The Country of the Soul. Packing Our Souls
Planning a trip as a duo turned out to be much jollier than doing it alone. Through all of December and January, Lucy and Edward spent their evenings hunched over Ordnance Survey maps of Cornwall, painstakingly comparing prices for seaside holidays. Lucy, ever the diligent librarian, approached the task with academic reverence. She created a dedicated folder filled with printed itineraries, route maps, and lengthy lists of must-visit cream tea establishments and historic treasures.
Youre like a Field Marshal marshalling her troops, Edward laughed as she spread the paperwork across the kitchen table.
And youre my trusted Major, Lucy volleyed back. Youll handle transportation and, more importantly, security.
I accept my fate.
They found a last-minute deal through a travel agent in Basingstokeproper package: two of them, flights from Manchester to Newquay, transfer to their B&B in Penzance. Five nights in a guesthouse, full English included. The price was frankly ludicrous£200 per person.
Are you sure? Edward eyed the voucher suspiciously. February in Cornwall? The sea will be positively frigid!
The seas always beautiful, replied Lucy. Ive swum enough in summer. This time I just want to see it, breathe the salty air, maybe spot a lone surfer. And in Cornwall, the gorse is in bloom and its a warm fifteen degreesby our standards, practically Mediterranean. Hardly any tourists. Peaceful. Real rest.
And what does one actually do in Cornwall in winter?
Walk, breathe, explore, chat with the locals She smiled, remembering all her bittersweet solo adventures. Cornwall isnt just about beaches. Its about the soul. The main thing: dont be afraid of anything. Cornish folkopen, welcoming, if you grin at them theyll claim you as their own.
And what if I cant grin?
Then Ill teach you. And if you refuse, well, its compulsory, Im afraid. Lucy burst out laughing, recalling a joke from her National Service days.
The last evening before they set off, they sat in the kitchen, sipping tea with Lucys mums homemade pies, ticking off their travel documents and performing suitcase Tetris. Lucy fussed over her bright red suitcasea true veteran of many tripsand thought how differently she felt now. Two years ago, she’d set off solo to the Scottish Highlands, quaking at the thought of dialects, border crossings, and silence. Now, she had someone at her side she actually wanted to be on the road with. And the fear had gone, replaced by anticipation.
So, explorer, said Edward, giving her a squeeze. Ready to go?
Im ready, grinned Lucy. With you, Id go to the ends of the earth!
***
This is supposed to be winter? Edward squinted from the top step of the plane, dazzled by the sunlight. Left behind was the chill of Yorkshire, the thermal socks and layers. Here, in Newquay, it was thirteen degrees, the scent of damp brine and, dare he say it, flowers.
This is just the beginning, Lucy felt a buzz of anticipation radiate through her.
Border formalities took less time than a pub order. Within thirty minutes, they arrived in Penzance. The guesthouse was all columns, balconies, and walls half-concealed by grapevinescharming, if slightly more Narnia than theyd expected. Only the front gate was locked.
Lucy rang the bell. Silence. Rang again.
Theyre not expecting us, are they? Edward said, glancing about.
From next door, a woman in wellies peered over the hedge. Seeing their confusion, she waved them in, explaining in the Queens English (and even some gestures) that the owners had just popped out and would be back soon. She unlocked the gate, shooed them in, and pointed them to a bench under a wisteria arch.
Now, I feel were abroad, Lucy murmured, surveying the unfamiliar garden. Nobody knows us, we dont speak the lingo, and no ones here to greet us.
But were together, said Edward. Thats what matters.
The landladies arrived half an hour latertwo sisters, Ann and Leanne, talkative and generously jolly. They showed them to their room on the second floor, gave a crash course on the house: kitchen logistics, boiler quirks, the whereabouts of the biscuit tin.
Any other guests? Lucy asked.
Not in winter, dear, Ann beamed. Youre the only ones. Absolute royalty!
Like royals, Edward said when the sisters left. How does it feel?
A bit eerie, Lucy admitted. But at least were togetherits all less intimidating that way.
