 Only seven days until Ms Crockofshit and I fly to Austria for a week's sojourn, during which time, we shall be attending at least two Krampusnacht parades, one in Salzburg, and another in Bad Goisern, when we shall surprise our old friend Krampus!
Will you spot 'The Real Deal' in amongst all the costumed roisterers?
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 Sennen Cove. Sennen Cove, or Porthsenen as Cornish speakers would have it, is a small coastal settlement in Cornwall, approximately two miles from Lands’ End. Even now, in the 21st century, Sennen maintains the atmosphere of an ancient fishing village, the diminutive harbour is populated by several small fishing boats and lobster pots are piled high, demonstrating the continuing local fishing industry. There is a tangible connection to the past in this place.  Cowloe rocks. Sennen has long been known as a place visited by Mermaids and is famous for the story of ‘The Sennen Whooper’. According to legend, even on clear, calm days, a strange mist would gather in the cove on the Cowloe rocks, from this mist a strange whooping sound would issue forth by day and showers of sparks would radiate from it by night, it was believed this event was the foretelling of a storm and would prevent local fishermen from venturing out into the perilous waters. The Whooper was respected as a guardian spirit until one day, despite the Whoopers warning, a reckless fisherman and his son set forth into a storm, they were never seen again and the Whooper fell silent and has not been heard since.  Thanks to the generosity of our friends, whose tenth wedding anniversary we were there to celebrate, we were booked to stay at The Old Success Inn, a 17th century building with breath-taking views across the bay. On the first day of our sojourn, the 2nd of December, our party of nine gathered in the bar and we proceeded to catch up, chatting and drinking local ales happily in the cosy pub. From my vantage point, I could see the Cowloe rocks, which were quite clear. This first day was most agreeable, all of our companions present that day were friends we meet up with only very occasionally, however we all quickly fell into comfortable conversation punctuated with a good deal of laughter, our discourse became rather loud and indoor voices were in short supply. Genuine friends will always remain so regardless of separation due to time or distance. Aside from the general revelry, there is one incident worth mentioning. At dinner that evening as we all ate, drank and became still more merry, a few of us noted what appeared to be fireworks outside, which seemed to me to be somewhat incongruous, pondering on this, I remembered the story of the Sennen Whooper, and how it is said sparks would radiate from it by night. Could this be what we saw, reflected in the window panes?  Morpheus. That evening, after eating and drinking to a degree that in the heady days of the Roman Empire would have required the use of a Vomitorium, most of our party retired shortly after last orders. I witnessed a certain young elfin lady crawling up the stairs because, in her own words, ‘I’m too full to walk’. A gentleman would of course never suggest that the large quantities of Cornish Rattler cider the lady in question had imbibed may have played a part in her ambulatory difficulties. No, a gentleman would never do that. Ms Crockofshit and I retired to our delightful room at the front of the Inn, with its spectacular view of the bay and Cowloe rocks. As I opened the sash windows so we could enjoy the sound of the mighty Atlantic Ocean, I peered into the darkness in the direction of Cowloe rocks. No sparks. We fell into the arms of Morpheus quickly and I slumbered deeply for some hours, dreaming of drowning, dragged under storm tossed waters by the weight of many tangled fishing nets. I woke at three AM, seemingly very much awake, every sense heightened, tingling with anticipation. What was that noise? It was a sound I found difficult to process, unlike anything I had ever heard, the best comparison I can come up with is the sound of the male Bittern booming. Ms Crockofshit slept on as I quietly slipped from the bed and made my way to the window, peering into the darkness, the Cowloe Rocks were illuminated by the light of an almost full moon, visible through a gap in the clouds. A strange mist indeed carpeted the rocks and sparks flew from it as the Whooping continued, it was at this point I felt my mind violated by an insistent voice. The voice belonged to Annie Treeve, who was taking the opportunity to tell her story through me. Annie had been landlady of The First and Last pub at the top of the hill above Sennen in the early 1800’s, Annie and her husband Joseph, in addition to running the pub, also managed the smuggling and wrecking operations that many of the local residents were heavily involved in. After being evicted from the pub by Dionysius Williams, wealthy land owner and smuggling agent, and finding no help or solace from her fellow villagers, Annie took her revenge by turning King’s evidence against her landlord and the villagers, as a result some received long prison sentences or were hanged. The villagers took their own revenge on Annie by staking her out on the beach at low tide and as the tide rose, Annie was pulled under by the fishing nets that were used to weigh her down and she drowned. A terrifying and some might say fitting method of execution for someone who had orchestrated many wrecking events, causing the deaths by drowning of countless seafarers. There are unseen forces with an ironic sense of justice, that occasionally intervene after the death of those they consider deserving of their attention, Judge James Popcawn, for instance found himself under the scrutiny of these forces after his death, I believe Annie came to their notice due to her actions in life and the circumstances of her death. It was decreed that Annie should remain in the bay as a guardian spirit for fishermen and other seafarers in recompense for the deaths that had resulted in her wrecking activities, as a result she became the Sennen Whooper. On the occasion The Whooper was ignored, her obligation was lifted and she ceased whooping, she was then free to move on, however, she never did and has remained in the bay in another form ever since, no longer a protector, but a kind of temptress, intent on wrecking the lives of those who fall under her spell. I sensed from her a malignant anger and desire for revenge for the terrible thing done to her that sadly shows no sign of abating. I remember nothing more until I woke in bed next to Ms Crockofshit as dawn broke, and was inclined to dismiss the experience as nothing more than a dream.  