Now we are 10 following the arrival yesterday of Mike & Linda Eaton (our friends with a pad at Arçais, France), and Selina (Steve and Rosemary’s daughter) plus partner Phil. Birthday girl’s day began rather poorly with the usual tuneless chorus of …

Happy birthday to you,
Happy birthday to you,
Happy birthday dear Rosemary,
Happy birthday to you.

… but rapidly improved with a spot of Buck’s Fizz to accompany a proper English breakfast. Even better, it had stopped raining for the first time since we arrived. In celebration both of Rosemary’s birthday and of the appearance of the sun, a group trip to the attractive north Cornish harbour of Boscastle was planned.

Boscastle was the scene of devastating flooding in 2004. The surrounding precipitous valley funnels three rivers out tio sea through Boscastle’s harbour. Under normal conditions the main river looks small and innocuous. However, following prolonged heavy rain, normality was set aside and a severe flash flood swept through the village and out through the harbour carrying over 100 cars plus a few buildings with it. Carol and I had visited Boscastle shortly before the flood so it would be interesting to see how the restoration work had done.

It had done very well; dear old Boscastle looked very much as I remembered it. Of course, having visited only once for a day, my memory may not be that great but Boscastle was looking good, especially so in Rosemary’s birthday sunshine following a day and a half of rain.

Catering for 10 is an interesting exercise. We’ve been taking it in turns to wear the largest toque [Ed: the tall white hat worn by chef’s, just in case you were wondering]. Today, for Rosemary’s birthday feast, Tessa was in charge and two slow-cooked lamb shoulders were on the celebratory menu. Given our numbers and situation, the baronial dining hall seemed particularly fitting. It’s rather cool, though, compared to the cosy scullery so a few of “the boys” set about lighting a log fire.

Something in the gene pool dictates that it always the males who enjoy playing with fire. This must stem from the days of living in caves as hunter/gatherers, I suspect. The same gene is likely to be responsible for most men suddenly wanting to cook when a barbecue is involved Normally, they turn their back on such domestic tasks and let the lady take over. it’s the fire-thing again, though, and the fire gene seems to trump the domestic gene.

Our number of diners suddenly jumped to 11 with the arrival of a former colleague, Ed, from (some of) our days working at Walker International and the baronial dining hall needed a little adjustment. However, minor adjustment made, with the log fire lit and occasionally bursting into showers of sparks when attended, and with the baronial table formally set in the baronial dining hall, the scene was set for a particularly atmospheric and memorable 60th birthday dinner.

Our newcomer, Ed, saved the day when it came to the cheese course. One just had to admire a man who travels with an emergency supply of oatcakes in his car. Thanks Ed!

Today began as yesterday ended – with hole in my right lower molar and rain. We have an as yet untried travel dental repair kit which might help fix the first issue so I set about trying. Actually, Carol volunteered to attempt the filling but very quickly decided that she couldn’t hold my tongue out of the way whilst trying to cram temporary filling material into the cavernous hole in the rear inside edge of my very rear tooth. Peering into a mirror in this dimly-lit 15th century pile of stone trying to cram emergency filling material into my own tooth remnant, I saw her point. After several minutes of gagging with a mouth full of fingers grasping a wooden stick containing some weird consumer dental material, I managed to get my own emergency repair in place. Elegant it was not but it did seem to be somewhat effective. My tongue breathed a sigh of relief.

Regrettably we could do nothing about the rain. It wasn’t particularly heavy but it did seem to be persistent. Living in one ancient manor, we chose to visit another ancient manor: Cotehele House. I say “we” but really should say “they”, by which I mean the National Trust members of our group. The NT members were in a large majority. I don’t normally “do” large baronial mansions. To be frank, they bore me witless. They are usually full of dark old antiques that I dislike and have walls covered in oil paintings of po-faced, long-dead family members that I didn’t know in the first place but, hey, it was raining so why not?

One advantage of the NT members greatly outnumbering the heathens in our party (me) is that I could get in for free. Excellent! Cotehele House proved to be largely as expected. Actually, this baronial pile was darker than I’ve ever seen before because, instead of the po-faced family members, its walls are nearly all covered in very dark, very old tapestries. It did, however, have an entrance hall crammed with a fascinating collection of ancient and very brutal-looking weaponry. I never cease to be amazed at the inventiveness mankind displays in designing and developing terrible new ways to inflict excruciating fatal tissue damage on his fellow man.

Rather less expected was the trophy mounted on one of the walls of the entrance hall. Was it perhaps a stag? No. Was it perhaps a boar? No. A bear, then, not that bears inhabit this sceptred isle? No, it was the head of an albatross; it looked quite bizarre and, frankly, a little grumpy. Come to think of it, we don’t get many albatrosses in this sceptred isle either. So much for the Ancient Mariner, then.

We had a very pleasant homemade Cornish Pasty for a late-ish lunch overlooking the river Tamar and very nice it was, too … until my temporary filling came out.

So there I was last night, calmly munching the only morsel of cheese in our house, a chunk of Parmesan, after digging the debris of the preceding rib-eye steak out of my teeth, when I sensed something rock=hard and probably indigestible in my mouth. Using my tongue, I separated it from all the softer, more digestible feeling contents of my mouth and removed it allow further investigation. Four or five months ago my lower right molar had been the recipient of £380-worth of ceramic crown, Though called a crown, it was really an insert shaped by computer; a kind of high-tech filling. A piece of cheese, admittedly the hardest cheese on the planet, had removed about £190-worth of the crown and a large, very rough hole was now back in my tooth and cutting my tongue. Drat (or rather stronger words to that effect)!

We’d planned to leave for Devon at about 8:30 this morning but, having loaded the car, I took myself off to the dentist at 8:00 AM to see if anything could be done. Sure enough, the ceramic insert, which I thought would be more or less indestructible, had broken. Suitably apologetic, my dentist smoothed off the rough edges and inserted a temporary filling. The last time I had a temporary filling it proved to be very temporary, lasting a little over two hours. I’ll see how this one goes. After Devon, I apparently need  £500-worth of complete gold crown for “a stronger reconstruction”. However, the £380 spent on the ceramic will be deducted. OK, fair enough.

Patched up, we left about 30 minutes later than intended. The journey was pleasingly uneventful apart from the fact that the rain started at about the halfway point. It continued until we arrived in Launceston, just over the border in Cornwall, at 1:30 PM to meet Steve and Rosemary. A friendly newsagent directed us to the pre-arranged meeting venue, the Launceston Arms where my rain-dampened mood lifted as I saw Steve sitting nursing a pint of Cornish Rattler, my favourite cider. Excellent! Carol and I joined.

Helped by the fact that Wortham Manor, our lodgings for the coming week, was actually marked on our OS map, astronavigatrix Carol had spotted an inconsistency in the directions. However, the 6.5% ABV of Cornish Rattler clarified the issue nicely, a right turn typo was swapped for a left turn and, in the continuing rain, we were soon bumping our way towards home down a very muddy farm track which was beginning to resemble a river bed.

What a terrific old place it is. The kitchen is surprisingly cosy, being warmed by under-floor heating, and is well equipped with a range of pots and pans suitable for feeding a potential army of 15 inhabitants. We had fun learning our way around its many corridors and rooms and nabbed ourselves a double room. 

Tessa and Robin turned up at about 5:00 PM. Now we were six and, following further doses of social assistance fluid, we settled down to my pre-prepared spaghetti Bolognese.

My temporary filling fell out. Well, it lasted a few more hours than the last one. 🙁