The bells of Padstow Church (St. Petroc’s) ring out throughout the town, signalling the upcoming start to their Sunday morning service. From my perch along  South Quey road, I marvel at the sights and sounds filling these idyllic streets.

A small crowd of tourists gather around the harbour slipway, children dipping their crabbing nets into the water, cheering, and shouting with excitement at their catches. Above them, seagull squawk at the sight of their next meal of fresh crab as they are returned to the waters, matching the children’s enthusiasm. Popup street vendors cut bargains for crab nets, hair weaving and temporary tattoos.

Padstow started off life as a prosperous fishing village and port, but now sits proudly as a prominent tourist destination, with people drawn for the beaches, picturesque views of the harbour, and reputation for housing several gourmet restaurants, most notably those run by Rick Stein, who’s influence permeates throughout the town. Nestled within the estuary of the Camel, the working harbour still proves a major attraction. Smaller inshore crabbers land daily, offloading their catches of crab, crayfish, and lobster, whilst the larger trawlers and netters bring in several species of fish from the South-West coast and Atlantic Ocean.

The Harbour Flood Gate stretches out in front, a line of defence a town particularly susceptible to the tidal Camal Estuary, poor weather and high tides mixing. Scores of day-trippers line the loading ramps and slipways, queuing up for coastal boat trips and sightseeing excursions. A group of over-excited middle-aged men tussle with each other whilst they wait for their fishing trip to begin. Spotted Cumulus cloud cover and gloriously blue skies promise calm waters, umbrellas and raincoats swapped for sunglasses and shorts. A disgruntled young lady argues in vain at the notion of covering her designer dress with a yellow lifejacket. The windswept, sea-salt aged skipper reassures her that if she were to go over bard without one, at least her body would be well dressed for her funeral.

The smell of fresh Cornish pasties floats past my nose, a young lady walks past me, protecting her scone with strawberry jam and clotted cream from the gaze of a passing seagull, falling foul from the hands of her hungry boyfriend. I look down at a suspicious gull at my feet, my hand protecting at my Cornish cream vanilla ice cream, the cornet catching the melting drips. I take one final look across the harbour as the morning sun illuminates the water, dancing rays of light reflecting off the rippled waves. I leave the bench behind me, adventures new awaiting.

Only Happy Days.

~ A ~