Secrets of the Valley by Simon Mitchell. An adventure of mystery and magic in the valley of the River Fowey in Cornwall

Uncontrollable sobs broke from my throat as the connection ended. I came out of trance with tears running down my face. The hairs stood out on the back of my neck and I shivered.

“Stop listening.” I managed to say in clear words. The cursor on the monitor in front of me stopped blinking and the speak-write software went into suspension. My mouth was dry, my hands were shaking slightly. I felt exhausted, wrung-out by my connection with the boy.

A deep sense of emptiness and longing filled me. Somehow the boy had shown me images and pictures from his life and strong emotion leaked across. I longed for my mother, my father, my brothers and my son. I needed family.

Bereft, feeling abandoned at the bottom of a dark pit I instinctively I went into psychic closedown. Mentally I zipped myself up inside a black sleeping bag and imagined a white light at the core of my being extending to my senses.

The clock showed 7 p.m. I had been in trance for five hours, sharing the brief and violent life of a boy born 2,000 years ago. Rising slowly and stiffly from the posture chair and un-kinking my knees I shuffled into the kitchen, rubbing my legs to bring back the circulation.

As I waited for the kettle to boil I munched on the cheese-salad sandwich I had made earlier. Soon a sweet mug of warm tea brought me back to myself in front of the screen.
A huge story was there, near enough 40,000 words according to the word-count software. Fintan had been true to his word. I read through the text, correcting surprisingly few words that the software had misinterpreted. It had taken me three months to train this software up to my voice, and it showed 97% accuracy in speech recognition. Fintan’s voice worked at a slightly different timbre, but somehow the inflections remained similar enough to my own to work the software.

I am called Andrew and live alone at my cottage, Ty-Mair. This is Welsh for ‘The House of Mary’, although my cottage is in Cornwall. I work as a writer and college lecturer. My ‘absent’ ten-year old son William stays with me in the holidays. We had found Fintan’s ghost up in the woods two weeks earlier, or rather he had found us!

I took Wills and a party of his friends on a Sunday picnic there, near to an abandoned iron mine in the woods. We all saw a body of floating mist, moving around us from tree to tree. We could sense its curiosity, drawn by the laughter of the boisterous party.
It followed us back into town, lurking behind and dwelling in the shadows. The children weren’t fazed by it at all, taking it as a kind of spooky hide-and-seek game. In an age of Pokemon, such things are commonplace. I had seen a ghost twice before, but never one that seemed responsive. I was certainly curious.

After the picnic I set the children up indoors with a jelly-flicking contest. I cut a face-sized aperture in a sheet of clear polythene and pinned it to a ceiling beam. This allowed the children to flick jelly from spoons into mouths without splattering the room too much. They loved it and the shrieks of their delight actually hurt my ears. The youngest girl, Michelle, won the competition with a lucky shot.
Soon they went home and I had to take my son William back to his mother’s house, the summer holidays over for another year.

After I got back from Bude I reflected on our fun together while I hosed jelly from the polythene sheet, which hung over my bicycle in the garden. I could sense the boy-ghost was still there, lurking. There was little wind, yet corners of the sheet would suddenly whisk up into the air. The back of my neck had that prickly sensation but I pretended to ignore it, as I always did.

All through that night I heared the rustling of the polythene sheet outside, flipping and flapping in the still air of Cornish dark. It woke me repeatedly, whispering ‘Come out and play, Come out and play.’ I didn’t.

In the morning I found the sheet half-way down the lane, an empty and unanimated skin. Tiny globs of green jelly had reformed on one side. It looked battered and exhausted, as if it had been out dancing all night.

After that the ghost visited me on Monday and Tuesday at exactly 9 p.m. My work-room filled with icy air, a feeling of deep loneliness and a need to play. I found it disturbing. I had marking from College to process, fifteen timed essays on Moscovici’s Principles of Minority Influence. I put the feeling down to just missing William and living alone. I sipped whisky, ignored it and carried on marking.

Wednesday afternoon after work I told my Shiatzu therapist, Ruth about it as I knew she was into psychic things.
“Why don’t you try meditating?” she suggested. “See if you can contact it.”

My mind filled with dread. I had always sensed other beings, other worlds even at the edges of my perception, but never let them in. I had even stopped meditating a few years earlier because I kept hearing voices. They said things like “Why are you doing this?” or “Who are you?” As an only child, especially on holiday in Cornwall I had even had an ‘imaginary friend’ who my parents sometimes disapproved of.

But I also knew things I couldn’t have. Just Monday evening I was about to start the washing up when a small voice warned me of the hazard of a smashed glass lurking in the water, which turned out to be so. The possibilities of ‘other voices’, even schizophrenia, frightened me so I had never really explored this side of myself. I told Ruth this.

