Seven Stars, Stithians

What I like about Cornwall: my local. I've never had a local before and I love it. No, I do. Hate Cornwall...love the pub; especially on Sunday evenings which is Quiz Night. You can go on other nights, on your own if you like as long as you don't mind talking to Phil the Tooth. I call him that because he's only got the one. He tries to pretend he doesn't go to the Seven Stars every morning and night. Once I met him outside the door and he told me he was only there waiting for a man to move some chairs. He can talk for hours about the sausages from Tresvathen's farm. I know how many he's eaten, how many his sister's eaten and the sneaky one he's hidden for his breakfast.

I don't actually live in the village: I live in a hamlet of six houses at the end of a road that's covered in ice five months of the year. Ian and Lindsay live in the piggeries and Josh, the musician, lives with Nanny Mollie and together, Simon, we are The Lodgers..... a quiz team to beat all others. In order to get to the Seven Stars AND enjoy a drink & the quiz, we must abandon the cars and walk across three fields, over two stone stiles and around the back of the churchyard. Sometimes, it's breath-taking: a huge Cornish sky full of stars. Other times, it's breath-taking: an arctic wind blowing across the vast expanse. Other times, it's just scary....some rotten farmer having slipped a herd of cows in when no-one was looking.

We go to the quiz because we win lots of free food and the booze is cheap. We are eclectic drinkers: a small bottle of Shiraz, half of Pear Rattler, Jack Daniels and coke, Sailor Jerry with Ginger Beer. They know us now though and think we're nearly normal. The quiz begins. Lisa calls out 'who got 9 out of 10?' A cheer. Was that the Lodgers or the Old Farts? For they are our rivals. Half time and a fag break. The whole pub, including the landlady and Rusty the dog,  puts on coats, hats, gloves, scarves and decamps outside to discuss how cold it is.

Throughout the evening, ticket numbers are called whereby the lucky person wins a dog. Everyone wants to win number four...Gay Dog! Once all six dogs have been won there is a greyhound race on the TV. I should say that this is after all the quiz rounds have been completed and vast quantities of alcohol imbibed. There is uproar in the pub as everyone shouts for their dog knowing full well that number six always wins. I have never before been to a pub where everyone gets drunk on a consistent basis. Everone talks rubbish and there is never any trouble. Hate Cornwall....love the Cornish.