The best thing about going home, wherever you’re from, is that you actually get to do the thing you always say you’ll do when you travel: just let life happen around you and soak up the atmosphere.
Being from Cornwall, I never realised just how much it’s viewed as a ‘destination’. Beautiful, yes, and increasingly luxurious (or am I just becoming increasingly frivolous with the finances?); but I’ll never forget being asked by some friends “people actually live there?!” Yes. Lucky bastards. They live on holiday.
It’s been so long since I lived there permanently – sweet mother of hell, it’s been seven years – that I often spent my long weekend visits living a ticklist. New restaurants popped up, down and up again; towns crashed and rebuilt themselves. There’s a lot for me to see and I’m looking at it through a visitor’s eyes.
Is it just me, or has the shopping scene become much more middle class? I suppose an economic crash will wipe out tacky souvenir shops and when the spaces are re-let, no one’s going to start their business with the thought “hey, I have a shopportunity; and crap is what I shall peddle”. Once again, I digress.
Back in London, Notting Hill Carnival and I are like-for-like magnets. This panic attack incarnate pushes me out of the city every August Bank Holiday and this time, I took a trip back home. Here follows a photo diary of a Cornish girl leaving her ticklist in London and seeing where the Cornish winds took her.