A stroll along the creek from St Winnow to Lerryn - and back

If someone trapped me in a vat of bubbling gravy and said they wouldn't get me out until I'd given them a list of my favourite walks, this walk would be one that I'd use to escape Bisto hell. We've done several times and it never palls, whatever the season and whatever the weather conditions.

Our route followed the Fowey for a while and then hugged the north side of Lerryn creek to Lerryn itelf - and back again. Just over 6 miles in glorious weather, with views all the way.

Our start and end point was the car park adjacent to St Winnow's church in the eponymous St Winnow. The church itself is a 15th Century listed building and stands on the same flat piece of land where probably the oratory of St Winnoc was erected at the end of the 7th Century. Of that building, made of cob (mud and straw) and thatched, nothing remains. The churchyard is roughly circular which indicates the antiquity of the site as an original 'lan'. What I like about this church is the ambience: there is a wonderful and palpable stillness, tranquillity and timelessness about the place.

This window in the Lady Chapel is a memorial to Lieutenant Teignmouth Melvill, of Ethy, awarded one of the first posthumous VCs for his gallantry in the Zulu Wars.  

The glass in the east windows dates from about 1500 and it's a lot more impressive than this photograph might suggest. Just imagine, this assembly of fragile panes has been in this location for over 500 years.

The Rood Screen is one of the few to have survived in Cornwall; it was taken down and sympathetically restored by Violet Pinwell, a very well respected ecclesiastical wood carver, in 1907. We've come across her work in many of the churches we've visited.

There are thirty three (yes, there are - I counted them!)  Elizabethan and Tudor carved pew bench ends, ranging in age from around 1485 to 1630. They are reputed to be among the finest in Cornwall, but they also say that about those in the church in Altarnun. Let's not indulge in comparative superlatives: they are both impressive and worth seeing. I like to run my fingers over the wood and make a connection with the artist.

This one shows an early trading vessel  and is, or so I read,  of considerable interest to maritime historians. I like the sense of vitality and movement that comes from the carver's chisel.

As well as the intrinsic interest of St Winnow's church, there's also the location to enjoy. It's right next to the River Fowey and I've already mentioned its tranquillity. The Fowey originates on Bodmin Moor and flows down to the sea at Fowey, via Lostwithiel. At its upper reaches, near Siblyback Reservoir, it is used as a channel for domestic water, which is then abstracted at Restormel. Stick with me and learn, folks.

Before I forget, here's a road sign that caught my attention. I wish I'd had the time to drive down the lane to see what 'impractical for cars' actually meant. Too narrow? Too rough? Why just cars? Would it be impractical for lorries? Bikes? I thought it was a very nice way of indicating a potential problem. Much better than 'no cars' or 'cars prohibited'. In a way, it leaves going that way very much to the judgement of the motorist: "we've said it's impractical. Your choice as to what to do next".

Flowers of Spring 1: the Blackthorn is just coming into blossom, filling the air with its musty fragrance. A sign that Winter is definitely over - we hope. Here's a tip for the uninformed: don't get near its rather fearsome thorns. They hurt.

Flowers of Spring 2: a few Bluebells are making their appearance, ahead of the main show at the beginning of next month. Is there anything more evocative of woodlands that the scent of a mass of Bluebells? Not to me, there isn't.

The stepping stones  across the River Lerryn are an iconic feature of Lerryn and are negotiable at most states of the tide, with the exception of the highest. Children like them as do the young at heart. How old are they? Nobody knows for certain and they are usually rather vaguely described as 'ancient' - though not the obviously cement ones that are there now.

Looking down the River Lerryn to where it broadens out as it meets Lerryn Creek off the Fowey River. In 2000, an earthenware jar was found beside the creek which contained over 1,000 silver Roman coins dating from the 3rd Century AD. At one time, the 4 miles of creek to Lerryn was navigable from the sea by cargo barges.  However mining activity in the river valleys has caused the creek to silt up so that it is now only navigable by small boats.

