The Magnificent Magnolia...

Back in Cornwall, the grand magnolia tree that I have known for a large part of my life was out in bloom, its imposing saucer-sized flowers with their distinctive petals, looming out against the night sky, like exotic, ghost-like birds, roosting in the branches. Scattered on the pavement below lay the strange petals and pod-like buds that had been blown down by the relentless gusts of wind that had buffeted and beaten the boughs and branches. 

Fortunately, this enabled me to take a closer look at the curious forms of what happens to be one of the oldest and most primitive species of flowering plant on Earth. Indeed, in a sense the magnolia is a living fossil, dating back to the Cretaceous period, some 100 million years, when dinosaurs still roamed! As such, this ancient plant enables us to get insight into the evolution of the angiosperm (the flowering plant). 

The petals have a curious wax-like appearance, yet to touch are far less delicate than expected – with a certain density and an almost rubbery texture. With their somewhat robust nature, they seem more susceptible to bruise rather than break or tear under extreme weather conditions. 

Meanwhile the closed buds resemble over-sized, excessively bristly almond drupes or even elongated kiwis, but once the encased petals have burst out from their confines, the scales of these curious pods split open in a dramatic fashion.

The cupped, curving petals are in fact ‘tepals’, a distinctive feature of ancient flowering plants such as the Magnolia, wherein the petals and sepals are not clearly different. Nestled in the heart of these is the reproductive system of the flower, namely the stamens and carpels – the male and female parts respectively – spiralled around a central cone-like structure. Such a simple arrangement is relatively primitive in terms of botanical evolution and evolved to be pollinated by beetles – one the earliest pollinators – as opposed to bees and butterflies.

The leaves are large and glossy with a fuzzy underside and their dark mysterious green adds an atmospheric note that was not lost on Daphne du Maurier. The gardens depicted in one of her most famous novels  – Rebecca (1939) – feature these grand ornamental flowering trees in the de Winter estate, their presence reinforcing the rather oppressive, haunting mood that shrouds the grounds and house and proves to be inescapable to the young heroine of the plot. “Last night I dreamt I went to Manderley again”. 

The fragrance of the flowers is slightly overbearing, like Rebecca’s lingering scent “a stab of perfume in the air”, again adding to the psychological unease, with elegant beauty linked to ambiguity, uncertainty and veiled threat. Hmm…. High time I went back to reading some Du Maurier!

Light on Water, Glowing Gorse...

Just a glance at this beautiful painting - The Fowling Pool of 1897 - along with others from the Flora exhibition at Penlee House Gallery and Museum plunges you into typical Cornish landscape, with the stunted bushes, scrubby gorse and of course light reflected on water, be that of pond, puddle or sea.

Samuel John'Lamorna' Birch (1869-1955) captured that particular atmospheric quality that makes Cornwall so instantly recognisable in any representation, be that on film, photo or canvas, as here in a later version of The Fowling Pool (1907).

The distinctive effect of light on gorse is so familiar that it seems timeless, as in the 1922 painting above, Chy-an-Mor, by Harold Harvey (1874-1941).

I imagine I can hear that strange crackling noise the gorse seed pods make in the summer as they split open, not to mention that peculiar coconut smell of the bright yellow flowers that nestle amongst all those spines.

The same atmosphere is apparent in another of Birch's paintings, the above Spring Morning of 1904 which represents a view near Lamorna (unsurprisingly!) although it always reminds me of the landscape around Zennor, looking down towards the sea...

Likewise with A Landscape with Foxgloves by Alfred Munnings (1878-1959) with its majestic flowers that I instinctively associate with Cornwall, even though I have to admit that they can be found everywhere! The hunched and huddled forms of the hedgerow trees are surely unique however, and again their whole essence is caught by 'Lamorna' Birch in his work The Orchard c.1895.

A Place of Peace... Madron Church.

Set against one of the walls in picturesque Madron Church, itself set in spectacular Cornish countryside with sweeping views over Mount's Bay, is this beautiful tombstone, dating back to the early 17th century.

