And shall Trelawny live?

Yes. Yes. Yes.

St Piran’s Day in Cornwall began badly in Redruth. Personally speaking, it’s my impression that all things start and end badly in Redruth. I hadn’t even left the car-park when I was accosted by a woman sporting a black eye and speaking in tongues. It transpired that she wanted to know whether I was in the habit of buying from a gypsy. Saw me coming. I can never say no to a gypsy…too scared of the fall-out. So, having purchased my shell for £2 she then wanted to read my palm. Said she knew the name of my husband and told me I shouldn’t worry so much. Despite the fact I don’t have a husband, she was right on the second count. I worry a lot about gypsies.

I went to the rugby club to watch the festivities. If you’ve ever seen that episode of Phoenix Nights where Brian holds a fete in the car-park, you’ll know what St Piran’s Day in Redruth was like. I didn’t even wait for the procession.

In the evening we went to Perranporth to watch the re-enactment of the saint arriving on the beach. He originally landed on a mill-stone and set up a church in the dunes. You might think it a blessing that the mill-stone didn’t sink. I thought it was a result that he hadn’t landed via Redruth….we wouldn’t be celebrating thousands of years later were that the case. It was freezing. Every child in the vicinity was there and there was a lot of dancing to a Celtic band that only knew one tune. I wanted fish but half of Cornwall was crammed into the chip shop.

Later, I went to the Seven Stars in Stithians. Trust Lisa to get it right. It was another mission to ensure a collective village Sunday-morning hang-over. A St Piran’s quiz with the answers secreted round the pub ensured that everyone mingled with everyone: even the young folk who only go there to play pool got their iPhones out to Google the missing answers for the decrepit oldies bumbling out of their comfort zones in the front bar. The rugby boys were in fine fettle and the Aussies who’ve swapped lives with a Cornish couple were suitably bemused. There were free pasties and saffron cake and a woman who’d called in thinking this was a place of high culture gave us free tomes for World Book Night. Even Phil the Tooth was observed to be laughing.

The Seagull Singers, supposedly dropping in on their way to the high-spots of Falmouth stayed all night to provide choral entertainment. Not much in the way of Cornish songs to begin with but it’s been a long time since I’ve heard My Grandfather’s Clock and Sloop John B was more than welcome. With much vigour, we all banged on the bar to the Irish Rover and, having given up the cheap Spanish plonk, but much inspired by the French Shiraz, I conducted a threatening and very successful collection for the village school.

Finally, the Seagulls, having remembered why they were there, performed their piece de resistance and those of us who’d forgotten that we hate Cornwall sung along with tears in our eyes….and shall Trelawny die? There’s 20,000 Cornishmen will know the reason why! Superb.