Up With the Larks Read Free Page A

foliage and woodlands.
This was the area that inspired Daphne du Maurier to
write books, like Rebecca and Frenchman's Creek .
    It's an area that has always inspired me as well. I always
returned from visits feeling calmer and yet energized, ready to
tackle again the job of working mother back in London.
    So as usual, we headed for the South of Cornwall, finding
self-catering accommodation in a village called Poldowe, up
the hill from the sea with a tiny harbour and beach. The village
had one small post office and shop and to me it was perfect,
like stepping back into the 19th century.
    It was early spring, and though in London not even the
daffodils had managed to emerge from their winter covering
of grime, here it was almost summer. The camellias were
exuberant: they seemed to be everywhere and so colourful that
my eyes seemed permanently dazzled after the grey of winter.
Even the primroses were out, blooming alongside the snowdrops
that no doubt had appeared weeks earlier but refused
to go, rather like a white cat curled on a favourite chair in a
sunny room. South Cornwall was at its best that spring. It was
as if, knowing our dissatisfaction, she was luring us to her.
    The night we arrived at Poldowe, there was a thick fog. It
enveloped the nearby harbour village of Morranport and crept
up the hill to envelope the houses, the trees and the old church
in the centre of a square. It was late when we got in so we
unpacked the night clothes and the bag of provisions we'd
brought, had a makeshift supper and piled into bed, relieved
to be off the busy holiday roads and into our own cottage.
    The next morning the sea mist still clung to the harbour
and village like fine dewy cobwebs. I woke early and walked
down along the footpath to the harbour then down the beach
to the sea's edge with Jake our spaniel. My face and body were
being moistened and moisturized by the clean, fresh sea-mist,
better than by any of the potions and scented oils I dealt with.
    I stood for ages at the edge of the sea, Jake jumping in and
out of the waves like a lunatic dog from some kiddies' cartoon.
The mist was beginning to lift, and sharp shafts of sunlight
pierced the opaque whiteness like dozens of golden needles,
darting on the smooth undulations of the sea and changing
the colour from a dull grey to deep blue and turquoise.
    I stood, mesmerized. My senses were being bombarded: the
earthy smells of sea and stone and damp, the sounds of waves
churning over the pebbly beach and of sea birds calling to
each other overhead, and I could almost taste the salt in the
air, it was so strong and pungent.
    I was oblivious to Jake and his splashing, to his odd bark
at the seagulls that landed too close. I watched those golden
streaks on the sea, the mist snaking around as if it were playing
hide and seek with the sun, and I knew, knew with all my heart,
without a shadow of a doubt.
    This is where we must go. This is where we belong, by the sea, in this place.
    The knowledge, the certainty of my feelings made me
suddenly wild and exhilarated. Jake, sensing my excitement,
began barking and circling as I stood at the water's edge, daring
me to go in. I didn't hesitate. I wanted now to feel the sea on
my body, I wanted to actually taste the salt water on my lips.
I wanted a baptism too, although I didn't form that thought
till later. I wanted to immerse myself in my new certainty.
    There was no one around as I tore off my clothes. I'd only
worn jeans and underpants, hurriedly throwing on a pink sweatshirt
without bothering with a bra. My jeans were boot-legged
and wide enough to pull off with my trainers and socks still
on, and I was in such a hurry to get into the water that I didn't
bother to take them off, plunging stark naked into the icy sea
whooping and shouting, Jake barking and splashing beside me.
Together we created holy mayhem, both of us manic in our
separate joy.
    I didn't stay in long – it was freezing. The mist had gathered
again as I staggered out,