Lucy nipped off to shower. The hot water took its sweet time and dribbled out, but Lucy dubbed the scenario ‘adventure’ and dried her hair with a travel hairdryer. Thats when the lights fizzled out.
Oh she muttered in the darkness.
Whats happened? Edward called from the corridor.
Power cut. Local tradition, apparently.
Feeling her way, Lucy found her makeup bag, chanting, Itll be fine! Im in the South, living the dream! In the half-light, she managed foundation and lipstick, wriggled into a dress and emerged looking positively radiant.
How did you manage makeup in the dark? marvelled Edward.
The desire to look good outweighs any power cut, Lucy giggled.
They ventured into Penzance. A city of contrasts: grand Victorian homes, crumbling ruins; palms and cypresses growing between piles of rubbish. Nearby, a building site; further down, gaping black windows in a shell of a hotel.
Looks a bit post-apocalyptic, Edward remarked softly.
Probably is, Lucy replied. There was actual fighting here in the nineties. Theyre still patching up.
Yet, beauty peeked out through the crumbling backdrop. Green hills reared behind the town, the sea shimmered indigo, and the air begged to be gulped.
This is what Cheburashka would call paradise! Lucy exclaimed, pointing at trees loaded with tangerines. Mandarins! Real ones!
She paused by a fence, eyeing the fruit.
Will you pinch one? Edward mused.
Heavens, no! Lucy said, aghast. But well buy some instead.
At the marketreally just a few stallsthey found fruit, homemade cider, and, inexplicably, knitted owls. Lucy purchased half a kilo of tangerines for £1, handing one to Edward.
He bit into it, eyes widening. What witchcraft is this?
A tangerine. Like at home, only better.
Tastes nothing like Tescos. Itsa citrus explosion! Sweet, tangy, juicy!
Lucy polished off hers and decided half a kilo was laughable. They doubled back and bought three kilos more.
That should see us through a couple of days. Unless we run out of time to sightsee, she joked.
Next up: the seafront. Everything was buttoned up tightcafes, gift shops, helter-skelter. Dead season, obviously. A few resilient locals wandered the promenade; only the dogs loitered with intent, basking in the sun.
Where do people eat? Edwards stomach rumbled.
Well sniff something out.
The only open café looked suspiciously like someones spare room dressed with garden furniture and paper napkins. The owner, a Cornishman with impressive moustaches, pointed to the menu and managed to mime his way through the choices. Lucy bravely ordered Cornish pasties, a spicy chutney, and tea.
You sure this is edible? Edward raised an eyebrow.
I did my homework, Lucy replied cheerily. Supposed to be brilliant.
The pastiesmassive and juicyimpressed even Edward, who mopped up juice with his bread.
You were right, he admitted, eyes shining. Delicious.
Afterwards, they walked down to the sea. Lucy stopped, awestruck by the post-sunset glow stretched over the water. Gulls wheeled overhead and, somewhere far off, a dog barked.
Well? Edward said.
I missed this, Lucy sighed. Hello, old friend.
She kicked off her trainers, rolled jeans to her knees and waded in. A wave licked her toes, then anklesicy! She gasped.
You madwoman! Youll catch your death! Edward shouted.
Freezing, but invigorating, she grinned.
He quickly rubbed her cold legs, slinging his jacket around her shoulders.
Are you frozen solid?
To the core! she laughed, thrilled. But Im happy. Were by the sea. Together.
They watched the sunset, waves folding on the shingle, seagulls yelling and music drifting in from somewhere unknown.
Good idea, this one, Edward admitted. Bringing me here. Im glad were together.
Lucy agreed: the dayfull of contradictions, culture shocks and new tasteswas one of the best shed ever had, if only because Edward was next to her.
***
Mornings in Penzance started with the ocean. Lucy woke before Edward, donned her coat and slipped outside. The sea was lively, waves slamming the shore with gusto.
Dont worry, she told the sea softly. Ill just admire from here. Breathe you in. Ill come back in summer to swim.
A scruffy dog greeted her, tail a blur, stick in jaws. He plopped it at her feet.
