Tag: Camelot Castle Hotel

Pictures, Pasties and Ice Cream: Days Well Spent in Tintagel, Cornwall

August 31st, 2022

NEAR THE END of my two-day stay in Tintagel (with some reluctance to leave), it’s been time well spent in one of my favourite places on the planet: there are several such places on my itinerary during this trip, which is surely part of the point. But the work I had to do here is done; I have explored this wild, rocky part of the beauteous Cornish coast — framed by undulating fields that are still green in parts despite drought across Britain — and made my own judgements on two of the things that make Cornwall world famous: its pasties and its ice cream.

As most of us in Australia are only too well aware, drought = brown and dry, and brown and dry = fire risk: especially if some idiot flicks a cigarette butt into a clump of dry undergrowth and walks away…today the consequences of this were all too obvious, as the spectacular Cornish seascape had something unwanted added to it this morning, which smouldered away for hours despite the best efforts of local firefighters.

Not a noted tourist attraction in Cornwall, to be sure.

Had it happened somewhere dry fuel loads were concentrated in far greater quantities, there’s no telling how bad the carnage might have been. Fortunately, this was at the lower end of the scale of possible adverse outcomes — and so, we move on.

I can’t sing in praise of Tintagel loudly enough; aside from the palaver of actually getting to it, as I mentioned yesterday (which, counterintuitively, is perfect for the purpose I sought to research it), it’s gorgeous, populated by friendly people, is comfortable to stay in and explore, and — unlike some places in Britain — has some pretty good food experiences on offer, although they’re not Chelsea restaurant quality, just to be clear.

As I noted yesterday I’ve been staying at the Camelot Castle Hotel, which is part-owned by renowned British artist Ted Stourton, whose paintings (and there are many) adorn the corridors, common areas, formal zones and all of the accommodation rooms at the hotel, which itself is a castle (albeit not the famed Tintagel Castle, whose ruins are picked over by Arthurian history buffs from across the world: more on that later).

The car park at Camelot features another of Ted’s artworks: his Aston Martin DB7. Purists and motoring enthusiasts, take a deep breath — the Aston has been wrapped in printed vinyl, not painted over.

I’ve had the benefit of a couple of really good conversations with Ted while I’ve been here, and I’d like to stay in contact with him; despite his own success — and a reputation that rightly continues to grow — he is very available to his guests, knowledgeable about local history, and particularly keen to offer guidance and mentorship to artists in all disciplines and genres, not just painters. In this regard we had a great chat about the book projects I am working on, and I appreciated his counsel greatly. Whether aspiring creatively or simply looking for an excellent place to stay, however, Camelot Castle Hotel is deserving of patronage — not least on account of its thoroughly decent ownership and the culture of excellence that has flowed from that to the staff. Well done, and thank you!

The Great Hall at Camelot Castle Hotel, replete with a genuine harp and a “Knights of the Round Table” area.

Over the past couple of days I must have walked almost twenty miles; from Camelot to the Tintagel high street is (at my brisk pace) a 20-minute return walk, and I’ve done it six times today alone. One of the great things is that everything in this delightful little village is nearby, and I don’t think walking everywhere is going to kill anyone should they choose to do so: in my own case, maybe I’ll walk off a few of the 15-20 extra pounds that appeared after I quit smoking cigarettes if this type of thing continues for the duration of my trip.

But without giving too much away (all will be revealed in due course, provided the books I’m writing are published once eventually complete) it’s been a very satisfactory visit to Tintagel for research purposes; it’s no secret this has been chosen as one of the locations for what I’m working on, but how it fits (and exactly where, in terms of a trilogy of novels) can remain a mystery to others in my view, for now at least.

Merlin’s Cave, Tintagel Beach, as seen descending down Glebe Cliff from the Tintagel high street (Atlantic Road).

Nobody will ever know conclusively whether King Arthur was a real person, or simply a local legend; either way, the ancient lore of Camelot and the knights of the round table have charmed, haunted, entertained and inspired for literally hundreds of years. In some respects it doesn’t really matter whether the story is true or not: but the ruins of Tintagel Castle — reputed to be King Arthur’s seat — attract enthusiasts from across the world, and while the castle is of little interest to me in terms of my writing activities, the coast is another story: see Merlin’s Cave in the image above.

