In fact, the Pemaquid-Bristol region looks a lot like Cornwall, very similar to the Fal estuary on the south coast. We even had a boat ride, to see the seals – but no ferry from St. Mawes! Lots of lobster and seafood, including fish and chips!

You don't get many chances to photograph real coal these days!

On our way, we stayed in the mountainous region of Jackson, New Hampshire. There is a funny little steam locomotive at the foot of Mount Washington, still puffing, complete with an engineer in a dirty face and overalls.

We spent one night in Jackson, New Hampshire, had dinner in the pub and listened to a local Irish folk band. The rest of the time was at Hawks House Inn, a comfortable, laid-back B&B near Damariscotta, Maine. The host was large, gregarious and couldn't do enough to make us feel at home, and the inn was busy each day. Breakfast was buffet style laid out on two large tables. Steve, the host, was very proud of his artisanal cereals and bread, all bought at the local farmer's market, he said, as was the selection of fruit. This was ideal for us since we could help ourselves to what we liked. Not having bacon and eggs each morning probably did our figures some good, and every little bit helps these days!

As you can see, the sun shone every day, which apparently is not particularly typical of the coastal region of Maine. While this is about the closest we are to the ocean, it is still almost exactly 600 kilometres away, so not an afternoon's drive.

We were lucky with the weather but here at home, we REALLY need some rain. It has been a consistently hot, dry summer and the gardens have suffered, in our case due to the heat, but also because of the ravages of the plant pests which such hot weather seems to encourage. Sigh! We can't have it all...

This Misty Mountain is not the Brigadoon of legend, emerging from the fog only once every 100 years, but it has been compared to that mystical land due to its fantastical appearance and the many stories associated with it. Notably, it has been cited as proof for the existence of giants, in particular a character named Bolster, who could stand with one foot on the hill and the other on top of St. Agnes Beacon 10 miles away. This is not surprising, given the size of the tors on Carn Brea. You can’t help but speculate how they came to be there, and the factual description of the area’s history and prehistory only adds to the mystery.
   738 feet above sea level, Carn Brea overlooks the towns of Camborne and Redruth in southern England, or Cornwall. From Pencoys village, it is less than an hour’s walk, accessed by following Loscombe Road and the dirt lanes that meander among flowering hedgerows between the fields. If you start out in the morning, it is likely to be as misty as its nickname suggests, but on a sunny day, the fog will burn off as you approach the summit. The wild and colourful groundcover is as coarse as what is found in the highland moors, and not unlike tundra in places. Well-trodden paths ensure that you won’t easily lose your way.
   The tor enclosure that you discover is worth the steep climb up one or another sides of the hill. Imposing granite ramparts line the bank, forming an eastern and a central enclave. The stones themselves command your attention, but your eyes will be torn between them and the expansive view of the countryside and villages below. Such Neolithic (4,000 – 6,000 BCE) structures could have served many purposes: ceremonial, defensive, community, but there isn’t enough evidence to say for certain what happened in the ancient days on this hill.

​Nevertheless, Carn Brea continued to captivate people’s imaginations. Pottery, Bronze Age tools, and Roman coins have all been found at the site. In the Middle Ages (1379) a castle that served as a hunting lodge and chapel was erected by ancestors of the Basset family, using some of the enormous boulders on the hill as a base. There are at least two tunnels leading from Carn Brea toward Redruth and St. Euny’s Church, which were blocked for safety reasons after 1970. Partway down the hill, St. Euny’s Well is named after the Celtic saint who brought Christianity to the area around 500 CE. 

​In addition to the tor enclosure with its massive outcroppings of rock, the carn is recognized by the 90-foot stone cross that graces its summit. The granite obelisk (1836) is a monument to Francis Basset, Baron de Dunstanville, who became a member of the nobility partly as a result of his efforts to defend the port of Plymouth from Spanish and French fleets with an army of miners. A mine owner himself, with 700-year-old Cornish roots, Basset was a philanthropist who worked to improve the conditions of miners throughout the southwest. Or so the story goes. Some historians describe Basset less sympathetically, suggesting he was grasping as a politician and controlling as an employer, giving with one hand and taking with the other. 

​Tin mines were the main sources of employment in the region throughout the Industrial period. Their abandoned chimneys define the landscape of Cornwall, which sent many of its sons overseas during the 19th and early 20th centuries to help establish mines in places as far away as Mexico, New Zealand, and South Africa. Whatever opinion these young men held of the Baron de Dunstanville, they grew up in the shadow of his memory, and their voices still carry on the winds of Carn Brea.

Nowadays, the congregation of St. Mungo's consists of a small, loyal group of caretakers and patrons who  succeeded in raising enough funds to supplement government grants and restore the exterior of the building, before moving on to the interior, which despite its age is remarkably intact.
       A gallery runs round three sides and the pews and pulpit are original. In its day, the church could easily accommodate three hundred people. Now, it is only opened two or three times a year for special services.
      Late in the 18th century, tracts of land in Chatham township were granted to veterans of the first battalion of the 84th Regiment of Foot, also known as the Royal Highland Emigrants, who fought in the American Revolution (1775-1783) and Seven Years War (1756-1763). Archibald McMillan, whose house still stands in Grenville village, brought some 450 Highlanders from Locharkaig, Scotland, to settle along the river in 1802.
      Built by the stonemasons who worked on the Ottawa River canals, St. Mungo's played an important role in uniting the vibrant Scottish pioneer community who helped develop western Québec in the late 18th and early 19th centuries. McMillan himself remarked that he had never heard more Gaelic spoken than he did along the Ottawa River Valley.

