Page 1 of New Beginnings At Pencarrow Bay

Imagine you are a seagull. Every day you swoop and glide, enjoying a panoramic view of the earth below.

As a breed, you’re famed more for your sandwich-snatching than your cultural sensitivity.

But surely even you couldn’t help but be bowled over by the magical vista Pencarrow Bay offers as it spreads out beneath your wings.

Nestled on the south Cornish coast, within a leisurely ferry ride of Falmouth and encircled by the famous South West Coast Path, the bay– previously a fishing village– is a gem, a rare place of seaside beauty and tranquillity in this crazy, upside-down world.

Over the centuries, a variety of dwellings has crept up from the fishermen’s cottages clustered around the harbour to cover the surrounding hills.

Raked like theatre seats for a view of the sea– coloured in white, pastel pinks and blues, sometimes slate grey, in one case a curious dark green– the houses dot the slopes in picturesque confusion, as much a part of the landscape as the palm trees that flourish as a result of the area’s unusual microclimate.

The bay also boasts a small shingle cove edged with rocks, on which sits a famous mermaid.

Morvoren, serene and untroubled by the slapping waves that assault her at every high tide, has been carved into the grey granite of the cliff by the ancient, unseen hand of Nature.

Her smooth, curving tail is said to bestow success in love and fertility on any who touch it.

On the other side of the bay a wider, sandier beach is better for swimming, although jelly-shoes are advisable to traverse the band of pebbles and small rocks before the finer sand kicks in.

Yachts and other craft bob in the shelter of the harbour during summer, watched over by the majestic working lighthouse on the east corner of the headland, with Pencarrow Castle on the west. The ‘castle’ is, in fact, no more than a draughty ruin, ‘built as a sixteenth-century fortification’, the visitors’ legend explains.

It has stunning views across the sound to Falmouth– which would have been no consolation for the poor soldiers sent to defend a place so regularly blasted by the elements.

Although they might have appreciated a cup of fresh-ground coffee from Ted’s cute, sky-blue converted Citroen van, named Henri, which now stands in the castle car park.

At sunrise, the west of the village– with the swanky Samson George hotel, the sailing club and the less than swanky wooden pasty hut by the harbour wall– is bathed in a delicate, silvery brightness as dawn light is reflected off the sea.

At sunset the east of the village, with Fitzroy’s pub, Morvoren’s smooth, stony cheek and the dinky blue-painted ferry moored for the night, glows with the red-gold warmth of the setting sun… as long as it’s not raining, of course.

The fishermen and their families who inhabited the cottages for generations are now long gone.

In their place is a motley selection of residents, whom the few surviving born-and-bred Cornish still living there term ‘emmets’– incomers or blow-ins– mostly comprising tourists and second-home owners, retirees.

And we must not forget the piskies, the fairy people who have dwelled in the bay and on the surrounding hills since the beginning of time.

Folklore has it that they first came over perched on the shoulders of the saints, like StJust, invading Cornwall from Ireland for reasons known only to themselves.

Nobody can agree on the appearance of these spirits.

Wrinkled old men just three foot tall… or no bigger than your thumb.

Clad in rags… or smartly dressed in red, green and brown.

Helpful and benign… or mischievous and prankish.

Cynics, beware: dismiss these fairy creatures at your peril.

Last but not least are the ubiquitous seagulls.

Like the piskies, they get mixed reviews.

You cannot imagine the British seaside without their raucous squawking and shrieking overhead, their scarily sharp bills and strutting march across the sand on their huge webbed feet, the endless representations of them on mugs and tea-towels.

You’d expect their diet to be mainly fish and molluscs, of course, but guard your bacon sarnie with your life: Pencarrow’s seagull gang-master, Colin, will scope every café table, every unguarded ice-cream cone, every open carton of salty chips, with his beady yellow eyes.

His troops– a crack force, fiercely trained– will hover innocently, then swoop when Colin gives the nod, their powerful wings terrifyingly violent and full in your face.

Chips, sandwiches, scones with cream and jam: all ready-meals for seagulls.

Pencarrow villagers love and hate the birds.

The bay is generally acknowledged by all to be a truly magical place to live.

The human residents enjoy the very best of beauty and tranquillity, plus the cosiness of close friendships, the sparkle of sun on sea, bracing coastal walks with a warm pasty nestling in your day-pack, a peaceful sunset sail where you might glimpse a dolphin leaping in the waves, golden scones loaded with rich clotted cream and homemade strawberry jam.

But they are not immune to the usual vicissitudes of life by virtue of their location.

Pencarrow Bay might be their home, but it is also a designated tourist village.

Heaving in summer. Isolated, empty, shuttered and regularly damp in winter.

Strong community spirit; potentially claustrophobic and gossip-ridden.

It would be unbelievable if everyone lucky enough to live there was blissfully happy all day long, as the exceptional setting might suggest, demand, even…