After a satisfying breakfast and a fond farewell to two of our party, who were compelled to return home due to pesky work commitments, we set off on a bracing walk along the cliffs to Lands’ End. The coastal path is a delight, with huge views of the landscape, ocean and sky, unfortunately the destination is not quite such a delight having been purchased by a company interested only in making money, to this end they have constructed a tacky ‘attraction,’ that succeeds in making this once wildly beautiful place considerably less attractive. At the very edge of this blot on the landscape is a sign, next to the sign is a shed, both are surrounded by a fence, the sign points to places such as New York and John O’Groats giving a distance in miles to the destination, you can even have your hometown added to the sign and pose for photographs. For a price. All that is needed to complete this scene is a tricorn hat and a flintlock for the man in the shed, and a stable for Black Bess.  Moving on quickly, we continued on our circular walk, stopping at The First and Last Inn for refreshments on the way, where we were able to see ‘Annies Well,’ which is the entrance to the old smugglers tunnel running to the cliffs.  Annie's well.  Finally we arrived back to a warm welcome at the Old Success where we enjoyed a delicious Sunday roast lunch followed by a walk on the beautiful beach. An excellent day in excellent company. The evening began as we watched ‘Arthur Christmas’ in the room of our hosts in the company of two ladies with a serious festive film habit. After watching this serving of Christmassy cheese, washed down with a civilised cup of tea, we adjourned to the bar where we once more indulged in the fine ales on offer from the St Austell brewery, most notably their HSD strong ale, and new to me, but an absolute revelation, Mena Dhu, their Cornish stout, which is delicious. The evening progressed in a similar manner to the previous one, with much chatting, laughing and drinking. That Sunday night, the third of December a full, super moon was up there somewhere, however we could not see it as the sky was bloated with rain clouds and as I occasionally glanced through the window I could see darkness, with the exception of a weak puddle of light cast from the pub window, which enhanced my already excellent night vision.  The time was around 10.00 PM when I peered into the night to see a brief spray of seawater and a slender hand grasping the cold, slippery steel of the safety rail that prevents numpty’s from falling onto the rocks below, it was joined from the darkness by another hand, both gripping tightly, the knuckles white with effort. In the weak light, I was able to observe the top half of a woman’s body come into view, naked and slick with seawater. Long dark hair heavily sodden, covered the woman’s face, however I could see every muscle in her toned arms and torso working as she pulled herself with graceful ease into a handstand position. I believe I may have gaped as she held the position for a second, her long green tail sparkling like myriad emeralds in the lights from the pub. As she lowered herself gently to the ground, her tail seemed to disintegrate, torn away in tatters by the wind, and she landed on human legs and feet. She stood for a moment in the pool of light, finding my eyes and holding them before stepping into the darkness away from my view of the area opposite the window. Nobody else in the pub seemed to notice, and as I am accustomed to seeing things that many others do not, I elected not to mention my vision. However, with the help of lashings of Mena Dhu, moments later I proved to myself that sometimes I should simply keep my thoughts to myself. I fear little in this world or the next, however I do have one potentially debilitating terror, I suffer from Cenosillicaphobia, and noticing my glass was indeed almost empty, I glanced toward the bar as I prepared to leave my seat for a refill, as I did so, I noticed a bright light shining through the window on the opposite side of the pub. ‘Hang on.’ I said, genuinely baffled. ‘Why is it dark out there?’ I asked all present, pointing to the window that looked out onto the Atlantic. ‘But light out there?’ Now pointing to the opposite window. My dear friends were predictably unsupportive of my dilemma, laughing uproariously before pointing out that outside one window was the unlit road and the brooding Atlantic, while outside the opposite window was the well-lit car park of the pub. They then indulged themselves in several minutes of merciless ribbing at my expense. As a result of my foolishness, when I saw an ethereal green glow on the other side of the window, I kept my blithering mouth closed. Seconds later, the door opened and a cold eddy of air insinuated itself into the room, accompanied by a strong smell of the ocean. Seemingly carried on this waft of ocean breeze floated a tall dark haired woman of striking beauty, her waist length hair was damp, and as a result, the thin cotton blouse she wore had become transparent where her hair lay on it. She wore the skinniest jeans I have ever seen, of a deep aquamarine shade, her naked feet left wet prints on the wooden boards as she made her way to the bar. I recognised her of course, she had spoken to me the previous night, and I had witnessed her emerge from the ocean only minutes before. At this point, it seemed I was the only person to notice her, however this changed as she reached the bar, I perceived a shiver ripple down the body of the barmaid as she registered the woman’s presence and asked her what she would like. The woman nodded at the Mana Dhu pump. ‘Pint?’ The barmaid asked, at which the woman simply gave a brief smile, the barmaid poured the drink, and when it had settled, placed it on the bar before the Mermaid who made no comment, nor did she show any sign of intent to pay. I watched with fascination as she waited. There were several men milling around the bar, some accompanied by wives or girlfriends, all of them were reaching for their wallets. The quickest of them handed a twenty to the barmaid. ‘I’ll get that.’ He said, the biggest shit-eating, self-satisfied grin cracking his face wide open. He turned to the woman, emitting hot lust from every pore, she turned and smiled demurely, radiating cold, sharp blades of ice, and doomed him. ‘I’ll get the drinks in shall I?’ I said, gathering up those terrifying empty glasses. I wish to thank the couple whose wedding anniversary we were in Sennen to celebrate, for their remarkable generosity, and for inviting us to share this special time with them, also the other members of our party who helped to make it such a memorable weekend. You know who you are. Thanks are also due to all the staff of the Old Success Inn, for their tolerance and patience, and making us feel right at home.
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Sometimes one simply needs to get away. My neighbours, amusing as they sometimes are often re- awaken in me certain ‘urges’. Urges which invariably concern the use of greased wooden poles.
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