Wandering the West Country
My first holiday/vacation with my wife, taken very many years ago (in 1980 actually) was to Cornwall, in the deep south-west of England. We stayed in a village, Polruan, tumbling down the hilly east side of the River Fowey's estuary as it flows into the English Channel. On the opposite side of the estuary is a small town, also named Fowey (pronounced "Foy"), famous for its water-borne regatta and the writer Daphne Du Maurier, author of Rebecca, The Birds and Don't Look Now, who lived thereabouts. Like many parts of Cornwall—especially its coast—the area around Fowey is very picturesque (the valley is designated as an Area of Outstanding Natural Beauty).
It was late in the year (in fact we were greeted by trick-or-treaters on our first evening in the cottage we rented—the first time I'd ever encountered such a thing in the UK. I'd previously tended to associate the pastime solely with Halloween in the US). Notwithstanding the lateness of the month and the diminished hours of light, we had good weather, and my girlfriend-to-be-wife was very game about walking the sometimes-difficult byways of the valleys and the sharply rising and falling coastal paths to nearby coves and bays, despite her 5'1½" height providing her with only little legs.
Access to the town of Fowey was across the estuary by ferry, with another connecting the hamlet of Bodinnick, further upstream. Downstream, at the mouth of the river, blockhouses at either side had once carried a chain across the river to obstruct any French interlopers during our historic disagreements with our Gallic neighbours. Downhill from where we stayed there was the local pub, by the quayside (The King of Prussia), and we made friends there who took us to Land's End one day. They had an old English sheep dog that was related to a pooch used in the British TV advertising for ICI's Dulux paint. I don't know how many "Dulux Dogs" there have been over the years, but it's an enduring identifying image.
We took a second holiday in Polruan some years later (but rather earlier in the year) and we returned for a third time—at least to the Fowey valley—once more in 2006, taking our then-thirteen-year-old son with us. On that last occasion we were upstream at the town of Lostwithiel, the highest navigable reach of the river (but only by very small craft at that point, the large vessels carrying locally mined china clay can only navigate the much deeper downstream stretch). Crossing the river at Lostwithiel is a 14th Century (or older) bridge, unsurprisingly only one lane wide. Here's a view of the bridge into the town:
In some ways it was a difficult vacation: my wife was unwell and finding the exertions of getting about too much of a strain, especially given the topography. So I did most walking on my own as wife and son kept each other's company in less strenuous occupations centred on the environs of our lodgings. Renamed Peregrine Hall in its more recent use as holiday accommodation, the buildings had formerly served as a Youth Hostel and, before that, in the distant past, had been built as a kind of reformatory for delinquent young women (eight words now susceptible to a multitude of ghastly interpretations). Subdivided into apartments and cottages, the Victorian buildings had plenty of character, though again, the "trouble" was uneasy in the slightly Gothic atmosphere of the place. All the same, she enjoyed the large gardens and the views across the valley they afforded.
Above, Peregrine Hall. Below, looking south-west over the valley. Lostwithiel is just out of shot to the right.
Peregrine Hall from the south, taken during a day's hike south:
Following the valley south on that hike, I came to the parish of St Winnow. Here's a view west over the river, with the tower of St Winnow's church visible to the right:
St Winnow's double-aisled church and—following—three nearby river-side images:
Inevitably, there is a local fortification: Restormel Castle, a badly ruined, simple shell keep replacing an earlier motte and bailey construction. Despite appearances, it is one of the four main Norman castles in Cornwall. Fairly unprepossessing as such edifices go, Restormel Castle doesn't look as though it might have withstood serious attack and, I believe, only once featured in any meaningful conflict (centuries after its original construction) in the English Civil War of the 17th Century, after which it was probably slighted by the Parliamentarian forces that had attacked it.
The gatehouse:
The ruined interior of the fortification:
Happily, my family joined me on the pleasant hike to the castle, a long-ish but fairly level walk, crossing the local railway at the bridge, with the castle visible on the hilltop:
Of course, it's possible that this is as dreary as looking at somebody's old holiday photographs (ahem!)! On the other hand, it's possible you might like to have a look at another bit of Olde Englande. In that spirit I offer them.