Watercolour Cottage in Lerryn. As I suspected from its name, it is a holiday rental property. It just doesn't strike me as a name that a local would use but, despite the name, it is in a lovely position. Having viewed it from its front, I'm not sure that it's picturesque enough to warrant being the target of watercolourists or artists of any other genre. But what do I know?

And then it was back to our starting point by St Winnow church, a joy from any angle.
 



On this day in 1918, Engine Room Artificer 2nd Class Ernest William Dennington was lost at sea

Of all the names on the Stoke Climsland War Memorial, that of Ernest William Dennington was probably the most difficult to assign. The monument itself incorrectly identifies E.W. Dennington as P.C. Dennington (and seems to have been added, out of alphabetical sequence, after the majority of the other names) whilst the Roll of Honour in the church lists E.W. Dennington as one  of  those  who  fought  and  returned  safely from the conflict. Notwithstanding these anomalies, the biography below has been validated by a number of sources.



The War Memorial plaque showing the incorrect name for E.W.Dennington.

Ernest William Dennington was born in Devonport on 25th April 1889, one of the sons of Herbert and Harriet Dennington, a schoolmaster in the Navy. On his 18th birthday in 1907, he joined the Royal Navy in Devonport for a period of 12 years. It is by strange and tragic coincidence that he died on the exact  same  day  in 1918 – 25th April. He entered the service as a Boy Artificer (engineering apprentice) and worked his way up the ranks, by service and training, to reach Engine Room Artificer Second Class. As such, he helped to maintain and operate the mechanical plant of the ships he served on.

Ernest Dennington's naval service record.

His final posting was to HMS Cormorant, a 'receiving ship' or shore establishment at Gibraltar. Such an establishment had a variety of functions. For many men it was a Naval barracks, for those who worked ashore or for those 'between ships' for whatever reason. In addition there might be men who were on vessels which were too small to do their own administration, so the men were carried on the books of the shore base. Ernest Dennington fell into this latter category, as his last posting was to a small boat, Motor Torpedo Boat Number 90. He was based in Gibraltar for a couple of years, long enough for his to enrol in the Freemason's Lodge there in 1917 and pay a 7s 6d membership fee.

Few details are known of the fate of HMTB 90 but it is listed as ‘capsized off Gibraltar in bad weather ’ on 25th April 1918, with the loss of all hands. No bodies were recovered for subsequent burial. His effects were left to his father, Herbert.

As well as being remembered in Stoke Climsland, Ernest William Dennington is commemorated on the Royal Naval Memorial on Plymouth Hoe.

Confirmation of Ernest William as the correct focus of our researches came from his nephew, John Goodall, from Whitstable in Kent. John was able to tell us that Ernest’s parents, Herbert and Harriet, were living in Kelly Bray at the time of his death and they were regular worshippers at Stoke Climsland church. John also gave us the accompanying photograph of his uncle.

 

OK, what now?

Those of us with an attention span longer than a gnat's will remember the debacle of the Iraq War and how this country was rushed into military action without any plan about what to do afterwards. And the result? Destablisation of the Middle East and a chain of conflicts which have seen ancient cities reduced to rubble, hundreds of thousands lose their lives, hundreds of thousands more wounded or maimed and millions flee into exile. We remember how that same mistake was repeated in Libya. And now there’s Syria.

Theresa May didn’t just embark on her military adventure in Syria without first debating the issue in our supposedly sovereign parliament, she did so without even bothering to give a coherent explanation of her reasons for doing so or presenting any meaningful idea of what she sought to achieve by it. There’s no strategy, there’s no plan. She reacted dismissively when it was put to her that she was merely following the American line by joining in the attack on Syria and insisted angrily that she acted out of her own principles. But she couldn’t actually articulate what those principles might be. Neither did she bother to give us the evidence.

