The Haunting Origins of Oyster Shore
Cornwall is an ancient land steeped in enigma. Myths, legends and ghost stories lace this place as tangibly as the sea fret and salt spray. On a dark winter’s night, when the wind screams from the bay and the waves rise in fury, tales of wreckers, doomed mariners and smugglers feel suddenly real, and I draw the curtains closed with a shiver. People here don’t mock the old stories for they know that unquiet walkers drift through ruins or keep silent watch from storm-pummelled
November
November reminds me to slow down. As the year exhales, life here steadies. Every falling leaf marks an ending and the air is tinged with melancholy and woodsmoke. The Cornish lanes are no longer filled with shiny cars crammed with excited visitors and the trees in my orchard have been pared right back, their limbs bare and stark against a sky leached of colour. The cafés are closed. Holiday cottages stand empty. The summer finery of awnings and umbrellas has been stripped awa
