Tuesday 8th September. A last minute escape to Cornwall. We drive through mist over Dartmoor and emerge, just short of Truro, into clear blue skies. A stop at Gear Farm for the best pasty in the county, and down the peninsula to Porthallow. We set up camp in a glade on the side of the hill that tumbles down to the sea. As soon as the tent is up, I put a pillow on the ground under the shade of an ash tree and sleep and sleep. 

An afternoon walk down to the beach and then up along the coast path to Nare point. Views out to sea and across the Helford River. The hedges are studded with devil's bit scabious and alive with butterflies. Home to a barbecue lit by a storm lantern and a fat moon.

Wednesday 9th September. An early start to Kynance cove. We walk over the clifftops, in and out of clouds, through low mist to Mullion Cove, keeping an eye on the girls as they range close to the edge of the cliffs. The drops are sheer at this part of the coast, the cliffs dramatic. After tea and a pasty from the tiny shop by the harbour, we walk back through green lanes thick with blackberries and laden with sloes. 

This evening, I somehow manage to find enough wifi in the middle of nowhere to give a talk to Middle Years Monday. I have been worrying about the logistics of this for weeks and afterwards, out of sheer relief, we drink champagne and look at the stars. And such stars. I thought Somerset had good stars, but maybe I have got out of the habit of sitting outside at night and seeing them. I seem to have forgotten how thick they can be. 

I disturb a badger on my way to brush my teeth.

Thursday 10th September. Starry nights mean clear skies and clear skies mean cold setters. Morag is not good with being cold which means she insists on sleeping in the middle of the camp bed. Maud is not good at missing out on anything that might be fun and so she insists on sleeping there too. This does not make for good sleep for anyone except the girls. We all emerge from the tent to a heavy dew and a magical light. We breakfast at the Potager at Constantine, maybe the loveliest garden in all the world. Long, heavy wooden tables under a canopy of trees, a hammock and pots and pots of tea. 

We drive over to Gwithian for the surfing and the seals (the seal cubs look so pale and vulnerable I can hardly bear to look at them at the bottom of the cliff). The girls race over the sand into the landsape tinged with salmon pink. They are like something out of a film, until they come across a fisherman and try and steal his bait. They go on leads after that. 

Dinner at Scarlet Wines on the road out of St Ives. They let me have a pint of milk out of their fridge for coffee in the morning and we buy beautiful things from the shop. Cornish ketchup and hand made chocolate with orange and almonds.

Friday 11th September. I spend the morning catching up in the Fat Apples Cafe because, would you believe, there is so much Christmas admin at the moment. I will be doing six and twlve month gift subscriptions for Gather in my Christmas shop and quite a lot of the most lovely magazines are, rather wonderfully, putting these in their guides to the best gifts of the season. 

And then I drive, holding my breath and trying not to close my eyes, up and down the vertiginous, blind lanes between Porthallow and Helford. I collect the pack and we visit Kestle Barton, a gallery and garden in the grounds of a house that may or may not have been Navron in Daphne du Maurier’s Frenchman’s Creek. The garden is wonderful and surrounds a lime clad barn. We have visited many times over the years and the grasses have diminished and the planting of shrubs thickened and matured. The hedges that line the little garden rooms are solid and enclosing now, inviting picnics and pausing. (Designed by James Alexander-Sinclair incidentally, who follows me on instagram, and that is my one single claim to fame.)

We do not pause, but drive to Penzance, stopping for a trip to No 56, on to Newlyn, up to Pendeen and then along the incredible north coast road. Twists and turns, the moorland to the right and the wide sea to the left. Belted galloway cattle on the green fields. We walk up to the headland at Zennor and watch a bird of prey rising and falling on the thermals over the sea. 

Dinner at The Old Coastguard in Mousehole, sister to The Gurnard's Head. It is only when I read over this newsletter do I realise how much eating we did this week. 

I disturb the badger again. It is eating the fallen apples in the dark.

Saturday 12th September. I know, I know, but we have another Potager breakfast. I arrive early whilst the light is still soft and film the secret corners and round the back of the kitchen garden. Hugo then arrives to disturb the peace and shout at other dogs and is placated only by ends of toast and trip to look at the compost heaps. We were meant to be staying in Cornwall until late and had booked a Nancarrow feast, but the lure of ready electricity and clean sheets is strong and we come home at lunchtime. I bake a loaf of bread, I think maybe just because I can.

Sunday 13th September. A watering of pots and a washing of laundry. The dogs sleep like they have never slept before, as if the holiday has exhausted them. The squash are a week closer to being ready. The borlotti beans a week fatter. I edit videos about cosmos for Gather, and plan a journal of Cornish gardens. 

​This may be the last trip out for a little while as it does seem like life may be a bit limited again soon. I hope that wherever you are and whatever you are doing, you are safe and well.