As she worked up my spine, connecting meridians, she told me about her mother. “Barbara, my Mum, is a well-known medium and she lives in St. Austell. I’ll talk to her about it tonight, she’ll know what to do.”

Again that night at 9 pm I had a visit. I was planning Friday’s teaching and had just got to the last session, ‘A’ level Communication Studies theory on minority influence. I felt a light, cold breeze touch my cheek, and the temperature of the room dropped by several degrees. Icy fingers ran down between my shoulder blades. I put down the pen.

“Who are you?” I said out loud to the presence. “What do you want?” I listened to silence. I could hear only the dull crackling of Rory, my pot-bellied stove. I got up from the chair and filled it with coal. The noise filled the room with awesome clatterings and the sense of a presence dissipated. I had a glass of whisky and finished my plan before bedtime.
Thursday was my day off lecturing, and Ruth rang early.

“Look, I’ve talked to my Mum, and we’ll come over this evening to try and contact your ghost. Phone someone you trust and ask them to come as she says a party of four works the best. She says she has had a message that someone is trying to contact you for a very important reason. If its OK we’ll come over at 8.30, she says it won’t take more than an hour, and that she won’t charge for it. Is that alright?”
“Thanks Ruth, that sounds like a good idea. Do I need to set anything up or get anything in?” I replied.
“If you can set up a small table for four, get candles and some subtle incense that will be fine. Oh, and a bottle of wine, she prefers red,” added Ruth. “And make sure the place is clean, she says its important.”

I phoned my friend Cameron, who was home from working. He often worked in Nigeria as a hydrographic surveyor. We had once played in a band together and maintained a close bond ever since. I woke him up but he said he’d come over at eight that night.
I spent most of the morning cleaning my house, popping out to the shops and being surprisingly domestic. After lunch I did a four-hour stint of marking coursework assignments from my HND Computing students. This just gave me time for a short bike ride before tea.

I headed up Restormel Lane towards the castle. The road was already in shadow from the wooded sides of the valley. The sun flickered through tree trunks lining the steep bank on the left. This is the only relatively flat road out of Lostwithiel, and it ends up in a field leading to Lanhydrock, a National Trust property.

I stood on the pedals in top gear to get the blood flowing through my lymphs. My bike sped past Second Island Park, following a parallel course to the river. I whizzed past the bowling green, where wild watercress grows in the stream. I sometimes stopped to harvest this and later make a stunningly wholesome soup, with a splash of white Burgundy and a glop of Cornish clotted cream.

My wheels splashed through the stream that overflows across the road. A small rise here and I take it mostly through momentum and cruise down the other side. A slightly-steeper hill this time. I change through the gears to maximise my pedal efficiency and finish the rise in lowest gear, creeping forwards.

Placed here close under a mature laurel is a wooden bench. Panting already with the oxygen pumping through me, my wheels climb the bank and stop at the bench. I always stop here.
The town is idyllic. The unique Breton style spire of St. Bartholemew’s church stands proud over a view Constable might have loved. The archetypal small Cornish town, hidden away in a gentle fold of the river valley.

I swig from the bike’s water bottle and remount, gliding down past the huge chestnut tree nearly to the entrance of Restormel Farm. From here a lane runs uphill to the left. Its too steep to cycle so I push the bike up after an initial run at it.
On my left is a dark pool filled by a stream that runs down the hill. Mature oak trees stand along the lane like ancient grandfathers lining the route to the castle of the Black Prince.
This hill gets me wonderfully out of breath and I can feel the fresh oxygen cleaning my blood as I press into it. Then the hedge clears on the right to reveal the castle, its battlements proud against the sky. I’m out into sunlight now but there is still gradient to come. Finally I lock my bike to the gate and pass through it onto the spur of land overlooking the river.

The hill commands an early crossing point of the River Fowey, a mile upstream from the town. Restormel Castle is nearly 1,000 years old, from its beginnings as a base for Norman conquest, but many suspect the site is a lot older. These remains are mostly from the time of Richard, Earl of Cornwall, monarch-designate of the Holy Roman Empire. When Richard died in 1299 the Earldom of Cornwall reverted to the crown so since that date Restormel has belonged to the Duchy of Cornwall.

The castle is inside a deep and dry moat, grassy banks harbour a wealth of summer flowers. A gateway projects over the moat to give access to the large keep. As I walk towards the castle I wave to Steve, who is in the English Heritage hut. They don’t charge an entrance fee for locals.

I quickly mount the steps on the right that lead to the wall walk. I love the view from here. The steps emerge at the south side and through the battlements I see down the valley towards Fowey and the sea. Lostwithiel is spread out like jewel, diamond-white buildings set in the emerald-green of the land. Picturesque to look at from here, it harbours 2,500 odd souls finding their way into the 21st century.

