Apparently, the Cornish pasty has been a feature of the British diet since the 14th century. Originally the preserve of rich inbred gentry it wasn’t until the 18th century that the pasty became a nourishing treat for the masses. Today, go to any coastal town or village in Cornwall and the pervasiveness of pasties for the people persists.
In some spots the choice can appear bewildering. This includes the chainstorisation of Britain making its presence felt at heavily branded outlets offering crafted goods from industrial Solihull. But at the other end of the scale, it’s possible you may stumble across bona fide nooks hidden down narrow passageways, replete with evocative odours and large steel trays of steaming hot goodness fresh from the oven.
Looe has such a place (along with the odd chain) and it’s become a site of regular pilgrimage, competing with a cream tea in the what-will-Neil-eat-first adventure. Today – a Monday at the end of November – Looe is unusually becalmed. Indeed, many shops and eateries are closed. But thankfully Sarah’s is trading and offering a few remaining pasties as the day nears half one. Despite tending towards lukewarm, a two and a half year gap in this experience generates immense delight with that first bite.
Eating beside the seafront, the tide is low. Apart from the beach, this doesn’t exactly provide the most favourable impression of Looe. The river estuary empties to leave a patchwork of boats tilting high and dry. Salty seaweed spreads across oozing mud, offering a pungency almost as bad as the aroma of entrails swept from the fish market. And of course, everywhere, seagulls lurk desperate for winter pasties few and far between.
So, after a pause to collect further delicacies at Roly’s Fudge, Mum and I hot foot it out of town and head on to Polperro. This is – on paper – a more charming prospect though one you’d do well to steer clear of in the height of summer. That’s why I thought we could give it a shot today.
Indeed Polperro was quiet. Deathly quiet. Barely anything was open but this didn’t deter two very Polperro occurrences. First, we have the sight of a delivery van somehow trying to squeeze through a gap between whitewashed cottages as locals roll their eyes knowingly at one another. And secondly, there remains the rip-off parking on a cold grey day in November when jack all is open.
I expected non-summertime parking rates but forgot this was Polperro where the emphasis appears to be on doing everything possible to deter day trippers. As one of a handful, I felt a touch conspicuous trawling the streets with my camera and decided it was a good day to warm my head with a Plymouth Argyle beanie and thus parade – admittedly Devonian – credentials.
In low sun, the beanie was a handy addition as half of the village sat in perennial shade. While a series of cute cottages on the east side of the harbour beamed in fine, holiday-let whitewash, others faded into the dark and damp recesses of an impending winter. Striding out to the headland I could see Mum sat on a bench on the quay in the last receding corner of sun. And with a brief hello to the South West Coast Path, I set off back down through the shade to join her.
By now we were both thinking afternoon treat, or at least a coffee beside the tidal mud. But of course, nothing suitable was open. Being here in November was to prove both a blessing and a curse; cherishing the lack of bother and stress associated with thousands of tourists, taking advantage of quicker than usual drives and – sometimes – free parking, yet being more at mercy to the weather and missing out on some of the usual local treats and delicacies (I never did end up having an ice cream for instance).
A similar picture played out a little further along the south coast on a different jaunt to Fowey. At picturesque Readymoney Cove, where I parked nearby for free, the kiosk supposedly open year round was obviously shut. Yet I was able to drive through the town and park again by the water, a prospect unfathomable in summer. Here at least a few spots were open and a coffee carried through attractive streets to a riverside bench offered contentment.
Lunch was a different matter, in brief taking in the disavowal of cold pasties in Fowey, a fruitless search for something in Lostwithiel and dismissal of a covidy café at a hoity toity garden centre (seriously, why not let us sit outside?). As a result, lunchtime had been and gone and options were running out. The last real opportunity was to return to Looe.
If you’ve actually been reading any of this babble you would know a pasty was a possibility here. But I was concerned at what would be left on the tray and how warm it might be. And the clock was clearly ticking over towards afternoon cream tea territory. So, we took a punt off the main drag, up a small hill. A short deviation that I’m sure will be repeated again. Daisy’s Café added to the what-will-Neil-eat-first adventure list. Making Looe the place where a wicked dilemma can finally be resolved: is it possible to have a pasty and cream tea on the same day? Roll on 2022!
The sunny start changed around The Divide as we headed into the clouds and prospects for a clear cruise on the sound were diminished. It was the kind of weather I expected, typical of this area which is famed for being the wettest spot in New Zealand
gbpilgrim 