Just back from a week in one of our favourite English resorts – St. Ives in Cornwall. We’ve been there a number of times before but have still not properly come to terms with just how far away it is; the length of the drive down there always somehow manages to surprise me, as do the inevitable high-season traffic delays.
It passed by all too quickly in a blur of simple yet reliable pleasures: cycling, coastal walks, Cornish Pasties, wet-suited forays into the freezing Atlantic, pints of Doom Bar at the Sloop Inn, a visit to the unique Minack Theatre (very entertaining production of Spamalot on this occasion) and, in the odd spare moment, pulling out the sketchbook…
I’ve lost count of the number of drawings I’ve made of Lynn reading. Here she is stoically ignoring the plummeting evening temperatures in a fleecy winter top. August doesn’t get much more English than this.
Sat sketching boats with Lynn from the harbour wall until they rose up (and changed their orientation) on the incoming tide. Heavens opened around the same time so took shelter and several cups of coffee in a nearby café.
Porthmeor Beach; headland laterally compressed to fit on the page. That’s artistic licence, that is.