What I did discover this afternoon — almost to my chagrin — is that stories of Cornwall’s lightning-fast tides are no myth at all; I got talking to a lovely English girl between taking pictures and making notes, and within the space of 20 minutes (and being somewhat distracted) the incoming tide had advanced close to thirty feet. Interestingly, fresh tide marks inside Merlin’s Cave are visible about ten feet off the sand level: have another look at the image I’ve posted, and imagine the cave at least half full of water. As children, we read stories about the Famous Five playing on the water at “Kirrin” (which is somewhere in Cornwall — that’s a fact — but exactly where, I don’t know). Today, I got to see the surging, swirling, rising tide Enid Blyton’s characters had such fun playing chicken with for myself.

And to be sure, I wouldn’t want to get trapped on that beach after another 20 minutes or so on the incoming tide; the water isn’t as calm as it looks, and the rocks look…sharp, to say the least…

While I’ve been here, I’ve made it my business to sample (the bounds of moderation permitting) the local offer in two of the things Cornwall is famous for across the world: its pasties and its ice cream. In the case of the latter, a blackcurrant and Cornish clotted cream ice cream sealed a runaway win in my view for one of a plethora of local dairy firms with shopfronts in the high street: Kelly’s of Cornwall. If you come to this part of England, indulgence is mandatory.

£5.50 for two scoops. Money well spent. Don’t take my word for it; come to Tintagel and try it for yourself.

(As an aside, I now have upon my person a traditional recipe for making Cornish clotted cream: and with some of the premium milks now sold by specialty providores in Melbourne with high milkfat and cream content, my children and I will have a crack at making it when next they come for a weekend at my place when I get back to Australia in a few weeks’ time).

The pasties were a two-horse race: one bakery was tastier and cheaper; the other was more generous in the size of its portions. I stuck to the traditional beef, onion and potato variety that is the traditional Cornish pasty: and should you find yourself in Tintagel, pay these people a visit.

The Cornish Bakery edges out its competition across the road on the question of the best local pasty in Tintagel.

My “razzy” award — a golden raspberry to the worst operator in town — has to go to English Heritage, which seems to think charging £20 to walk along the beachfront is an appropriate impost on tourists. (I didn’t pay, for the record). The same organisation was selling an “English Heritage” edition of Monopoly for £50 per set, which is utter highway robbery, notwithstanding novelty/co-branding/souvenir surcharge considerations. For the uninitiated, English Heritage and its rival, the National Trust, between them control access to many of Britain’s best-known and most sought-after attractions, be they buildings, landmarks, or (it seems) dirt and rock too. It was the National Trust that wanted £20 to get into Chartwell had I been able to get there during its truncated opening hours. Readers will note there is no endorsement, or pictorial support, for either of these organisations in this post.

And while the King Arthur’s Arms Inn looked fine, and with a good fish and chippery and several other decent-looking eateries, what started with a pizza last night finished with spicy Tuscan tomato soup and an awesome spaghetti and meatball dinner this evening: simple, rustic Italian fare that was a comforting revelation, and The Olive Garden is worth trying should you ever visit Tintagel.

Understated, simple and good — very good. The Olive Garden was a happy discovery in Tintagel.

Simply stated, Tintagel has been a wonderful place to visit.

Tomorrow I’m going north, to North Devon and the township of Barnstaple, before starting my pivot northward in the more general sense later in the week, heading first to Oxfordshire and thence beyond the Midlands to the Lakes District and North Yorkshire.

And, finally, the antibiotic crimp on my activities is now 48 hours away from being dispensed with, which means I can have a drink soon — and this has prevented me from drinking the best beer on the planet, The Proper Job, an IPA Cornish Ale that simply isn’t available in Australia; more’s the pity.

But at least I’ll be able to drink the whisky when I get to Islay in ten days’ time…to do otherwise would be, as a Scottish Australian heading to the old country, an absolute bloody heresy!
By Tre, Pol and Pen Shall Ye Know Cornishmen…

August 30th, 2022

…and for all that, I’m in Tintagel; it doesn’t sound like it lives up to the billing really, until one notes it’s actually known locally as Trevena: and so, like scores of other towns and hamlets across Britain’s rugged, beautiful south-west, Tintagel fits the formula by which shall ye know Cornishmen.

