We enjoyed a short but fantastic cliff walk from our wet field at Treen the morning after our visit to the Minack. The sky had cleared by chucking drummingly-noisy rain onto our roof throughout the night and as a result the clear-aired coastal views were more than breathtaking. We marvelled from a perilous height at the crisp-white rolling surf, an aquamarine sky and wide, wide sea while wild ponies wandered the cliff-top path, indifferent to our apple- or sugar-lump-free presence.

With the open road also calling, we then set off towards nearby Mousehole – another tiny- harboured village within our reach and desire. Wisely, the CNO directed our journey to avoid several lesser, ever-narrowing roads – down which we’d surely have jammed ourselves side-to-side had it not been for her foresight and circumnavigation.

Thus, on a comfortably wide main road we discovered jeopardy-free roadside parking within sight of St Michael’s Mount across the bay and, with Penzance to our rear, we pavement-hiked in glorious autumn sunshine the short walk into Mousehole. Despite being half-clad in scaffolding, this charming village was to more-than-fulfil our expectations. (While we’d travelled in Canada, the prevalent joke revolved around the fact that there were ever only two seasons – Winter and Construction, and we guess the same must have applied here, now the summer crowds had departed.)

Nevertheless, with the sun shining warmly, we wandered around the rambling streets; artisan shops; sea-views espied through unlikely stretyns (I know, y’know) and the general sun-blessed ambience of this miniature fishing village. Acquiring old-school postcards, we’re directed to the quaint mobile Post Office transit van parked up by the harbour-wall, beyond which we happily witnessed several lady-swimmers taking to the sheltered waters. An artist painted en-plein-air at the water’s edge; fishing boats nodded sagely at the wisdom of not being out in the fairly rough, white-capped sea and archetypal stripy-sweatered, roughly-hewn gentlemen smoking pipes clumped about in turned-down wellies.

“Crab Sandwiches” boasted the sign outside the waterfront deli, and – squeezing ourselves onto a sun-washed bench – we availed, as it seemed wholly inappropriate not to. What the sign should have said, had there been sufficient space, was ‘Absolutely Bloody Delicious Malted Brown Bread Doorstep Sandwiches Rammed Chock Full of Fresh Crabmeat and Mayo with a Delightful Dressed Side Salad in an Environmentally Friendly and Very Trendy Brown Cardboard Box’. Nuff said.

And then we had ice-creams. Because we could.