Were you waiting for me? Lucy chuckled.
They played fetch until the scent of coffee wafted from a café near the waterfront. Lucy found the only open spota tiny hut where coffee was brewed over a gas flame, thick and bracing. She bought two cups and tiptoed back to the guesthouse.
Whats this? Edward squinted, surfacing from his bedding.
Proper coffee. Up, soldier! Weve got an excursion.
The group assembled by the car: two married couples, three solo ladies and themselves. Everyone was already swapping banter, and the air was a babble of friendly voices, despite the hour.
The guide, Henry, was a wry forty-something with thinking eyes and the steady assurance of a man whos seen it all. No forced laughs or Dad jokes, just history told deep and clever.
Cornwalla place woven from a dozen cultures, faiths and epochs, he intoned, guiding them into the hills. Romans, Celts, miners, Normans. Each left their mark. Understanding Cornwall means grasping its souland the soul lives on the cliffs, in chapels, and in the hearts of its people. Local legend claims: When God doled out land, everyone turned up but the Cornishman. He was latehed been entertaining guests. God took pity and gave him a patch hed set aside for himself: a coastal Paradise.
Lucy drank in the scenery: rolling moors, ruined tin mines, gardens of camellias sloping to creeks. It felt not so much like an excursion as a journey back in timeand spirit.
Look, she nudged Edward, pointing to a bus stop shaped like a giant shell, decorated with seaside mosaics. Actual art on a Wiltshire bus stop!
Usually youd only find that in the Tate, he marvelled.
The first stop: a honey farm. The owner, another stately man sporting magnificent whiskers, dolloped honey onto the back of their handslocal tradition, for some reason.
Its to warm the honey on your skin, Henry explained. The best aroma blooms this way.
Lucy tasted, savoring the floral, herby sweetness. Edward, following her lead, found it undignified but memorable.
Best of all was the wine tasting. An archetypal young Cornishman named Alan poured them samples in a chilly cellar redolent of wood and grape. His expertise was as intoxicating as the drinks.
This ones Camel Valley, Alan declared. Its what we drink at weddings, on holidays, when all the family gathers.
Lucy swirled the glassfruity, robust, oddly comforting.
And thisEnglish Claret, Alan switched bottles. A favourite of Churchill. They say he knew his wine.
We have to try, Edward whispered.
Lucy agreed. The wine was thick, sweet, with a blackberry tinge.
Astonishing, she murmured.
A toastto coming back, Edward said.
To coming back.
Afterwards, Penzance. The seafront was almost too perfectVictorian parks, palm trees, grand housesbut what really stood out were the locals: strolling, sitting on benches, playing chess or backgammon, nattering. Out of season, the city belonged to its own.
Look at them, Lucy marvelled. They seem so content. They live here, and theyre happy.
They have sea, cliffs, and sun. What more do you need?
She watched old men battling at backgammon, lovers on the seawall, dogs sunning themselves lazily.
True hedonism, Lucy quipped.
The penultimate stop was an old abbey. Inside, Lucy was immediately calmed by the hush, scent of wax and a thousand fresh flowers. She lit a candle, made a familiar wish: to travel, to see the world, and to keep being happy.
Afterwards, there was a noticeable hush in the group. The laughter dulled; faces grew pensive, Henrys tone more subdued.
Whats with everyone? Edward wondered.
The abbey, probably, Lucy guessed. Or maybe were just knackered.
Outside, it was greyer, the cliffs less jewel-like. Henry, ever the hero, saved the day.
Dont worry, folks! Bit of lunch and youll be right as rain.
Lucy ordered roast pork and a cheese-laden Cornish rarebit. The servings were vastand delicious. The rarebit was indecently cheesy; the pork had just the right smoky tang.
Feeling better now, she laughed, slumping back. Food does wonders.
Incredible what calories will do for group morale, Edward agreed.
As they drove, everyone perked up, joking, reliving the morning. Henry, watching via the mirror, gave them an approving nod.
Theres the spirit! I knew it was just empty bellies.
