Day 2
On the second day, yet again at the suggestion of my father, I walked to Cockington Village along the coastline. Cockington is supposed to be an timeless village, visited by numerous generations wanting a taste of an uncomplicated world of horse-drawn carts, ready blacksmiths, small cottages, and the manor house. The village/estate is geared up to tourism, and provides for the teaching and exercise of all sorts of skills and crafts (for example, glass-blowing). However, this did detract from its claim to authenticity (which instead tends to survive in neglected, forgotten corners, not signposted so much*), but not less than the volume of car traffic making its way along the village's road to the public house for Sunday lunch and drinks, which eroded any sense of changeless innocence to be had.
*signposting
The one place where I did find a sense of changelessness (and you will not be surprised that I mention it) was the church which I entered for the Sunday service. It was packed out with 'footballers wives' (according to the current usuage) there for several baptisms, mumbling thier renunciations of evil, the world and the devil. The Rector made an old fashioned sermon in good verbose style about how he has no divorces from the couples he marries, because he refuses to sign some sort of a certificate to some effect (I am not quite sure what he was saying at this point). The choir ladies were decked out in red surplices and three cornered hats, and a wheel-chair bound curate was really belting out the hymns. Very good stuff.
There is also a cricket pitch and pavillion next to the hall, which must be good to see in use during the summer season.
Odds and ends at an artisan's shop on the estate.
I must admit that this is not my picture. It is a copy of a photograph in the church, presumably of a church fete, employing protective measures.
Choir lady and her hymn books.
On the second day, yet again at the suggestion of my father, I walked to Cockington Village along the coastline. Cockington is supposed to be an timeless village, visited by numerous generations wanting a taste of an uncomplicated world of horse-drawn carts, ready blacksmiths, small cottages, and the manor house. The village/estate is geared up to tourism, and provides for the teaching and exercise of all sorts of skills and crafts (for example, glass-blowing). However, this did detract from its claim to authenticity (which instead tends to survive in neglected, forgotten corners, not signposted so much*), but not less than the volume of car traffic making its way along the village's road to the public house for Sunday lunch and drinks, which eroded any sense of changeless innocence to be had.
*signposting
The one place where I did find a sense of changelessness (and you will not be surprised that I mention it) was the church which I entered for the Sunday service. It was packed out with 'footballers wives' (according to the current usuage) there for several baptisms, mumbling thier renunciations of evil, the world and the devil. The Rector made an old fashioned sermon in good verbose style about how he has no divorces from the couples he marries, because he refuses to sign some sort of a certificate to some effect (I am not quite sure what he was saying at this point). The choir ladies were decked out in red surplices and three cornered hats, and a wheel-chair bound curate was really belting out the hymns. Very good stuff.
There is also a cricket pitch and pavillion next to the hall, which must be good to see in use during the summer season.
Odds and ends at an artisan's shop on the estate.
I must admit that this is not my picture. It is a copy of a photograph in the church, presumably of a church fete, employing protective measures.
Choir lady and her hymn books.
posted by Ian Blaney at 1:54 PM
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