A tale of two St Ives: 'He is cursed and bewildered by her unbridled beauty'
Cornwall is really in two places, and it's more pronounced in St Ives than anywhere else. When I arrive in the late morning, I find a gray Ferrari parked in the loading dock near the Talay Thai restaurant. He is parked at an attacking angle, indicating carelessness. This is the first Cornwall. The cleaners walk past with vast bags of laundry, and this is the second. It's changeover day: They have six hours to transform an Airbnb from one guest's dreamscape to another's. Most Cornish stories come from outside the Duchy: traveling myths. The lighthouse from Virginia Woolf's novel – the Godrevy – is on the horizon; Woolf was born in Kensington. Daphne du Maurier was born in Camden, but moved to Cornwall and wrote Rebecca, which is a novel about a house.
St Ives was once a fishing village. Today it is a tourist resort around a declining fishing village. The old town - "Downalong" - is a cobblestone hotel filled with Airbnbs and second homes. In winter, you will hardly see a light on. The locals live on the hillside of the Penbeagle Estate and despise what they once had.
Visitors wander slowly along the facade licking ice cream. Like all recreation participants, they are barely able to speak. The sea is far away for now: the harbor looks like a bathtub with the stopper removed.
Herring gulls are the most attentive creatures here. They are exceptional in their savagery, even for Cornwall, which must be a sort of metaphor. They watch intently as Trevor the binman empties the trash can and throws the full bag into a wheeled cart. Trash is collected five times a day to deter gulls from attacking people and is hidden in a yard behind the Sloop Inn (1312), which is already occupied by a local bachelor party drinking competition, such as the do bachelor party nights.
"Working little town," says Trevor. “I try to stop the seagulls. Fight a losing battle. They become wise. This was also Du Maurier's fear. She put it in her short story The Birds, though they stopped eating people's food, and started eating people instead. "data-spacefinder-type="model.dotcomrendering.pageElements.ImageBlockElement" class="dcr-eiqqge">
Cornwall is really in two places, and it's more pronounced in St Ives than anywhere else. When I arrive in the late morning, I find a gray Ferrari parked in the loading dock near the Talay Thai restaurant. He is parked at an attacking angle, indicating carelessness. This is the first Cornwall. The cleaners walk past with vast bags of laundry, and this is the second. It's changeover day: They have six hours to transform an Airbnb from one guest's dreamscape to another's. Most Cornish stories come from outside the Duchy: traveling myths. The lighthouse from Virginia Woolf's novel – the Godrevy – is on the horizon; Woolf was born in Kensington. Daphne du Maurier was born in Camden, but moved to Cornwall and wrote Rebecca, which is a novel about a house.
St Ives was once a fishing village. Today it is a tourist resort around a declining fishing village. The old town - "Downalong" - is a cobblestone hotel filled with Airbnbs and second homes. In winter, you will hardly see a light on. The locals live on the hillside of the Penbeagle Estate and despise what they once had.
Visitors wander slowly along the facade licking ice cream. Like all recreation participants, they are barely able to speak. The sea is far away for now: the harbor looks like a bathtub with the stopper removed.
Herring gulls are the most attentive creatures here. They are exceptional in their savagery, even for Cornwall, which must be a sort of metaphor. They watch intently as Trevor the binman empties the trash can and throws the full bag into a wheeled cart. Trash is collected five times a day to deter gulls from attacking people and is hidden in a yard behind the Sloop Inn (1312), which is already occupied by a local bachelor party drinking competition, such as the do bachelor party nights.
"Working little town," says Trevor. “I try to stop the seagulls. Fight a losing battle. They become wise. This was also Du Maurier's fear. She put it in her short story The Birds, though they stopped eating people's food, and started eating people instead. "data-spacefinder-type="model.dotcomrendering.pageElements.ImageBlockElement" class="dcr-eiqqge">
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