The Presence of Absence

          Lately, I’ve been buying pink grapefruits from the local supermarket. I’m so addicted to them that I daren’t look to see the country of origin, lest it be too far across the globe for the carbon footprint not to prick my conscience. I take pleasure in juicing them on a vintage, electric Moulinex that is activated by pressing the halved fruit down on the rotary spindle, which alternates direction each time it is engaged. That is, until the motor packed up and my efforts to fix it came to nought. So, I trawled eBay for a replacement and saw the same model, in an authentic 1960s shade of custard. Nostalgia tempted me (and it was reasonably priced), but reason prevailed. Old electric motors die, don’t they.

          Thus, paralysed by indecision, the matter was put aside while we executed a plan to make the most of the mild weather. We went on an excursion in the campervan – the last, perhaps, before the clocks change and the days get shorter overnight. A previously unexplored section of the north coast of Cornwall was our target for a stint of hiking, sampling local produce and engaging with nature in general.

          I found a strategically located campsite at Delabole, a name that intrigued me because it sounded French. Norman, perhaps? Cornish placenames tend to have prefixes, such as “Tre” (homestead), “Pol” (pool or pond), “Pen” (head or end) and, of course, “Saint” (saint), but this place is different because it was named after a hole in the ground. (Not a Norman nobleman after all.) I didn’t know it until I went there, but Delabole is the site of a “world famous” slate quarry that continues to be productive, six hundred years after it was first excavated. As for the name, Deliou Manor, near the present site of the quarry, was listed in the Doomsday book. By 1284, it had become known as Delyou Bol – a translation of the old Cornish – “delyou” meaning flakes or leaves and “bol” a pit – which gives us the Pit of Flaky Stone.

          We did go to see it, walking past the vacant coach-parking lot and standing, alone, on the viewing platform (sightseers are more numerous in the holiday season, apparently). We watched an excavator poking noisily at the prized sediment and tried to imagine the time when more than a thousand people worked there. Now, there are five men and three machines, so there wasn’t much to see. We continued along the path to the coast and a café at Trebarwith, a placename more familiar, insofar as it is easily confused with a hundred others.

          There’s something sweet about seaside holiday places at the end of the season. There are few if any other customers, so staff are friendly and relaxed. You feel smug if the weather’s fine and privileged, as if you were in First Class. It was in this kind of bubble that we set off on a five-hour trek. Yet, there was also an eeriness, induced partly by the lack of a breeze, the stillness of the ocean and the absence of any other hikers. This might have been something to savour, yet we were not gratified by such exclusivity, especially as it applied also to the wildlife. During that walk, not once did we see any creature emerge from the sea. Apart from a few sheep and cattle, the only fauna we spotted were three caterpillars, three butterflies, two black beetles and a slug. Had the end of the world occurred since we left Trewhatsit?

          More likely, it’s just a quiet time for nature, but now that we’re back in the city, it’s business as usual. I was going to resolve the matter of the citrus juicer but, having opened the freezer and seen the gallons of frozen apple juice stashed within, I have put it on hold again – which, incidentally, gains me respite from the carbon-footprint anxiety.