One girl in a boat

"I NEVER thought I'd be doing this a month before my 60th birthday," muttered mum as she swung a leg astride a rubber seat at Falmouth marina.

I must admit to not reading the literature about King Harry Ferry's Orca Safari too hard before I booked – mum's probably more of a gentle sway on the open ocean in a sea-liner kind of woman than a "let's see how fast we can go on a 35ft RIB" one.

Donned reassuringly in life jackets that had to be secured between the legs 'just in case' (of what?), we couldn't help but be thoroughly amused by the whole experience.

Despite an assurance by Kiwi skipper Matt that "this isn't a zoo so we can't guarantee we'll see anything", one can't help being a little cockily confident.

Surely the basking sharks will be out to inspect the journalist and her mother, playing picture-perfectly with a school of bottle-nosed dolphins, followed shortly by a friendly seal bringing you fish?

As castles and lighthouses slipped in and out of view, beaches and tiny fishing villages all pointed hopefully out towards us. The coast, it is true, was designed to be seen from the sea, and time on the water quite literally flies.

Besides from a few thousand gulls, a few dozen gannets, our wildlife extravaganza never did really materialise. But we didn't really care, as it had turned into a wonderful adventure of coves, caves and castles.

With a new-found thirst for water pursuits, I got in touch with Peter at Mylor Boat Hire, just a couple of miles from my house.

Some girlfriends of mine were arriving from Somerset and what better way to spend a day than exploring the Carrick Roads under your own steam, at your own pace?

Having been politely assured that, no, we couldn't 'chug around the Lizard Peninsula in a 16ft Picarooner', (and neither would we want to negotiate the four metre waves the other side), we turned up with flowers in our hair and nautically striped tops – just to prove what dedicated sailors we were.

It's a wonder we were allowed a boat at all, frankly.

Motoring ourselves up the Fal, we tucked into a pasty 'n' pint at the beautifully picturesque Smugglers' Cottage at Tolverne, and after a rather spectacular 53 point turn to leave our mooring (if I don't mind saying so myself), we were delighted by nothing other than a sunbathing seal!

A word of warning to fellow day trippers – don't cut the boat's power in the middle of an estuary in order not to scare the wildlife. It may take you 10 minutes to get the thing started again. That's all I'm saying.

Compared to the £39.50 of the Orca Safari, Mylor Boat Hire was by far better value for money at £60 for half a day – and ironically we saw more wildlife – but it really depends what kind of thrills your looking for.

I thoroughly enjoyed both and would do either again in a heartbeat.

Perhaps mum fancies renting a French Put next time…

Contact Orca Safaris on 01872 861 910 or e-mail orca@kingharry.net

Contact Mylor Boat Hire on 01326 377745 or e-mail peter@mylorboathire.co.uk

Sun bathing, sea safaris and religous stumblings

Bank holiday. Notorious for wet miserable weather punctuated with excess sugar and spending a little more than you really wanted.
Not this time. Easter brought with it blue skies that we had all but forgotten existed.
This isn't just bank holidaying. This is Cornwall bank holidaying. My first (bar Christmas) since I've moved here. Mother came to visit. The gloves were off - could I once and for all prove that the move was a less-than-hair-brained idea?
Mum arrived Thursday night - just in time for a quick jaunt around Truro, and apparently a good opportunity to duck in to experience a bit of religion Cathedral-style.
We immediately knew something was wrong. Yes, we'd inadvertently stumbled into one of the most important services in the Christian calendar - the Maundy Thursday service. It was hypnotic though. As a gold light swamped the congregation, the choir, the washing of feet, sermons and gold encrusted bibles were mesmeric.
At the point of having to respond to a good natured 'peace be with you' with an 'and with you' it was time to leave. Lest I be smitted for my religious naivety. My housemates later fell about with the idea that I might have offered an old man peace. What do they know?
Not to be defeated we awoke on Friday with fresh resolve - mum's a keen gardener - it was an easy choice.
National Trust Gardens at home are very beautiful - there's no denying the garden of England does flowers and grass very, very well.
But nothing that would quite beat the delights Trebah had to offer. With foliage that could only be described as a akin to tropical rainforest to rummage through, topped off with a sea-shore hat.
Our only complaint was we hadn't quite prepared well enough - it wouldn't have been a bad idea to spend an entire day exploring here, as we jealously eyed up picnics brought by those more seasoned to South Cornwall.
Next, we hit the shores of Falmouth - specifically, King Harry Ferry's Orca Safari. At the time of booking, I must admit I had visions of comfortable 58ft glass bottomed yacht with Whale-calling beacon and private dolphins. Well - why not?!
Of course, this wouldn't be the case, and as we clad ourselves in oversized overcoats and strapped ourselves into life jackets, I realised I'd misunderstood.
As I shoe horned mum over a straddle-seat on a 35ft RIB, she whispered out the side of her mouth 'who would have thought I'd be doing such a thing a month before my 60th?!'. Who indeed.
Panic struck in a little as we set off - teetering at the front of the boat. Nothing but my sunnies and the front 2ft of the boat between me and ocean.
Neptune - obviously impressed by my uncharacteristic religiousness of the day before - was smiling on us, as a mill-pond flat sea greeted us outside Falmouth Harbour. We spent the next 2 hours so delighted we felt we'd only been out 40 minutes and skipper Kiwi Matt had done some kind of Jedi mind trick on us.
Let’s cut to the chase - the only wildlife we saw were gannets, seagulls and a couple of very serious un-smiling Americans at the back of the boat.
But we also saw the coast of Cornwall as it should be viewed. Little villages and hamlets which look like they'd been places simply to make the scenery nicer for the boat-tripper - inlets, lighthouses, castles and beaches - it was Cornwall at its best, and I was so proud.
With Sunday spent on the glorious beaches of North Cornwall, the only disappointment was rain stopping play on the matinee performance at the Minack Theatre I'd booked, but we weren't disheartened. Cornwall had allowed us a bank holiday dreams are made of. Let’s hope we've got another one around the corner.

