The little green lanes of Cornwall will be lush with flowers now, with all the rain we have had.
And while my time spent living there cured me of most of my longing, a small shred still tugs at my heartstrings at this time of year.
There is often no rhyme or reason to the meander chosen by a particular lane. Maybe it swerves to avoid some big landowner’s estate; possibly it is the shortest route between the cow field and the milking sheds, trodden over centuries and laid with tarmac when practicality rendered it desirable.
You hug the left like a monorail because coming round that next bend could be anything from a vacation-loopy merc to a towering combine harvester. Traffic can be cars; then again it could be sheep or cows, or blithe tourist bikes oblivious to the fact that someone around here has work to do.
The Cornish hedges are singular: part earth, part stone, looming above one either side of each tiny road, home to an abundance of flowers and grasses and mice and voles.
We were ambling on a road on the edge of Bodmin Moor when we came across a small mole regaled in black velvet, right in the path of any wheel which might career on the road to Launceston.
It appeared unperturbed, but Maddie and I were not. We prodded it mercilessly until it betook itself, disgusted, to the nearest hedgerow: just in time for a great galumphing bus to wheeze up the hill and on its way.
This is the land of the fat swift, who gorges on feasts of plump Cornish insects replete with dung and ditchwater, soaring on the warm updrafts in the valleys of the stolid little peninsula.
My husband says one can smell the fat Cornish air: and I’ll swear he’s right.
It is not a county which needs to give itself airs and graces. It is peopled with natives which have intelligence and a wry, amused autonomy. They’re not English, you see: they’re Cornish.
Every now and then nestled in a field or behind a verge, you will see long, low stone buildings.
They are not barns or Phil’s favourite, piggeries. They are meeting places for people who, like Cornwall itself, eschew airs and graces, and have done since the 17th century.
The Quakers built meeting houses all over Cornwall. Their philosophy suited the Cornish temperament: a plain, spare commonsensical attitude to worshipping a plain, spare, commonsensical God.
There is a tale about the day a Quaker met a king.
Quakers were people after my own heart. While it was the common custom to remove one’s hat in the presence of someone important, the Quakers felt that equality was a simple truth. They made a point of not removing their hats, and good on them, I say.
But a sense of humour can wear away hard, uncompromising edges, I always find.
William Penn was an extraordinary man, with a foot on both sides of the channel. A confirmed Quaker, he died not far from where I write this post, but his life was spent forging the early days of Pennsylvania, writing constitutions and urging states to unite. he is a giant in the early history of the United States of America.
The time came when he was to meet the king of partying: King Charles II.
The story goes that he walked into the king’s room, and pointedly did not take off his hat: whereupon the King removed his own.
“Friend Charles”, asked Penn, using the comradely greeting favoured by the Society of Friends: “Why doest thou uncover thy head?”
The King smiled, and his answer changed my opinion of him as a foolish playboy forever: “Friend Penn, he answered, “it is the custom here that only one person wears his hat in the King’s presence.”
It was a face-off of the most charming kind.
In gesture at least, one of the great figures in our line of monarchs seemed perfectly happy to model a little humble behaviour for the sake of a gentle jest and a point made.
But the idea of true equality does take a bit of getting used to. In our workplaces status is all: pecking order is a way of life, accepted beyond question.
Last week I sat in a room and talked to a Vicar General. I had a message to impart, about ordinary people in his church and how important they are to his mission.
But like William Penn, I had a proverbial hat; and I wasn’t about to take it off. the Vicar General and I: we were equal.
He was initially stiff and formal, but he made a fabulous cup of tea and I was parched. While I could have done with Charles’s easy humour, he was long dead and gone, and we settled for a courteous agreement to disagree, and parted on cordial terms, each going our own way on two human feet, the same as the other.
A jest and a cup of tea: excellent equalisers, it seems.
Kate Shrewsday 
CII was witty and intelligent. He had a difficult road to the throne and found that, to deal with proud and difficult men, of which there were plenty in his time, a joke worked best.
It’s a philosophy I like 🙂
I love your description of Cornwall; I’ve never been but I know the rest of us are still considered furriners.
Glad you saved that mole.
Me too, Tilly…it was a close thing….
I really enjoyed the Charles story. Does it have a reliable provenance?
Cornwall is obviously a bit of the island I need to see more of.
Talking of Vicars, we are importing one from SW of E for the baptism of younger granddaughter. She was out to do the one for elder, too.
What progress on the ‘leave our church alone’ campaign?.
The Charles story is a tiny snippet filed under ‘hat’; in the millennium edition of Brewer’s Dictionary of Phrase and Fable. Brewer is long gone, of course, and Adrian Room has taken his illustrious chair. Regrettably a bibliography for such a tome would be longer than the book itself: so he trail goes cold there. Maybe Google will be able to help us…..