To use Mrs May’s favourite phrase, let us be very clear. There may very well have been a chemical attack in Douma carried out by the Syrian regime against its opponents - and its own people. It wouldn’t be at all surprising if that was the case. But the real point is that the British government has lost all right to take unilateral action on any such attack without incontrovertible proof being presented by a neutral source and without the events being investigated by an unimpeachable international organisation. The assertion of the British government that bad people have done bad things is no longer enough, because the British government has lied about these matters in the past with disastrous results for the countries which are the subject of the military action. It has lied more than once and it has always got away with its lies even after the lie has been exposed. Where there are no consequences for the liars for lying, there is no incentive to stop lying.

That’s the issue here. It’s an issue of trust. It’s not that anyone trusts in the assertions of the Syrians and of Bashir Assad or Vladimir Putin that we should all move along because there is nothing to see in Douma. It’s that we don’t trust the British government and we are no longer prepared to give them the benefit of the doubt. That’s a pretty lamentable state of affairs in a democracy. What’s worse is that this is a state of affairs that has been brought about, not by fake news from the Kremlin, but by the lies and deceit of successive British governments themselves.

Supporters of the British state can scream all they like about fake news. About Russian manipulation of the news, about it being treacherous to question our government's credentials, but that’s not going to rebuild trust in a British government which has repeatedly lied and has been dishonest without any help from Vladimir Putin. The only people who can rebuild trust in the British government are the representatives of the British government, but that British government doesn’t seem inclined to change its ways. There is no willingness to learn from the mistakes of the past, and Westminster keeps on repeating them. Being British seems to mean being caught in a groundhog day of war. All this has happened before, and it will keep on happening.

One problem is that there is no accountability built into the structures of the British state. The Prime Minister can do what he or she pleases as long as they have the support of a neutered parliament of lobby fodder. There are no checks and balances, no written rules. The famously unwritten British constitution really just gives the power of the day carte blanche to do as it pleases. Sometimes a country really does need to go to war, but Britain has created a situation where even if that were the case many people would oppose it because successive British governments have lied about the need for military action so often in the past. Sadly and regrettably, there are times when military action is indeed justified, but British governments have created a situation in which the public can no longer be confident if that action is justified or not.

We really do need to change important aspects of our governance. We need to get away from a state which treats warfare as a short term political tactic. We need a government which can be held to account. We need change because we need a government which is representative of the views and the will of the people. We need change because politicians cannot be trusted, and we need to keep them close to us so that their arses are within kicking distance of our feet.  Then when our politicians do take us into war we can be confident that they’re doing so in the national interest, and not in their own.

And in the meantime, Assad continues unabashed.

Up the creek with a paddle and Master FP.

Every now and again, we have one or other of our grandchildren to stay with us by themselves. It's a good time for us to give them a little individual attention and, let's face it, spoil them. That's what grandparents are for, after all. This time around it was the turn of our eldest grandson, Master FP, and we spent a day having fun in the Tamar Valley, within 5 miles of home. Why travel when it's all on the doorstep? I wonder what we will get up to this weekend when we entertain Master GRP, grandson #3?

We started off with a canoe trip up the Tamar, starting and ending on the quay at Cotehele. A round trip of just under 5 miles, up with the turning tide to Rumleigh Farm and then back down. We've done this a few times before and it's always been a delight (thank you, Canoe Tamar, for providing the facility).

Looking downstream from the quay over a very calm river. At this stage the flow was almost imperceptible making paddling very easy. Being on a quiet river is a unique experience: it's quiet, unrushed and so relaxing.

Master and Mrs P getting stuck in with their paddles. I had the more onerous responsibility of steering from the back. Plus a bit of paddling as well, of course. Actually, I sat back and enjoyed a rather delicious and leisurely late breakfast as they slaved away in front of me. Hee, hee. They didn't suspect a thing, even when the chicken bones and empty champagne bottle floated past them!

The iconic viaduct at Calstock from an unusual angle. You can get a very impressive echo if you clap your hands when you are underneath it. Look at how calm the water was.

This shot was taken on our way back down and gives a good view of the houses of Calstock tumbling down to the river.