Points mean prizes at the Pirates'

I must admit to arriving to the St Piran’s Day celebrations at the Cornish Pirates Camborne ground a little late in the day.

You see it had been raining. Not the famous Cornish drizzle my easily-frizzed hair has grown accustom to hate, but big plops of cold rain driving sideways on a gale force wind.
But apparently the Cornish aren’t easily deterred by bad weather.
In fact there was the undeniable feeling that we were all going to enjoy our Sunday (day of rest) simply to spite the weather, flicking our communal Cornish bird at the raging elements.
An hour before kick-off and the jollities were still swinging, largely in the form of a defiantly upbeat brass band keeping the beer tent warm, who then proceeded to the pitch to entertain the vocal, and by now, decidedly swaying crowd.
Huddled like penguins keeping off the worst of the wind, the crowd were entertained to a first quarter of powerful rugby by the Pirates, dominating in the Bedford half, gaining ground which wasn’t retreated upon until the second half.
But points mean prizes and the boys in their decidedly Cornish black and gold away strip just weren’t converting their clean line-outs and strong scrums onto the scoreboard. Bedford had apparently built an invisible wall around the try-line.
As mellow periods of winter sun were overtaken by driving rain, overtaken by mellow sun again, the brass band imploringly churned out the famous riff in Rockey over and over, to gee the Pirates on.
The wind was getting the better of the fly half’s kicking until the third quarter, when a fresh-legged looking Bedford finally put 3 points on the scoreboard.
Never did the Pirates look like they wanted the match more, as defiantly the lads pushed back into the Bedford half and Rhys Jones ran the ball over the try line – much to the delight of the ear-busting cheers in the crowd. This would be the game’s first and last big-pointed period as 5 wasn’t converted to 7 - the conversion flying wide, impeded once again by the wind.
The final quarter saw Bedford sail another 3 points through the posts, and no matter how strong the Pirates looked, their final downfall and loss by a single point can only be put down to bad luck.
I think. The second half of the match was largely dictated to me, as by then my eyes had frozen over and frostbite set in. A thoroughly enjoyable day out none-the-less, and many congratulations to the Pirates for a great show.

For the match report click here

Highstreet Honeys: A dream come true?

thisiscornwall.co.uk ran a story today of local ‘beauty’ Charlotte Thompson being shortlisted in FHM’s Highstreet Honeys competition.

The first two comments realised word for word what both sides of my brain was thinking.

The first was less outraged, more disappointed, that the ambitions of a young woman with her whole life ahead of her should rest soley in being conceived as a ‘honey’ in the eyes of men.

The second ran the ‘good on her’ line. Why shouldn’t she make a buck or two out of her looks?

But the idea of becoming a ‘Highstreet Honey’? Just because I’d rather peel my eyes out and set fire to my breasts before I did such a thing, doesn’t mean Charlotte has the same ideals.

Charlotte has been brought up in a world where being a ‘celebrity’ is a career choice – something one aspires to be alongside ‘doctor’, ‘lawyer’, ‘musician’, or ‘journalist’.