Gazing at the quaint couple who kneel in devotion, you cannot help but feel a sense of peace and calm, along with the notion that their God-fearing existence in this breathtaking setting must surely have been one of tranquil simplicity, without the frenzied tech-led lifestyles we have opted for in the 21st century.

I wonder what kind of life this gentleman led until his demise in 1621, some 400 years ago? His fine Cornish surname - Maddern - has crossed the centuries, as have indeed many of the other names on the tombstones here, just as in other cemeteries around Cornwall.

Tonkin, Eddy, Rowe, Trembath, Hoskin, Penrose, Nichols, Trelawny, Cargeeg, Nankervis... So familiar are such family names that they remind me of the daily roll call from my schooldays, down the road from Madron, in Penzance!

The graveyard around the church here is well maintained yet naturally inhabited and sometimes invaded by the usual wild plants, bushes and lichen typical of the rather mild climate of Cornwall to preserve a timeless, organic essence...

Some of the greenery seems vibrant and exotic, while other forms appear old, wizened and commonplace...

Many of the gravestones, lean and lilt, as if huddling together to brave the frequent winds that sculpt trees and hedgerows alike into odd, hunched silhouettes on the skyline...

Others appear partially obscured from view, hidden under bows, bushes and shadows...

Celtic forms are visible, carved into the granite in stark designs...

Some of which assume an almost pagan aspect, leading back to the ancient Celtic origins of the land itself and those who inhabited it...

The lands of Landithy - with lan signifying 'sacred enclosure' and dithy referring to a 'celtic holy man' - were given to the Knights Hospitallers in the 12th century. The estate bore an early church which finally lead to what is now known as the Church of Saint Maddern, consecrated in 1336.

The stout tower and squat, sturdy walls of the building before us today date back to the 15th century and are a world away from the soaring heights and architectural feats that were characteristic of the Gothic churches some two hundred years earlier.

Despite the drastic changes in architectural styles over time, the number of relatively early deaths commemorated here make it clear that lives were still brutish and short for a significant proportion of the population and it is hardly surprising that religion provided support when there was precious little else.

The idyllic Cornish landscapes and promoted picture-perfect lifestyles to go with these today lead most of us to assume that lives in centuries past must somehow have been healthy and hearty in these rural settings, far-removed from the hardships associated with the dark, satanic mills of industrial England. And yet the mining and fishing industries offered little but a dangerous, dirty and dismal existence, whilst farming was hardly better.

Coastal existence bore its own challenges, with the treachery of the seas bringing in tow shipwrecks, drowning and flooding - most dramatically perhaps in the latter case with a tsunami recorded in Penzance in 1855 in the wake of the Lisbon earthquake. The sea also enabled marauding of all sorts, with pirates, smugglars and even Spanish invaders at the end of the 16th century. I wonder if our Gentleman John Maddern, as mentioned above, experienced that invasion?

Several artifacts in the church predate our gentleman - notably some of the carved wooden benchends. Did he ever sit on these very benches in prayer?

If so, what did he think as he sat there? Was he accompanied by his wife?

The vaulted barrel ceiling above the nave is decorated with ribs and purloins which creates a spectacular view leading towards the altar, behind the wooden rood screen.

The original rood screen was taken down in the 18th century but was restored in 1880 to dramatic effect - so intricate and yet not overbearing.

Around the church are Tudor roses to demonstrate allegiance to Henry VII following a revolt that led the vicar of the church to feel a certain eagerness to express his loyalty.

Alabaster angels are grouped together in one sculpted work...

Whilst solitary wood-carved greenmen stand guard at the end of benches in the chapel...

Large plaques with their Latin inscriptions look down on the nave passage below, making me regret I can't read their message...

Also on display are the plaques devoted to Lord Nelson whose death in 1808 was heralded by the bells at Madron church, making Penzance the first town in England to learn of his demise. I was more interested in finding traces of the Branwell family (of the Brontës) but more about that another day... In the meantime, here's the view from my walk back home to Penzance!

A Mermaid's Longing...

Here is the beautiful Medieval mermaid, long-ago carved onto a pew at Zennor church near my old home in the countryside in Cornwall. I would love to see it again and wander over moors as we used to as children, then taking it all for granted and now longing to appreciate wth adult eyes the expanses of rugged land, granite outcrops and the sea.

