Fowey looked so beautiful but impossible, unattainable to begin with but so very slowly and delightfully, like a wanton woman she lured me in and opened up her tiny winding lanes so full of shops and cafes of houses and of hotels. Past her lonely distant car parks she coaxed me ever deeper with a kiss of sea and stroke of sun and  with snapshot glimpses of the sheer ecstasy of her complete and utter gorgeousness.  

Then unbelievably  she steered me to a parking place as near as there could ever be in this most  dreadful day and age begging me to share the carnal delights of her most intimate beauty. I parked up, amazed…who me? … no surely not.  there must be some mistake.  It must be a loading bay. ‘disabled ‘or ‘we’ll clamp you up ‘’or danger road liable to subsidence.. your car will fall into the sea.’

But no, 2 hours free parking and a sea view and a grammar school garden right there above the estuary and that was free too. Yes free free free.  I fainted… well almost.  

I could have but entranced, I entered the garden and there I met an American feeding a pigeon with a broken leg (the pigeon had a broken leg. it was not being encouraged to eat one).  He was also looking for his white cat as he was afraid it might eat the pigeon.  

Had I entered  a new dimension? It was not something I was in a hurry to rule out.

I moved to the front of the garden half expecting The Spion Kop and an entire legion of Liverpewl supporters to confront me spewing vomit and lager onto the flower beds or pissing into the sea.. or worse.. but no, there were just two wonderfully down-to-earth Cornish folk  who engaged me effortlessly in trivial nonsense.

I fainted again well o.k. Almost only to be awakened from my reverie by that American, remember him, seeking more info. on the disabled seagull and the lost cat.

Were they perhaps all Druids luring me into this heaven (for Fowey is surely Heaven ) and would they soon relieve me of my head in some horrendous ritual and cast it into a shaded pool in honour of their God of tourism ?(it did occur to me that this may not be the best way to encourage tourism but it was very hot and I had most certainly been the victim of some very up front luring).

But no my Cornish friends  prepared to leave and so I left the garden too seeking tea and joined the merry throng that now wandered aimlessly along the lanes that terraced lazily in zig zags down toward the sea.

And as I sought tea, so tea came. But not just tea .. My wanton lady Fowey took me by the hand, nay she put her arm around my shoulder and such was her forwardness snogged me and led me  seductively to a café.

But not just any café. This was a café made in Fowey [short for heaven remember) with teacakes, jam and butter, a pot of green tea (enough for three) and served upon a terrace.

Yes ,you’ve got it, overlooking the estuary where Fowey completely shed the last vestiges of  her shyness and ravaged me in an orgy of jam teacakes green tea ,seagulls, the tumble of her buildings slipping seawards out across her bay, a flotilla of yachts , hire boats and fishing skips and thank the Lord a very very stiff breeze.