Generally speaking in our experience campsites in Britain are of a poorer standard than those in Europe. Some are overmanaged, many overpriced and quite a few overdue refurbishment. So it was great to come across somewhere that bucked the trend. Little Bodieve holiday park on the outskirts of Wadebridge is excellent. A mix of statics, seasonal pitched caravans and tourers with the odd doughty family under canvas.
Over the weekend it has been busy, a happy mix of families and retirees, it has a laid back informal atmosphere, a bar for socialising and a swimming pool with a waterslide, some play equipment scattered about, by day it is lively without getting raucous but peaceful at night.
A beautiful sunny weekend has helped too. Despite all the human activity, at twilight as things quietened the touring field filled with grazing rabbits, at silflay as Richard Adams would have it. All a bit Watership Down.
After our experience in Padstow yesterday we wondered if the trail in the opposite direction towards Bodmin would be impossibly busy on a Sunday. In the event, although cycling through Wadebridge was a tad tricky, the trail was not crowded. I stopped to take a photo of the beautiful beech woods beside the river.
Gill cycled on. I had the place to myself, time to reflect on the loveliness of sunlight through fresh beech leaves, how their dainty ovoid shape and the trees' horizontally layered canopy creates stippled rather than dappled shadow patterns. Birdsong and deep green reflections in the languid river - one of those exquisite moments of fleeting beauty, 'spots in time' as Wordsworth called them.
Further on we passed the back entrance to the Camel Valley Vineyard. Sadly it was closed on Sundays, it would have been interesting to sample one of their celebrated sparkling wines.
A mile or so before Bodmin we happened upon a small café by the side of the trail advertising cream teas. Shady tables were scattered around the steep terraces of an apple orchard.
Vineyard, orchard, beautiful woods, the river alternating between silvery rapids and mirror-like pools, it all felt more like the Perigord than England.
We opted to break with time honoured tradition and had coffee with our cream scones. To make amends for this transgression we were mindful to construct our scones using the Cornish method - jam first, cream on top. Admittedly this was hardly an imposition, it's what I'd do anyway. The opposite way around 'Devon style' seems impractical to me, cream is squishier than jam, so why put it on first? Anyway, these things matter apparently hereabouts.
As Gill returned from the kiosk with a seriously calorific tray she observed, "the man behind the counter was so friendly." We reflected that that had been our experience generally since we arrived. It is remarkable given the influx of visitors and stories of rising Cornish property prices driven by wealthy incomers that it remains a very welcoming place. I think that is the main reason, beyond its geographical isolation, why Cornwall feels somewhat different to the rest of England.
Offhand I can't think of a single English county that I have not visited at one time or another. One of the delights of the country is its variety of landscapes, vernacular architecture, local traditions, cultures and accents. However, as a visitor the one thing you can always anticipate is a guarded welcome. Reticence manifests itself differently from place to place, caricatured as regional stereotypes, the reserved southerner, the brusque Yorkshireman, the affable but sarcastic Geordie, and so on. Maybe these are myths, but they do reflect a national propensity to be less than open with one another other, grudging in our approval, suspicious of strangers, lukewarm in our welcome.
Of course in this we are not alone. Even the the most ardent Francophile will admit that that the welcome for visitors to La Republique is often edged with a certain sang-froide. However not everywhere is like this, there are still places where being hospitable is a matter of national pride. In Iberia, Greece, Denmark and New Zealand we have always been welcomed wholeheartedly, at the very least people were open, friendly and happy to help.
To our surprise we felt this too here in Cornwall. This seemed especially remarkable as the influx of visitors righ tnow makes simply getting about tricky for locals, but no-one grumped, people were helpful and friendly, in shops they had time for a quick chat about this and that. The place felt cheerful, which it has to be said is in short supply elsewhere in the country. So Cornwall, culturally speaking, feels closer to New Zealand than to Yorkshire. This came as a delightful surprise.
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