With several holidays in Cornwall as a child (Newquay before its waves were discovered; Fowey before the yachts moved in) it went back on my to-do list when the Eden Project opened and that was 12 years ago. I’ve now done it. And The Lost Gardens of Heligan. That’s two ticks and rather too much smugness.
The smugness started as I sank into a soft, wide seat in the first class carriage of the First Great Western train leaving Paddington for St Austell. First class! It sounds self-indulgent but it does mean the break starts as the train pulls out of the station – much needed if the journey takes up a significant proportion of your time away. Space, a table, a trolley – it was impossible not to relax the moment I started staring out of the window, blanking out daily pressures. Crossing Brunel’s Royal Albert Bridge, with its impressive views of the Tamar Bridge, Saltash and the Tamar Valley, then tranquil coastal views with boats leaning skittishly above the tide, this two-night break felt like a proper holiday.
I was in it for luxurious comfort – and the food.
After a glimpse of the part-sea, part-countryside view from my balcony, a swoop of seagulls calling out in the light breeze, our first stop was The Lost Gardens of Heligan.
You could spend a day there, spotting signs of what’s just been planted, at full peak or will emerge in seasons to come – melons and pineapples, berries we’ve forgotten about, brassicas and beans, herbs – amidst ancient potting sheds, restored greenhouses and an obligatory scarecrow. But we had supper to eat and cocktails to drink so back to the The Llanwroc we went.
Fowey mussels, a generous portion served in a marmite, echoed the hotel’s local but slightly non-conformist approach – a light touch of garlic and salty bacon to balance the creamy-buttery cider and Cornish blue sauce. No need to ask for a spoon – it was delivered automatically, so obvious is it that you’d want to scoop it all up which of course I did.
Scallops came appropriately caramelised and with crushed peas, chorizo, a light foamy, buttery sauce and a sprinkle of pea shoots adding pea punch and crunch. My only criticism is that serving it on slate (creating a lovely combination of colours) meant less sauce (any more than a waft and it would have sloshed over the sides).
The richness of a generous slab of pork belly, in an almost black, sticky sauce, was balanced by a few capers garnishing an excellent celeriac remoulade, first rate paprika roast potatoes and a light dollop of apple sauce – a wondrous mixture that demanded, and got, a large glass of full bodied shiraz.
He’s retired, officially, but continues to take out his boat (for the love of it) when weather and winds permit. A younger man wanting to make a living would need a bigger boat, he tells me, but this brings in some bread and butter income and keeps him active and fit. With the unpredictability of the weather, fishermen using net, pots or line are truly adaptable (unlike trawlermen who can battle more easily against the wind and rain and are therefore less affected by the seasons).
And then we were off to the Eden Project. We all know what that’s about; we’ve had its important environmental, research and education roles drummed into us and the admirable Tim Smit (now Sir Timothy Bartel Smit, awarded the KBE for his work on Heligan and the Eden Project) is an icon for many. What is less well known is that at almost every turn, the Eden Project is about food.
All this might be common knowledge to readers whose schools took geography seriously but for those of us who were taught only how to trace a map of Australia, it’s eye-opening and thought-provoking. At £45 the entrance fee seems pricey but make a matching donation and go as often as you like for a year. If we had stayed longer I’d have gone back again and again, not only for the mind-bending knowledge but also to eat in one of its many cafés, large and small, indoor and out, all of which were as cliché-free as it is possible to be – everything’s cooked from scratch in front of you.
A wander round art galleries, a sneaky award-winning west country Yarde Farm ice cream, then it was back to a foamy bath, reading a book on the terrace and hoping I’d have enough room for dinner.
I did, giving Gorran Haven wrasse a go. Served as crispy seedy-breaded goujons on a bed of heritage tomatoes with pea shoots, pumpkin seeds, the light smokiness of sage leaves and a hint of cumin, it needed a light sauce to contrast with all that crunch. Aged Cornish rump steak served juicily rare, Mevagissey scallops correctly slightly transparent in their centre, a more than competent tarragon-rich béarnaise sauce, and crisp on the outside, fluffy on the inside homemade chips were a huge success. An excellent gooseberry fool rounded off me, and our mini-break.
With thanks to: