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We’re lost. Not just confused. Not one street out. We’re off-the-map lost.
Another stop. Wind the window down one more time. Ask the same silly question again: do you know where….?
“Ooorgh,” says the man we’ve stopped while out walking his dog. “Ooorgh,” shifting his cap and scratching his head.
By now, we’re starting to realise this strange gargling sound isn’t connected to a medical condition, but simply the accepted beginning to most sentences hereabouts.
……………
This article continues, written in an upbeat conversational style and includes information on Cornwall, the beaches, local food and cuisine, things to do and see.
………………..
(finishes…)
Cornwall is not a shire or a county. It’s a duchy, belonging to the Duke of Cornwall with a language – Cornish – that is now archaic. It’s Britain’s summer playground, the hedged inadequate roads jammed each year with beachgoers, eager to play on the west coast’s shining sands that seem to stretch forever.
It’s summer evenings in the pub nursing a pint of Scrumpy; it’s green meadows, polka-dotted with cows and horses, mazed with more hedges; it’s thatched whitewashed cottages, with maybe a bed and breakfast in one of them. It’s Rodda clotted cream at the far end of the country.
It’s getting lost and finding a friendly local.
Ooorgh!
(900 words + Factfile) ©Sally Hammond 2006
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