes.

  A man next to us says, ‘That ole boy’s been around for years. There be two of them seals, old’uns both, that come around every day looking for handouts from the fishermen.’ He hollers down to the seal, ‘Ain’t that right?’

  The seal cocks his head to the side then sinks under the water, bobbing up again a few minutes later. The children are enthralled and so are we. We watch the seal’s antics for some time, oblivious to the rain.

  We’re ready for a hot drink and food now so we wander down around the maze of narrow streets and alleyways, looking at the delightful cottages once owned by the pilchard fishermen and their families but now nearly all holiday cottages and B&Bs. The cafés are still so crowded because of the consistent rain that we go back to the car and head for Zennor, not far away. The old pub there isn’t crowded at this hour so we find a table, order soup and crusty bread, and begin to dry off. After we’ve eaten we walk across from the pub to the church of St Senara with its medieval tower, to find the mermaid that’s carved into one of the wooden pews. We’ve never heard of a St Senara but find out that she was married to a Breton king, was wrongly accused of infidelity, put in a barrel and thrown out to sea. I’m not quite sure why that made her a saint, as I’m sure she wasn’t the only ancient queen, or modern one for that matter, so wrongly accused, but what do I know?

  I abandon thoughts of poor St Senara and set off with Ben and the children to find the mermaid seat. There she is
, carved on a bench end, holding a comb and mirror. The legend is that a young local man fell in love with the mermaid and she lured him to a nearby cove where he drowned in the sea. They say that on quiet nights you can still hear the two singing beneath the waves. After we’ve found the carving, we take a short walk along the cliff path at the top of the village to look down at the cove where the mermaid lured her man.

  ‘I wonder if it’s the same place where the Breton king threw down the barrel with poor Senara in it,’ I say to Ben.

  The cliffs are high and the sea with its sandy beach looks a long way down. Will and Amy are getting too close to the edge and I call, ‘Get back, you two. There’s been enough drama in this place to last for ever without you adding to it.’ But I have to admit it’s another spectacular view. The thundering rain has turned into a kind of horizontal drizzle and the waves are now more frothy than fierce.

  Walking back to the car at the edge of a field, some Jersey cows follow us part of the way, intrigued by Jake as he darts along beside us. They look benign and complacent, as if nothing bothers them, not the rain, the wind, nor even our tiny group of bedraggled humans and one wet spaniel. As we walk away from them one of them moos, a deep sound that seems to amplify in the wind and follow us all the way to the car.

  The next day the rain stops. It’s not exactly hot and sunny but at least it’s not raining. We fall out of the tent, feeling like Noah must have felt tumbling out of the arc with his animals. The children run shrieking around the campsite, despite the soggy grass and mud everywhere. The woman at the farmhouse kindly said we could dry our walking boots, saturated from days of walking in the rain, by her kitchen Aga overnight so we collect them, put them on and go for a long walk. The air smells fresh, clean and tangy. The sea is choppy and the sky is grey but it’s exhilarating. There’s a sharp wind now but that’s fine as it’ll dry out the campsite and our tent.