The climax was the thermal springs at Kingsley village. Lucy, seeing great puffs of steam rising over the pools, clapped in delight.
I am definitely having a dip! If Ive come this far south, no point staying dry!
Edward tested the waterBlimey, its hot!before being convinced.
They floated in the mineral pools, watching steam drift up against the hills, and let all tension dissolve.
Like being in a fairy tale, Lucy sighed.
Or Heaven, Edward murmured.
They noticed a pillar of steam behind the trees.
Is thatfire? Lucy queried.
Nope, Henry replied with a smirk. Go and have a look.
It was a pool of boiling mineral waterhuge bubbles, sulphurous reek, fun and slightly terrifying.
A proper cauldron, someone said. Perfect for stewor penitent sinners.
Best stick to the pools, someone else quipped.
Lucy watched the water, feeling the beautywith its strange contradictionssoak in.
Back in Penzance, night had fallen and the guesthouse had lost power again. Lucy, undaunted, lit a candle.
Electricity cannot dim this day, she grinned. Its been wild! Can you believe it?
Absolutely, Edward agreed, hugging her. Thank you. For today. For this trip. For you.
Its only just begun, Lucy promised. Tomorrow is another adventure.
By candlelight, they ate pork leftovers, brewed tea from the market, and planned their next outing. Outside, the sea rumbled, gardens bloomed with tangerines, and, somewhere far off in the hills, someones cauldron steamed and life trickled ona life different, but somehow closer than ever.
***
Is that snow? Edward pressed his nose to the minibus window, disbelieving. Are you joking? We left Yorkshire for Cornish snow?
Lucy snorted. Even she was surprised as their car wound into the hills and the greenery gave way to white.
Not just any snow. This is mountain snow. I love the mountains. Deeply.
Henry heard them chatting and explained, Today, were headed to Lake Trenarne. Nearly a kilometre up. In winter, always snow. But I promise you, the views worth it.
Lucy gazed out as the lane twisted up through rocky defiles and wild rivers. Shed seen highlands beforein Scotland, in Walesbut Cornwalls were different.
Look! she pointed out a waterfall. Like tears.
Thats Maidens Tears Waterfall, Henry informed them. Legend says: a girl wept here when her beloved was sent off to war. The water never freezes, not even in the harshest winter.
Lucy dipped her hands. The water was icy, endlessly clear.
They say it grants wishes, Henry said.
Lucy made one, for more adventures with Edward. He kissed her, and they moved on.
Now the road followed the Blue Lakeits copper mineral hue more vivid in the snowy frame.
It never freezes, Henry explained. Always this blue, year-round.
Lucy drank it in greedily.
Lake Trenarne appeared suddenly, a dark sapphire among snow-streaked cliffs. Lucy stood, breathless.
Goodness, she whispered. What a sight.
They wandered the lakeside, breathing cold air, watching sunlight shafting through clouds. Edward was lost for words.
Never knew mountains could feel soalive, he said.
I always feel tiny in the mountains, Lucy replied. But more myself, somehow. Like youre touching something grander.
I get that, Edward nodded.
Together, they watched the lake and mountainsno words needed.
***
Their fourth day, Lucy chose to explore St. Michaels Mount. She deliberately avoided TripAdvisor, didnt Google six pages of reviews, and refrained from peeping at photossometimes, she decided, the unknown is half the joy.
Arent you worried, plunging into the unknown? Edward asked as they boarded the minibus.
A bit, she said. But its nice, the first time you see everything. No expectations. Just real wonder.
They started with the monastery. The bus wound up the lane, and Lucy saw shining stone towers and golden domes; against the cliffs, it looked both like a dolls house and an epic legend.
Inside the grounds, Lucy marvelled at the neatnessalmost clinical compared to Cornwalls usual laissez-faire. Here, everything was freshly painted, swept, full of daffodils and snowdrops.
Come here! she tugged Edwards sleeve. Looksnowdrops!
He bent down. Youve never seen one?
Never, Lucy replied. They dont grow in Yorkshire. Only in books. This is my first.