The Church is standing stolid and immoveable and the church is being cleared under cover of darkness, hastily. I fear demolition is on the cards. However we have fired a few cannons which might pause it; and there’s always an injunction, if we can find a willing solicitor. Our main task is to show folks that even if the church is razed to the ground the land, and the need of the community, is still there. Demolition is a very potent symbol.
I feel the same way about equality. People with that attitude are probably more at ease in the presence of power than sycophantic counterparts. It seems societies which have the closest approximation to equality have the happiest populations overall. It’s definitely something to aim for.
You’re right: considering oneself an equal is freeing. One no longer ears disapproval and the importance of a message is not lose in misplaced awe. Thanks, Stace.
Before you ever mentioned Penn, your photo took me to Bucks County, Pennsylvania . . . where the earth gave up its rocks to shelter settlers from the elements in Cornish style.
Wonderful post, Kate. Especially enjoyed the King’s response to the hat-wearing Penn. 😀
Ah, someone from the state which began with Penn….I’d love to see some of their meeting houses.
Clever old Charles, eh?
Graciousness and humour wins the day – good for Williiam and Charles, both. And you and the vicar – (but hope that ultimately you get your way, Kate)
Thanks, BB. Two words we’d all like to emulate: graciousness and humour. I must tattoo hem on my forehead: I think I’m going to need them 😀
I’d love to see Cornwall one day and loved Charlies quick wit.
Well done for holding your own with the vicar, Kate.
Cheers, Cindy. If you ever make it across I’ll take you round myself. ‘Grockles’ (Cornish word for incomers) can miss so much of they don’t know the lanes 😀
How I loved the weaving of stories here, Kate, and you give us such words that are rich to read. Thank you.
Cornwall. Someday. There is something about it from what I read and see that calls me – and I don’t mean Doc Martin, though it is a favorite show for me to watch. Your picture is wonderful and reminds me of Pennsylvania as well. That is a great story about Friend Penn and Friend Charles – or / Friend Charles and Friend Penn, which is to the point, is it not?
I hope things work out between the Vicar General and his flock, and I think the United States Congress men and women could take a cue from the King and the Quaker.
That is totally to the point, Penny: Friend Penn, Friend Charles, shoulder to shoulder in the sight of their God. Cornwall is beautiful and wild beyond words, and something to see in a lifetime. And I think I’ve told you before that Port Isaac – where Doc Martin is filmed – was the village in which I was a head teacher for a year. Crab sandwiches for lunch!
You did tell me about Port Isaac, and I think of you every Saturday night here as I watch Doc Martin. Now I’ll be thinking of crab sandwiches for lunch as well. I can still taste one I had a few years ago in Rockport, Maine. I can only imagine one in Port Isaac. Someday.
Meet you there for a sandwich lunch one day, Penny 🙂
I have always been fascinated by Cornwall, Kate. Loved your take on equality, Good for you too.
Thanks Denise 🙂 Cornwall is endlessly fascinating…
What a lovely post, deep and thoughtful and poetic, but so accessible. And Cornwall sounds wonderful! I’d love to see it. Hooray for the dark velvet mole, who lives to dig another day.
I hope he learnt something when he saw that bus go by, Elizabeth, but I suspect he didn’t…..thanks for those words, which are a huge complement coming from someone who writes as you do. Your work is quite deeply affecting.
Vicar General sounds so military: and military wields power – so good for you on totally being yourself in his company and not cowed by rank!
I agree with the principle of equality, but find my upbringing goes against me at times… eating away confidence and making me into a ‘yes’ woman.
There are more ways than one to be equal, Pseu; sometimes we find our way around a powerful person without challenging their status, and I suspect your humour and pragmatic take on life would render you well able to handle any vicar, general, or vicar general, who came your way…
I like your confidence in me!
🙂
Hello after so long…
Amazing how being in a place can stir such strong feelings in us. I have my beloved places on this earth that fill me with smiles to just think of.
Equality- Those in high positions who treat those around them the same, regardless of their ‘rank’ are the ones I respect the most.
Zoe! Lovely to hear from you once again! One would hope every general led by example, but it seems this is not always so….
My only notions of Cornish character, before this, came from the Cornish maid in R. D. Blackmore’s Lorna Doon. But it seems Blackmore drew from life, maybe?
This post pleased me muchly. Thank you!
Hi again, BetweenBlueRocks! Gwenny Carfax is very bit the Cornishwoman, with her fierce loyalty and her pragmatic flaws. Lovely character, thanks for the reminder! Glad you enjoyed the post…
too seldom the ‘great’ can smile or laugh at themselves. some people work like crazy to reach those exulted positions, yet one wonders if they are actually happy
how did this ger here, it’s a response from elseshere. did wordpress go loopy when i wasn’t looking?
oops, that was me, confused betweem 3 of Kates posts (sorry Kate)