If we couldn’t get abroad we had to return to the old hunting grounds on the Cornish coast. The trick was to avoid the traffic and to get into a spot away from those who would normally be in the med. That was only possible by leaving a eleven at night and booking the lodgings two years ago and we squeezed north and south in all weathers. We got jabbed by the wind, jabbed by the rain and nothing else to worry about but food and our maps. Doubly good for the soul.

Helford on the Lizard side – as glorious as ever with hardly a soul about other than the pub.

Gillan Creek and the sheltered  St Anthony in Menage with its moorings

and Porthallow which remains nicely lost in its local enterprises of boats and fishing


and then Portcothan where the sands are washed everyday


and Constantine was unusually fierce for May

Quietening in the evening strong light