And after a stop for refuelling at the Tamar Trails café in Gulworthy, for which we had to venture over the border into Devon, it was a session on the high ropes at Tree Surfers (forgive the blatant name dropping but it's good to support local businesses).

Holding on with both hands is too easy: how about doing it with one hand behind your back? "Easy, peasy" says Master FP.

Bet you can't do it without holding on. "No problem", says Master FP.

OK, clever clogs, how about keeping your  eyes shut as you go around? "Give me a harder challenge", says Master FP.

How about backwards? "Whatever", says Master FP. And after that we went home for tea!

Splish splash across Bodmin Moor

To the eastern edge of Bodmin Moor to recce a potential route for one of our walking groups. A sunny, reasonably clear day but not a day without incident - and wet feet. All part of life's rich tapestry, methinks.

A circular route, starting and ending near North Bowda farm. On the face of it, there are lots of potential parking spaces on the lane edges but, when the verges are soft, beware of getting bogged down. We covered just under 5 miles. Note the zig zag just before Fox Tor. Fox Tor was our target but this involved going across Redmoor Marsh. The clue is in the name - marsh - and it was, in parts, a knee-deep wade through a ......marsh. After that we decided to divert around Fox Tor rather than go up and over. Note to selves: next time, take a longer route to the west and then go up the ridge to Fox Tor.

A stone cross on the side of The Ridge. Some accounts say that this is 'ancient'. Wrong. Apparently it dates from around 1920s or thereabouts and commemorated someone killed in a riding accident. You can just make out two lines of letters but they are not decipherable. The top of the cross is quite loose and it can't be that long before it falls off when someone gives it a shake. Ooops, how did we know it was loose?

All around the walk, we came across archaeology of one form or another. Quite a few of these structures: obviously man-made from the cut marks on the granite but for what purpose? Animal shelters, perhaps? Or dwellings?

Nine Stones Circle, looking a little wetter than when I was here the previous week. Look at the blue sky. It really was a glorious day and just the right temperature for walking.

Drying off after our encounter with Redmoor Marsh. What was strange was that we had cross an area called Watery Marsh with completely dry feet. Perhaps this beguiled us (OK, me) dropping our defences. However, as the only consequences were four wet feet and a striking memory, it could have been worse.

Lots of Lesser Celandine around at this time of year. A striking yellow flower, giving early bees a feed.

A common form of style we encounter in these parts. Sometimes they are quite difficult to make out, particularly if the sign posts are missing.

A medieval parish was defined by its boundaries at a time when it was important that villagers and their neighbours should know and respect the limits of the parish – hence the yearly walking or beating of the bounds at Rogation time. Such parish boundaries were often marked by natural features in the landscape, such as streams, large trees or boulders, which could all be used to define the parish size and shape. Where there was no obvious geographical feature, boundary stones were erected and these vary in size and shape and sometimes the site is also marked by other boundary stones from adjacent parishes. The one above marks the boundary between Altarnun and North Hill parishes. The A for Altarnun is clearly visible and, I would presume, the other side is probably incised with N or NH for North Hill. The boundary marker would pre-date the stone wall at the back of it. A small thing in itself and easy to miss but I think that these important historical artefacts are worth preserving and observing. They were obviously of great significance in their original context.

Just an old wall but a wall covered in a rather pleasing canopy of moss. This growth gives a pretty good feel for the prevailing weather conditions - mild and wet.

Bodmin ponies, rather than their more famous counterparts on Dartmoor. This part of the moor is notable for the numbers of ponies and cattle using it for grazing. It's a working landscape.

Lots of evidence of granite working on the moor. Someone, sometime, had been working on this chunk and I assume had abandoned it when it split in the wrong place. Perhaps it was originally destined to be a lintel or gate post? I wonder how much effort had been expended before the fatal blow that hit the flaw? And how many expletives echoed off the side of the moor just after it was done?

A close encounter with the Beast of Bodmin? No such luck. Just the trail left by my soggy socks as I got into our car at the end. Three miles after the marsh and still soaking wet.