She knelt, gently touching a petal. Delicate, luminousa living fairy tale.
A proper gift, Lucy said.
Inside, the main chapel was hushed, smelling of incense and layered harmonies. Lucy stilled, certain a service was underway. Instead, choir music played over the speakersthe space full, but not stiff. People milled, lit candles, gazed at icons.
Weird, Edward whispered. Is it a church, or not?
Lucy approached an icon, feeling profound peace amid the hush. Somewhere, an invisible choir sang, and she felt an overwhelming presence.
Its perfect here, she said later. I feel so well.
Next, the waterfall at the old hydro planta roaring cascade built by monks to power the site.
Lucy watched, overtaken by the tumult and at the same time, a deep inner quiet. Afon means absence of noise, a silent place, she recalled.
Come on, lets find the swan lake!
The bird sanctuary was a pocket of paradise: a big pond lined with trees, benches, birdsswans black and white, ducks, and even peacocks strutting. Edward whistled.
Didnt know Cornwall had its own zoo.
Bird royalty! Lucy corrected. Look at that peacocktotal dandy.
They sat, watching swans glide, peacocks shimmer, and felt a rare, enveloping sense of calm.
But the main event came after.
The cavern at St. Michaels greeted them with chill and mystery. They clambered into a tinny electric train that whirred down into a warren of echoing tunnels.
Scared? Edward squeezed her hand.
A bit. But curious.
They entered a netherworld of rock and water. Muffled lanterns, narrow bridges, stalactites dangling, stalagmites risingeveryone spoke in whispers, even Henry, detailing the caves formation, how each twist took centuries.
At each stop, we play musicancient Cornish folk songs, some classical, even organ and opera. It sounds incredible in here.
If anyone sings, added the local guide, nows your time. Acoustics like these come once in a lifetime.
Lucy froze. Her heart pounded as everyone muttered, but no one took the bait.
Go on, Edward whispered. Youve got a voice.
I cant
Of course you can! he encouraged.
Lucy bit her lip, remembered a campfire by another blue lake, the applause. Shed changed. Maybe now she could.
Ill sing, Lucy stepped forward.
Name your song? the guide asked.
Greensleeves, she ventured.
Perfect. Face the cave, go ahead.
She closed her eyes and sang; hesitantly at first, voice trembling, but the notes echoed and returned, swelling until she filled with confidence.
As she sang, others began to hum, then join her. People smiled, voices melding in harmony among the ancient stones. By the last line, Lucy opened her eyes to a hundred candlelit faces singing with her. She sang to the end, trembling, thensilencebefore the applause crashed in, warm and resonant. The guide beamed, Ive never heard that here. It was magic.
Out in the dazzling sun, the cliffs stood as nobly as ever, the sea a turquoise smile. Lucy wept a little, amazed at her own voice, at the crowd joining in. It felt sacred, a miracle shed always keep.
Back in their room, Lucy perched on the balcony overlooking the sea. Edward appeared with tea, settling beside her.
You were marvellous today, he whispered.
Oh, I just sang.
No, you shared so much. With everyone. With me.
She gazed at him, silently thanking the universe for this winding, miraculous day.
***
The plane banked, revealing frosted fields and dark woods below. Lucy pressed her shoulder to Edwards, feeling the coming of life as usualwinter, work, the routine. But she knew something fundamental had shifted.
What are you thinking? Edward asked.
How glad I am I didnt read all the doom-and-gloom before coming to Cornwall, Lucy replied. If Id listened, Id have missed all thisand lost an incredible holiday.
He squeezed her hand.
Scared? Of what?
Oh, all sorts! Lucy laughed. The first day, I was shockedruined buildings, stray dogs, power outages. I thought: what sort of post-apocalypse is this?
And now?
NowI miss it, she admitted, and it was true.
At home in Reading, her mum greeted them with pies and, as ever: So? How was it? Lucy showed photos, souvenirs, honey, a bag of defeated tangerines, while her mum looked doubtful.
You call it the Country of Soul? All Ive heard is, its rough, messy, poor.