With some care, this old kirk may survive to see its 200th birthday. Built in 1836, it is a lesser known, if not unknown, estate belonging to the United Church of Canada (Pastoral Charge of Argenteuil), but it began life as a Presbyterian church.
     Its design is that of a typical Scottish country parish building, and it gets its somewhat offbeat designation from the patron saint and founder of Glasgow, Scotland, who can also boast a cathedral to his name. Located on a beautiful rural site along the Ottawa River, halfway between Grenville and Carillon, St. Mungo's resides in the town of Cushing, Brownsburg-Chatham municipality, Québec. All of this is important to its initial discovery, as well as the fact that the property is on Route 148.
    The drive along the north shore of the Ottawa River is spectacular. Here, local farms are interspersed with forest, and you get the impression that nothing much has changed during the past century. The highway and the occasional marina and campground are really the only modern reference points, until you reach the expansive and impressive Carillon Dam.
      St. Mungo's itself sits sedately back from the main road, about midway between a horse ranch and the water. The lawn spreads out about her like an expansive green skirt, and the few nearby properties keep their distance, not quite daring to climb onto her lap.
     St. Mungo's first pastor, the Reverend William Mair, came to Canada from Glasgow, Scotland, and took charge of the parish in 1833. However, burials can be traced to the grounds as far back as 1800. There are about a hundred graves in the cemetery, and no room for more. The last burial took place in the 1940s, if you do not count a recent minister's wife, who was laid to rest there in the 1990s.

Much of St. Ives reputation is derived from its status as a haven for artists. The coast is imbued with a special golden light much of the time, readily captured in paintings or photographs. The town is poetry incarnate, with its steep streets, colourful personalities, and stranded boats in the harbour at low tide.
     On a striking site overlooking Porthmeor Beach, the Tate St. Ives museum opened in 1993 with the mandate to promote the legacy of the St. Ives Modernists who worked here during the mid 20th century. The international exhibition program sponsors three shows a year of Modern and Contemporary Art. In 2014, a major project began to refurbish and extend the gallery.
     On days when the fog rolls in and the beach is more suited to walking than sunbathing, there is much to discover among the narrow streets of St. Ives. It is known for its curiosity, craft, and gift shops. Children will adore this aspect of a town that seems to have been intentionally scaled to them and their imaginations, a fairy tale come to life.
   For all its prettiness, however, it cannot be separated from the shadow of Pendennis, an austere headland that marks the watery graves of many a wayward ship. St. Ives served as a fishing and shipping centre for much of its history. During World War II, it attracted intellectuals (St. Ives School of Painting) and hosted military troops, such as the Commando Mountain Training Centre, originally based in the Cairngorms, Scotland.

CORNWALL, ENGLAND

Like the palm trees that thrive in the temperate climate, St. Ives’ traditions and festivals are remarkable. During the Midsummer Eve Bonfire, a Lady of the Flowers casts herbs into a blaze on a hilltop. The Hurling of the Silver Ball on Feast Monday is something like an undisciplined rugby match. Guising (dressing up in costumes) has young people running in the streets on more than one occasion, during the summer and around the New Year. Fair Mo, held just before Christmas, celebrates the keeping of pigs. And model boat sailing on Consols Pool maintains the ancient custom of launching miniature ships to placate the gods of the storm.
     With the arrival of the Great Western Railway in 1877 and the advent of broad gauge trains, St. Ives opened up to the outside world and rapidly became a popular holiday resort. It is not uncommon to see hordes of schoolchildren travelling south to St. Erth and transferring to the St. Ives Bay Line. The last stretch of the journey is especially magnificent as the train rounds the curvature of the coast with spectacular views of the cliffs and ocean in all directions.
     On land, a footpath follows the same route, so if you feel like you’ve not had time to take it all in, this is your second chance. It begins at the train station, becoming a narrow lane from the Warren to Westcott's Quay. Drenched in the scent of tropical gardens and sea air, the trail is sheltered by a canopy of green – just enough to cool your brow and guard your eyes from the glare of the sun on the waves.

CORNWALL, ENGLAND

Much of England is ‘pretty’ in a quaint kind of way. It has also been known to be foggy, rainy, even ugly, especially during the days of coal fires, which shrouded most of London in a mantle of smog. The odour has never fully dissipated, or perhaps it has simply been absorbed into the generalized aroma of age and train engines, so characteristic of the place. In a word, the seat of the Empire looks, feels, and smells… well, old.
     The Cornish people, descendants of an ancient clan of Celts, would deny their place in that Empire, being hoarier than the Romans and Anglo-Saxons. Through some incongruity in the clockwork of history, they’ve managed to preserve much of their Brythonic language and customs.  More to the point, however, they’ve retained their edge: Cornwall is equally lovely and rugged, charming and fearsome.
     Beyond the rambling fields, rough moors, and ragged cliffs, the land tapers off into sand and sunlight. The seaside town of St. Ives is its crown sapphire, sensibly set between a protective headland and a sweep of golden beaches. For much of the past, the village was isolated, accessed mainly by sea. Legends dating to the 5th century tell of the young Saint Ia (from whom St. Ives gets its name), who came across the ocean from Ireland in a leaf to become the patroness of the small community. She is commemorated by a statue created by figurative sculptor Faust Lang (1887-1973) carved from driftwood.