Above is a poem written by my Dad some time ago; one that he had actually forgotten about until it rose up from the past, washed up into present consciousness, like an unexpected treasure from the oceans of memory that a long lifetime holds. Happy Father's Day!

I myself had forgotten having mentioned The Forsaken Merman by the Victorian poet Matthew Arnold in one of my early blog posts. This was apparently a poem my grandmother used to recite to her children - one of those being by Dad of course - and it had in turn inspired him to write his own version of the tale, as shown here. PS - The underwater background photo by Vincenzo Di Giorgi on Unsplash

And finally one of my hoards of seashells, which along with sea glass - 'mermaids' tears' - are truly precious finds of such beauty. These are still guarded over by a rather faded, felt mermouse that used to be accompanied by a little collection of land-bound mice dressed in their frounced finery, all of whom I made quite a number of years ago for my children... all slightly worn and ragged now from the seas of time!

Glorious Gold, Stashes and Caches of Treasure...

I had forgotten just how beautiful the humble daffodil is, with its glorious gold set in seemingly simple, unassuming forms - yet with its bold 'trumpet' heralding the arrival of Spring. How these blooms manage to emerge from their tight, spear-like buds seems a most improbable feat, and yet emerge they do, in defiance of the winds and rain of the early months of the year, with their unique scent that defies description.

Returning home, I was suddenly reminded of the beauty of the daffodil and the fact that Spring is indeed on its way - accompanied by snowdrops and primroses. Nothing can be comparable to seeing these all growing wild, especially in the magical settings that I had taken for granted for so many years and now can only treasure from a distance... Glorious gold indeed!

Also in bloom were the 'Cornish roses' - Aeonium - the very hardy succulents that send out their ambitious stalky stems, outwards and upwards as a challenge to gravity and gusts of wind, bearing their golden clusters...

Likewise facing the elements, off I went in search of my own hidden treasures - seaglass! Although becoming increasing rare, I did find a few nubs and nuggets of weathered, frosted glass. This has become pure gold in itself, given the proliferation of plastic for packaging and bottling and the growing number of like-minded beachcombers, intent on seeking out these magically polished 'pebbles'. While I do have a specific, 'secret' beach for this - discovered through trial, error and elimination - the location appears to be common knowledge amongst fellow magpies who converge here from near and far. All are drawn by that irrepressible urge to find this unique treasure, one that has been etched by time and tide and eventually washed up on the shore. Each being is driven, to greater or lesser degree, by their private need to quench this quirky thirst, an almost primal covetousness. For this is a little object of desire with a strange hybrid beauty, created when Nature takes over what is Man-made, hiding the past under rounded forms and smoothened surfaces.

There is a certain camaraderie to be found nevertheless, amongst all these coastal scavengers and chancers, and the overall atmosphere is one of tranquility, punctuated by that keen determination to pick out the perfect piece from amongst the sand, seaweed, flotsam and jetsam swept by the tides. I have to admit that there is precedence in my 'Gollum-like' glee when procuring coastal treasures and the gloating, greedy satisfaction when running my finds through my fingers, in a jumble of colour and shapes. All is closely tied to one of my guilty childhood pleasures....

Having illicit access to enveloped packages of semi-precious gemstones in my early years, thanks to the family trade, I would happily let the jewels trickle down over my hands, in a magical flow that gleamed and glistened in the light. However, that could not satisy any hunger and merely stoked the fire to possess a secret, sinful stash to keep all to myself. Inevitably caught red-handed, I was promptly banished from the jewellery workshop and was rarely given the opportunity to play with the cracked, chipped stones that were of no commercial use but were tantalizing left to one side; worthless but priceless to my craving eyes. It was therefore with pleasure that I was finally able to get my greedy fingers on those caches of gemstones, after decades of coveting... Amethyst, peridot, citrine, garnet, moonstone and opal poured over my palms once more, but so did a few tears for the acquisition of this treasure heralded a greater loss and the rich, bright, sparkling hoard was weighed down by a certain sadness. But just look at how they glint and glow...