A Tweet-Free Cornish Nasty (From The Argus)

A Tweet-Free Cornish Nasty

11:58am Friday 11th September 2009

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By Quentin Delahunty – Liberal. Creative. Brightonian »

‘Tis been a while since my last missive and I sincerely apologise for your fallow, Quentin-less weeks. It must have been trés difficult for you but here I am again, at your disposal (metaphorically-speaking). Anyway, the main reason for my blog-free period was a last-hurrah-style holiday in Cornwall, one in which I decided to eschew computers, laptops, iPhones and any other cyber-techno-paraphernalia in an attempt to cleanse my soul and reconnect with Mother Earth, not Google Earth.

After much deliberation, Jocasta, the kids and I had finally decided on just where we would spend this final fling of the summer hols (we had rounded it down to somewhere on these fair isles, in true eco-friendly style). We are a democratic bunch, us Delahuntys, and the children had an equal say in this decision. Indeed, I’d have UN election monitors in to report on the fairness of every decision notre famille make if it was feasible (It’s not. I checked). After all the votes were counted, the quaint seaside village of Padstow was elected as our destination of choice, a wonderful place dear to this writer’s very big heart. By the way, its Cornish name is Lannwedhenek and in sympathy with the Cornish people and their (under-reported) struggle for self-government, I shall refer to it as such from now on.

This seaside idyll (of Lannwedhenek) held many treasured childhood memories for me, as the Delahunty clan of yore had made an almost annual retreat to the southwest to stock up on some head-clearing Atlantic-air and escape the burgeoning urban rat race of the 70s and 80s. Indeed, it was in this Cornish paradise that I, as a handsome, svelte 14 year-old, made the milestone transition from man to boy and lost my innocence to a sweet, local lass named Lowenna who also spoke the local lingo (and who, if I remember correctly, had a fine pair of diwvronn). Oh, and by “lost my innocence”, I do indeed mean had full sexual intercourse. Twice.

Fast forward to Padstow 2009 however, and while I was still getting jiggy, this time with a suitably impressed Jocasta (once), the former quiet’n’quaint village had somewhat lost its mojo, having been transformed into a tourist-heavy, Cornish cash-cow, a McCornwall for the bourgeoisie. Jam-packed full of brash, monied philistines hogging the highways and, indeed, by-ways with their gargantuan campervans and hideous 4x4s, the soul of this once ethereal fishing village had been gutted by pseudo-surfing city boys and pan-fried by braying marketing execs gorging themselves on over-priced seafood. (Usually I’d have fired off a trademark cutting and exceptionally witty tweet on seeing the consumerist catastrophe happening in front of my very own baby blues, but with my self-imposed techno-ban in place, I was forced to produce a stream of verbal tweets to Jocasta, who nodded in agreement and smirked in appreciation).

As a young lad, a trip to Rick Stein’s fish eaterie was a joy, a treasured event dripping in authentic Cornish brine. However, circa 2009, Stein’s Wizard of Oz-like multi-business presence in Lannwedhenek felt rather over-bearing. Like a Cornish Kim Jong-il, he was omnipresent, his aura stalking the lanes and alleys of this picture-postcard port. Indeed, I’m 99% sure I even saw him cleaning the public toilets down by the harbour. Although, to give the Rickster his dues, his gastro-travel TV shows are still a joy to behold. Indeed no-one, and I mean no-one, can make us believe he is actually enjoying every bite of ethnic “peasant food” he has to swallow better than the old Stein-meister.

On the final night of our pleasant, if taxing, soujorn in “Padstein”, we decided to celebrate the end of summer with a pretty impressive nosh-up at Stein’s brilliantly monikered “The Seafood Restaurant”. And it was there, as we tucked into our delightful plum tomato and basil gallettes (staying veggie, despite the splendiforous fruits de la mer on offer) , that I spotted famed TV producer Melinda Jackson-Jackson (we worked together in the early 90s on a failed politically-correct version of “The Word”) chomping on a John Dory with long-term partner Susan LeFondre (of the infamous avant-fem-dance collective Vulva Britannica).

Ironically, Melinda and I had rekindled our friendship a few years back courtesy of the very technology I was now staying well clear of, after we had found each other on Facebook before more recently connecting on Twitter. We had even hooked up at a couple of tweet-ups and twestivals, where (for those of you not plugged in to the cybersphere) tweeple in the twitterverse meet up and fill the awkward silences with talk of the latest iPhone app, Stephen Fry’s latest tweetage or maybe show each other twitpics (photos) of their twats (cats).

Ironically, Melinda and I had rekindled our friendship a few years back courtesy of the very technology I was now staying well clear of, after we had found each other on Facebook before more recently connecting on Twitter. We had even hooked up at a couple of tweet-ups and twestivals, where (for those of you not plugged in to the cybersphere) tweeple in the twitterverse meet up and fill the awkward silences with talk of the latest iPhone app, Stephen Fry’s latest tweetage or maybe show each other twitpics (photos) of their twats (cats).

Anyway, after a short and somewhat stilted chin-wag over a glass of Macon-Montbellet with Melinda and Susan, where I pitched Mel my new idea for a Sunday night ITV drama “Fish Out Of Water” (in which mineral water magnate Peter Fish, played by Martin Clunes, finds himself living in a remote village in the Gobi desert, with hilarious consequences), the two chicks headed for the hills, albeit after Mel had pencilled me in for a breakfast meeting in London in October (great news!).

Full of positive vibes and pricey vino, Jocasta, me and the kids then decided to stroll down by the harbour one last time, where we came across a drunken old fisherman hurling abuse at a couple of German tourists, like Kanute railing at the incoming tide.

The following day, as we drove home through the magnificent New Forest and stopped off for a vegan picnic on the way, and as the kids contemplated their upcoming new year in the wonderfully ecletic Middle Street school (with more digital/media/creative parents than you can shake a memory stick at), I thought about my bilssful childhood holidays in Cornwall, with nary a PSP or Wii in sight, and I decided, there and then, not to turn back on my iPhone, at least for a few hours more. After all, before long I’d be back in Brighton and back online anyway, but for now, I could do without a tweet for just a little twonger.