For the first time in the week and a half since I arrived in Britain, it’s actually pleasantly cool; part of this derives from the fact the first couple of places I stayed in after leaving London were heritage listed out of being allowed to install air conditioning in their buildings (does this shit sound familiar to readers in Melbourne?), and part of it derives from the fact I’m on the coast, with an open window, and a lovely seaside breeze is filtering pleasantly into my room.

But first things first: I posted a picture of sunset over the River Exe in Topsham last night; perhaps sunset shots will become a mainstay of the remainder of this trip — and perhaps they won’t — but here’s one overlooking the water from my hotel.

Sunset over the water as seen from Tintagel, Cornwall.

What a labyrinthine, convoluted place Cornwall is; on my last trip to Britain I stayed in Penzance (about 40 minutes further south on the M5 Motorway) which is literally a drive-in, drive-out type of destination; Tintagel is a different proposition altogether, with the last 20 miles of my drive after leaving the M5 spent navigating spidery laneways barely wide enough for one vehicle, let alone two, at speeds of less than 20 miles per hour and on roads probably unfit to travel on even that quickly. And after leaving the M5 at Launceston (pronounced “Lansen”, for the benefit of any Taswegians reading), perhaps 30 different towns were signposted — and passed — en route to Tintagel.

And then…as if from nowhere, a thriving, bustling little town centre sprang into view; I took some photographs of it after businesses began closing, as today was a Bank Holiday in Britain, and the high street you see below was teeming with thousands of people just a few hours ago.

Thousands flocked to Tintagel for the August Bank Holiday today…and thankfully, most of them were gone by 7pm.

I’m staying in an old castle — the Camelot Castle Hotel — and I expect I may have more to report on this when next I post; I met the owner this evening (who lives onsite), and he’s given me a tantalising snapshot of the history of the place, but I expect there’s a lot more to be learned. I’m catching up with him again tomorrow, but already I know, for example, that a Dracula film was shot here; Sir Edward Elgar wrote one of his symphonies whilst staying here; other luminaries over the past two centuries have ties to the property; and even monks have a connection to it through their work at the old Tintagel Castle — now in ruins on an island just off the Tintagel coast — stretching back centuries.

The Camelot Castle Hotel, Tintagel, as seen this afternoon as I arrived and readied to check in.

What I have also learned (and this is where I become a bit subterranean and euphemistic about what I say) is that what I have already ascertained about the area, its history, and those of its features that are little-known these days — after all, this place has a history stretching back well over 1,000 years — are perfect for the purpose I wanted to research for one of my novels.

Tintagel was the legendary seat of King Arthur: its high street is filled with merchants selling everything from wizardry artefacts based on Merlin to eponymous pubs and cafes seeking to eke out a living by trading off the Arthurian past.

If nature calls in Tintagel, be sure to have your 20p ready: I was astonished (and disgusted) to see this barrier at the entrance to a “public” toilet block. Apparently it’s to offset the cost of water. In reality, it’s despicable.

Frankly, I thought the pizza dinner I had at the Olive Garden — a lovely Italian-run bistro at the eastern end of the high street — was better than what any of these establishments might offer. The model for designing and ordering pizza was a masterstroke: here’s your basic margherita pizza for £9; now add ingredients to it for £1 apiece.

I’m not going to specify which ingredients I added — I don’t want to fuel the bullshit debate about whether pineapple belongs on pizza, for example, or whether in fact anything aside from tomato, cheese and basil belongs on it at all.

People should order what they like, and what tastes good. It is a matter of fact that irrespective of whatever does or doesn’t “belong” on pizza, there are thousands of purveyors of bloody awful pizza worldwide that isn’t fit to feed the dog if taste is the main criterion on which it is judged. To that end, I am happy to report the fare at the Olive Garden was delicious. It was regrettable when the last bite was the only one left on my plate.

I’ll be back to post again tomorrow, and perhaps I’ll show a little more of where I’m staying. But it’s great to be back in Cornwall, and tomorrow is a big day in terms of detailed, painstaking research to ensure I can write authoritatively about the place when I go back to Melbourne — even though the option to walk down the main street, for example, won’t be available on a whim — and even if it takes a little while to get to the third of the three novels I’m working on.

After all, the first one is only just nearing the point I can start to think about tarting it around to prospective publishers. There’s more to do in the series before I get onto what I have in mind to set here 🙂