Alfie heads towards Kings Arthur’s seat at Tintagel.

Port Isaac would forever hold from no memories for Alfie,why it had been the scene of a part of his life that he could look back on in fondness,knowing that most of us have times in our life when the care free days of our youth suddenly come into our lives at the most unexpected of times.Alfie mused as he walked that it is so often music that transferee us back to those times of abandonment,to the strawberry fields of lush colours,spring daffodils and the like.

This part of the North coast of Cornwall resided in his heart like a cd on constant repeat.Today he wasn’t really thinking deeply as to why,it just did,like certain foods that you know you shouldn’t over indulge in,but we’re so good to taste and savour,and he would soak up their flavours like a baby does it’s mother’ milk.He walked from Boscastle towards Tintagel in a frantic steam of activity the like of which he hadn’t achieved before on his walk.He was able to navigate his way over the terrain today with fresh vigour and purpose.He was in touch with the landscape,he was free.This freedom had affected him today,so much so,that he thought that he would easily reach Tintagel and beyond today.It was funny how his resolve to cover the ground was so intense today.He was a man who had the germ of an explorer today.
Reaching the town of Tintagel via Trebarwith strand,he fortified himself with lunch in the Kings arms pup a favourite watery hole of his as a youngsters in his late teems.Although the owners had long gone,some of the old pictures still graced the walls,and Alfie felt that connection with that bygone world.Alfie liked Cornish legend,and he liked the telling of the stories of the old folk of each of these towns and hamlets,and ,although they were 90% hyperbole ,they still emotionally affected him,and drew him in to the scene as it were.These people were,on the whole ,rustic,they were quarrymen,they were used to hard labour,working with their hands as it were.They would look at his,see that his were soft and sinewy,then make their judgements.But to Alfie,it was a consequence of his path,he didn’t find it hard now,in fact life for him now was pure joy.Yes,as a child,playing the piano in a predominantly working class area of a small village in Cornwall wouldn’t,at that time,render you a “cool guy”,but now,it didn’t matter as such and life was oh so much better.
Nowadays,with Cornwall’s indigenous population shrinking,it was a paradox to describe someone around here as local,because as a child,being local meant that your were born in that village,you were raised her, you would then live there until you died.Cornwall was an enclave,suspicious of newcomers when Alfie was a child,now it’s very survival depended on these newcomers becoming,in their eyes,local.Of course,if you moved away from the area,like Alfie had,you were views with a different sort of suspicion by the diehard Cornish,and Alfie knew it,accepted it,and felt at peace with himself enough so as not to make too much about it.

He would enjoy his time here at Tintagel,and traverse the ruins of the castle,wondering how many thousands of visitors would do exactly the same thing as he had done in the future.There is something comforting about the metaphysical,the old,the medieval,the legend,the sheer intrigue,the interwoven story within the story.He submerged himself in the place for hours,quite at peace with the place,happy with the quirky nature of the county of Cornwall,but feeling fortunate that ,as a young man,he had had enough appreciation ,enough education to find it fascinating.

Yes,this was his positive image of himself as he continued in in his journey of recollection,his mind was good,his body wasn’t as old as he thought.Life was good.


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