But making one’s fortune in Cornwall is a tricky business. Opportunities are fewer and further between than elsewhere in the country. So I wish her luck, while holding tight my reservations.

I hope she remembers herself for something other than looks alone. I hope she doesn’t take personally the comments against her choice, for women have had the vote not yet a century, and have fought hard for her freedom. I hope.

To read more of Jo's blogs click here

'Highstreet Honies' - a dream come true?

thisiscornwall.co.uk ran a story today of local ‘beauty’ Charlotte Thompson being shortlisted in FHM’s Highstreet Honeys competition.

The first two comments realised word for word what both sides of my brain was thinking.

The first was less outraged, more disappointed, that the ambitions of a young woman with her whole life ahead of her should rest soley in being conceived as a ‘honey’ in the eyes of men.

The second ran the ‘good on her’ line. Why shouldn’t she make a buck or two out of her looks?
But the idea of becoming a ‘Highstreet Honey’? Just because I’d rather peel my eyes out and set fire to my breasts before I did such a thing, doesn’t mean Charlotte has the same ideals.
Charlotte has been brought up in a world where being a ‘celebrity’ is a career choice – something one aspires to be alongside ‘doctor’, ‘lawyer’, ‘musician’, or ‘journalist’.
But making one’s fortune in Cornwall is a tricky business. Opportunities are fewer and further between than elsewhere in the country. So I wish her luck, while holding tight my reservations.
I hope she remembers herself for something other than looks alone. I hope she doesn’t take personally the comments against her choice, for women have had the vote not yet a century, and have fought hard for her freedom. I hope.

Social Networking melts your soul

Social networking is 'devoid of cohesive narrative and long-term significance'.
Or at least that’s what Lady Greenfield, professor of synaptic pharmacology at Lincoln college, Oxford, and director of the Royal Institution thinks.
According to this leading Neuroscientist, Facebook, Twitter and any other networking site you may be getting your ‘fix’ from, infantilises our minds, gives us a shortened attention span, and makes us all ravingly egotistical and self-centred.
I rather suspect I was all of these things to begin with, but that, perhaps, is a whole other blog.
The theory goes that by encouraging instant gratification, one becomes unable to bear anything which may take any amount of time.
That by setting up a profile page dedicated to you, with pictures of you, information of you, with blogs you wrote, and videos you made featuring you sitting in your home going about your daily life might just give us the feeling that we are the most important thing in the universe.
I beg to differ. Too long did we wait for a medium with which to connect to friends, (equally as important as ourselves), the ability to message them (while patiently waiting for a reply), poke them (while patiently waiting to be poked back), and generally have everything we ever needed to know at our fingertips.
Sure, it throws up problems like the diminishing need for libraries, and our inability to remember the alphabet the few times we’ll ever need to go to our dictionaries again.
Looking for something to blame for short attention spans and a lack of real-time face-to-face contact with others? I hope she took a good hard look at the effects of excessive gaming.
But leave our networking sites alone, lady. Thou who does not accept web 2.0 simply doesn’t understand it. And probably has too few friends to make it worthwhile.

Lower abdominal muscles - VERY important

"If I'd told you what you had to do today, you wouldn’t have shown up" says Luke, at my first Personal Training (PT) session.

Is he lying? He doesn’t look like he's lying.
A nervous laugh from me, but my swallow sticks in my dry throat, and it's with something of a sinking heart that I realise he's serious.
I have to run (Forrest, run). Full pelt. Up a steep gradient. For as long as I can (hah!).
This is apparently the only way to measure my body's ability to absorb oxygen from my lungs.
Let's cut to the chase, I lasted 2 mins 45 seconds. Luke reckons he's made it to 12 minutes in the past. I'd love to scoff that this ex-services fitness fanatic is full of hot air, but looking at him - I can believe it.
Shame faced, chest burning, heart screaming, some more calculations incredibly, nay, unbelievably show that I once again fall into category 'good' for oxygen consumption. There has to be an easier way.
The rest of the session comprises core stability and strength - my ex-gymnastical days have put me in good stead for this, and the stretches and crunches placate me after The Ordeal.
However, after a depressing discovery that my lower abdominal muscles need some serious work, Luke tells me something which at once changes every single one of my goals. Not just in fitness, but in life, generally.
He once saw a video of an elderly lady who's lower abdominal muscles had all but disappeared, pass her bladder through her… "you know" . His head nods the direction of a place I have no intention of ever seeing my bladder protrude from.
This is now my sole motivation. There is no more important goal.
You will have to check back here in about 40 years to see if its worked, though.