The Brisons
It has been said that the Brison Rocks, pictured here and lying a short distance off Cape Cornwall, look like General De Gaulle lying in a bath – an accurate if unflattering observation.
During medieval times a prison was built on them. In the 1960s an entrepreneur put forward plans for a luxury hotel. Perhaps it’s as well nothing came of it for these rocks have a tragic past.
In January 1851 a ship named the New Commercial, out of Liverpool bound for Jamaica, was caught in a violent storm. Gale-force winds and huge seas swept the vessel onto the Brisons where it was smashed to pieces. Six of the seven crew were swept to their deaths. Only three people survived: the master Captain Sanderson, his 34-year-old wife Mary, and a man named Isaac Williams.
Using bits of wreckage the resourceful Isaac built a small raft and managed to reach the sheltered waters of Whitesands Bay where he was rescued by local fishermen. Word of the drama quickly spread as the captain and his wife remained trapped on the rocks by the raging storm. By daybreak on the second day almost five thousand spectators lined the cliff tops while the crews of several boats risked their own lives attempting to reach the stranded couple.
Mary Sanderson, wearing only a cotton nightdress, could not swim and her husband would not leave her. A rocket line, a recent invention, was fetched and after several attempts one of the boats managed to fire a line onto the Brisons where the captain seized it.
Securing the rope around his terrified wife, Captain Sanderson urged her into the seething water. A tiny figure in the heaving waves, often lost to sight behind dense clouds of spray, she was gradually pulled to safety while the thousands watching from the cliff top roared encouragement.
The instant she was safely aboard, the rescue boat began to fight its way shoreward. But exhaustion, the bitter cold and the battering waves had sapped the last of Mary’s strength and she died before the boat reached land. Her devastated husband was rescued later that day.
Mary was laid to rest in Sennen Churchyard. Her brave rescuers received well-deserved medals. Three years later, in 1854, Sennen got its first lifeboat.
Because circumstances have made writing impossible lately I’ve been finding an alternative creative outlet in baking. This pear and apple cake can be served warm with ice cream or custard as a pudding, or cold with a cup of tea. It’s quick and easy to make and absolutely delicious. Melt 25 g of butter or marge in a heavy frying pan and when it’s bubbling add a tablespoonful of soft brown sugar. Peel and slice one large Bramley apple, two med to large pears and cook in the butter/sugar mixture until golden and soft. Meanwhile, cream 4oz butter or marge with 4 oz of caster sugar, add two beaten eggs then fold in 3 oz or self-raising flour and 3 oz of ground almonds plus half a teasp of cinnamon (if liked) Grease and line a sponge tin, lay the cooked apple and pear on the lined base, then spread the cake mixture over. Cook for 20 – 25 mins at 170*F (fan oven) or until risen and golden brown. Turning it out onto a sheet of greaseproof on a cooling rack makes it easier to handle. Enjoy!
These are two photos I took recently during a bike ride with Himself along the Carnon Valley cycle trail. You’ll have
heard the old saying: Kissing’s out of season when the gorse is out of bloom? Well, our mild Cornish climate means that gorse blooms all year round.
We pass this milestone and Cornish cross every time we pass the junction at Crows-an-Wra, which is Cornish for witch’s cross, and head up towards Chapel Carn brea, the most westerly hill in Cornwall. 
This plaque beside the gate leading up to the top of the hill tells of the history of the cairn and burial monuments. On 21st June this is the location of the first of a chain of bonfires across Cornwall celebrating the midsummer solstice. But for our visit last week it was dry but with a fresh (cutting!) breeze. After finishing our sandwiches we wrapped up warm, crossed the road from the car park, and set off across gorse and heather moorland to the holy well a short distance from the Iron Age village of Carn Euny.
No one knows how old the tree is, but the many of the offerings tied to its branches are covered with lichen and can barely be distinguished from the tree itself. Mothers used to bring their children to be dipped in the water which was said to have healing powers. People still come to touch the water, leave an offering, and make a wish. The tree is festooned with ribbon, crystals, bits of cloth, keyrings: in fact whatever people have on them and feel inspired to leave, perhaps hoping to return, maybe moved by the evidence of so many wishes made over so many years. We try to get down there at least twice a year. It’s not easy to find or to reach especially after heavy rain when the narrow tracks crossing the moor are ankle-deep in mud and water. But it’s a special place, and the walk across the moor, taking in a view from Lizard Point in the east, past Lands End (and a glimpse of the Scillies on a clear day) round to Godrevy Light in the west make it well worth the effort.