Mum, Lucy sat beside her. Everywhere has good and bad. Iwell, I notice the good. I found so much of it in Cornwall. The people are wonderful. Kind, welcoming, generous. Ask directions, need a handtheyll help, and with a smile, not a bill. Because they like to.
And you werent scared? Mum asked.
Why would I be? I wasnt alone! Lucy grinned. And honestly, if you meet people with an open heart, theyll always answer back in kind.
She remembered Ann and Leanne, pouring homemade wine and tales. Henry the guide, always attentive. Alan at the vineyard, passionate as a sermon. The market folk, offering samples with a wink and a wave.
Mum, Lucy said quietly, we met a lady whos visited Cornwall nineteen times. Nineteen! I asked why. She said: Its where my soul comes to rest. Makes sense, doesnt it?
Not really, Mum said frankly.
Its a nostalgia, mum. Back to simpler timesyou know, when people played dominoes at the pier, chatted, laughed, werent glued to screens. Weve forgotten that, but there, its alive. Its verycatching.
Lucy remembered wandering Penzances parade, watching couples, families, pensioners deep in chessa gentle simplicity. It made her feel part of life, not just passing through.
And people there Lucy added, theyre not ashamed to feel poor. Theres no flash, no showing off. Theyve got home, family, tangerines in the garden. And theyre content, properly content.
Like us, once, her mum mused.
Exactly, Lucy nodded. We just forgot. They remember.
She recollected that golden evening by the sea: sunset painting the sky, seagulls wheeling, faint music somewhere far on the breeze. Two old fishermen pulled in their nets, as if stepping from a sepia postcard.
I want to go back, Lucy had whispered.
We will, Edward promised. Absolutely.
And now, sitting at home, Lucy knew it was true. They would return. Cornwall wasnt just a place. It was a feelinga place you stop being a tourist and start truly feeling. Where conversations not about language, but the soul.
Somewhere, beyond the hills and the sea, another life rolled gently on. Slow, simple, soul-soothing. For six magical days, shed been a part of it.
That night, Lucy turned out the light and closed her eyes. Wind whooshed past, an old birch rattled. And in her heart, she could still hear the sea. It called to her, promised fresh beginnings.
Until next time, Cornwall, she whispered. Well be back.A week slipped by. Then another. The Cornwall sun drifted from memory into longingbut that longing felt lighter than before, like a warm stone she could turn over in her palm. At odd momentscutting vegetables, fetching a book from her shelf, getting caught in the rainLucy found herself smiling for no reason and hearing again the echo of song under stone, the pop of tangerine peel, the thunder of waves at midnight.
One brisk Saturday, Edward arrived with a packet of scones and a jar of Cornish honey. They brewed tea, spread the honey thick, and ate in companionable silence, rain speckling the windowpane.
You know, Edward ventured, dabbing at a crumb, I used to think holidays were all about seeing the sights, ticking boxes. But I cant stop thinking about Cornwall. I justfelt different there. More myself, perhaps.
Lucy took his hand, squeezing it warmly. Holidays arent an escape, she said. Theyre how you find your way home, inside.
He looked at hera little surprised at the wisdom in her ordinary wordsthen nodded, grinning.
Outside, the clouds thinned to a shimmer of blue. Somewhere in the quiet, a gulls cry echoed, impossibly distant, impossibly close.
Next time, Edward said softly, lets stay longer. Become regulars at that market. Learn the words to the Cornish songs. Maybe even pick some tangerines for ourselves.
Lucy laughed, the pure, bright laughter that caught in her hair and set her whole spirit humming. Yes! And Ill teach you how to see with your soul, not just your eyes.
As the kettle sang and the scent of honey lingered, Lucy knew some places never really let you go. They took up residencea small, fierce ember in your chestand waited, patient as the tides, for your joyful return.
And so, with hearts a little bigger and lives a little gentler, Lucy and Edward turned the page together, each day a new map to explore. And in their dreamsand someday soon, in their footstepsthe country of the soul waited, golden as ever, always ready to welcome them home.