We used to do the big family thing at Christmas. For several years everyone came to our house and I cooked for between seven and fifteen. It was hard work – especially with multi-generational preferences in entertainment – but a lot of fun as well. When the children grew up, left home, married, and had families of their own, we decided to break with tradition. Now they do their thing and we do ours. This has solved that age-old problem of who goes where. So on Christmas morning after I’d been round to Dad’s and got him up, washed and dressed (he’d been invited to some close friends for lunch on Christmas Day and to my sister’s on Boxing Day) I raced home, packed turkey sandwiches, mincemeat flapjacks, and a flask and we drove down to Cape Cornwall. The roads were virtually empty so we made record time. The wind had a keen edge but though cloudy it stayed dry. We had a lovely walk, then sat in the car and looked out at the crashing surf while we ate our sandwiches. Then we drove back the long way – from Lands End via Zennor, onto the Gulval road to Penzance then Helston and home where I made a cuppa and Mike lit the fire. It was a relaxing, different and thoroughly enjoyable Christmas Day.
On Thursday I was interviewed about my latest historical romance, Taken To Heart on Radio St Austell Bay. It’s a small local radio station serving about 25,000 people in an area of roughly seven square miles. Run by a team of enthusiastic amateurs presided over by station manager, Sheila Vanloo, it is the very best of local radio and there is nothing amateur about the quality of programming and production. My interview, which lasted about 40 minutes, was more of a chat. Sheila had read my book and her questions revealed genuine interest in both the story background and my writing career. There were a couple of breaks for some music and the news which gave me a breather, then off we went again. I was amazed at how quickly the time passed. Of course, as always happens, after I was on my way back to the car I remembered several things I could have/should have said. But I’ll save those for next time. Yes, I’ve been invited back. It was a thoroughly enjoyable experience, and well worth the hour’s drive. This interview was the last arranged for publicising Taken To Heart. Once Christmas is over I hope to press on with my new one, Winds of Change.
Yesterday morning Mylor school children assembled at one side of the village playing field in great excitement as they waited for the arrival of Father Christmas. He didn’t arrive by reindeer and sleigh but in a Search & Rescue Sea King helicopter. The noise was deafening and the downdraft sent hats flying. But the faces of the children were a joy to see. Father Christmas was accompanied by a very large and jolly elf dressed in green and red. We’ve had a lot of rain recently and the playing field – which is beside the creek – is water-logged despite the land drains which gush water from a large pipe in the retaining wall. As the helicopter weighs about twenty tons landing it on such boggy ground was not an option. So we watched some superb flying by the pilot who hovered just a foot or two above the grass, allowing Santa and his elf to jump out. The helicopter then flew off in a wide circle while small gifts were distributed and photos taken. After about fifteen minutes the pilot returned. As the wheels rested briefly on the grass, Santa and his helper were hauled aboard then off they flew. This week a score of Cornish primary schools with a playing field or safe space to allow landing will enjoy the excitement of a flying visit from Sea King Santa. The crew love doing it as it offers light relief from their normal duties: cliff rescues; responding to mayday calls; and recovering sick or injured seamen from ships during storm force gales.
It’s been a demanding few weeks. I’ve done no writing. On one hand this has left me feeling low and frustrated. But on the other, precisely because I’ve had neither time nor mental energy to get on with my book, instead, when changing beds, doing dishes, ironing or cooking, I’ve thought about the story and the characters and played what if? This has led to pages of scribbled notes as new ideas replace large bits of my original plot. It’s been really exciting but led to even more frustration because I can’t get on with it. But, had looking after Dad not taken up so much time that I was forced to put my writing aside, I’d never have come up with these new ideas. So I’m thinking of it as the silver lining to a rather dark cloud. Dad has developed a chest infection. He’s on antibiotics but the coughing spasms leave him exhausted and shaky. He sleeps for much of the day. Yet when he’s awake he can be quick and funny. This morning after I’d washed him as far as his waist, I refilled the basin with hot water and told him I’d leave him ‘to do your little bits.’ His instant reply: ‘There’s no call to be insulting.’ Dear of him.