Firstly there are the ‘local locals’ as I call them, Cornish folk whose families have grown up in the town. Many of these families are now marginalised to the council estates, or have had their young move up-country for work. Although there is still a strong undercurrent of Cornish Pride, this dwindling community keeps more or less to itself. The perfidious English are still not to be trusted.

Then there is the ‘riff-raff’, mostly middle-class, English ‘invaders’ engaged in employment nearby, using the town as a dormitory. The tendency towards ‘downshifting’ has meant price rises in the town and much property on the market here is now too expensive for anyone on local wages. Elderly people retiring here, and up-country newcomers push up the house prices and help the average age demographics into the low sixties. Second homes are also more frequent in this increasingly desirable part of the world.

Finally there is the conglomeration of people who own and operate the town: the Rotarians, the Masons, the Town Twinners, local traders, businesses and counsellors. This small Cornish town also hosts nearly seventy organisations of one sort or another. These all operate independently, making the idea of ‘community’ into a collection of deeply parochial cliques with little interaction. The town is rich in community life, the churches, the Church Rooms, the Social Club, Conservative Club, Drill Hall, Community Centre and five public houses, but these all work divisively. A tendency towards snobbery added to a passion for small-minded bigotry ensures that many people here are unlikely to work for the greater good. Some vendettas in the town still date back to nineteenth century squabbles. There is much that isn’t talked about.

Lostwithiel is presently stuck between two worlds, too large now for the tight-knit community it was in the 1960’s and 70’s, it is also too small for a fully functioning town. Petty empire builders are more likely to stab each other in the back than cooperate for the benefit of the town. If you are not ‘in the clique’ then you might as well paint a target on your back. The Cornish are quite unwilling to involve with English stuff like Lottery Grants, Objective One Status or even Agenda 21 to improve their lot. The English have hijacked many of these funds in a plethora of committees and sub-committees, making any collective, voluntary action complex beyond belief to straightforward and direct Cornish people. Huge amounts of European money earmarked for Cornish Culture has simply not been spent and will probably return to Europe. A thousand year history of English greed, assassination, genocide and cultural domination keeps the locals quiet. The way the Angles have always controlled the Celts involves the strategy of ‘divide and rule’. The divided communities of Lostwithiel provide a notable example.

But I love this town, with all its eccentricities. There are many good people here too. It is a microcosm almost of the state of Albion, a world within itself with all the quaint rituals of Ghormanghast. The river, the valley, the countryside has me rooted here like its sap runs in my veins. I belong here. This is my valley.

I continue the castle wall walk. To the east I can see the poly-tunnels of Duchy Nurseries, owned by Prince Charles. They nestle in mature pine woodland. Just below me by the river is Restormel Farm, where my milk is made. This marks the earliest crossing point of the river and the site of an early chapel, the Hermitage of the Holy Trinity.

I walk on round to the north part of the wall that looks up the valley towards Lanhydrock House, encased in rich woodland. In the middle ages this was all deer park, stretching for miles, named ‘The Manor of Bodardle’. The places around here have ancient names, Boconnoc, Pelyn, Cardinham, Lerryn, Ethy and many more. It’s a mystical place to visit and I have spent many happy times enjoying the views with a picnic of friends. Sometimes I make wishes here as the sun goes down on mid-summer day. Woods, fields, valley and hills make a tranquil place like no other. Come and see it when you visit the Eden Project – Google: Restormel Castle, Lostwithiel.

The sun is getting low as I complete the circuit. Steps lead to the ramparts from both sides of the gateway, but on this side they are uneven. According to the stories this is so that any invaders climbing them would trip and alert castle dwellers to a stranger. I step down them carefully and return to my bike. One push sends me speeding down the steep hill, home is less than five minutes away. I get home flushed and sweaty but ready for anything. I love this air.

After a shower I made a fire in Rory, my pot boiler stove, and prepared the table and chairs. Cameron arrived shortly afterwards and opened a bottle of wine, pouring us both a glass. I filled him in on my ‘ghost story’ and the time passed quickly. So did the bottle. He thought that I was just being paranoid and laughed out loud when I told him a medium was coming to sniff out my ghost, and that’s why I called him.

Ruth soon arrived. I greeted her with a peck on the cheek and a quick cuddle. Her Mum, a white-haired lady seemed to somehow carry another dimension. It was as if she was attached to the thin end of a great funnel, connected somewhere I couldn’t quite sense. It seemed appropriate to embrace and I took her aged shoulders gently in my hands with a non-contact, double-cheek, French-peck greeting. She was frail, I could feel the bones through her coat and skin. I helped her off with the coat and hung it, almost like her flesh, in the kitchen with Ruth’s. I placed her bony arm through mine and guided her into the living room to where my spooky table was set.

Ruth said, “Mum would like a little tour of your house to help the visualisation.”
My cottage is a simple one-up, two-down dwelling. I took her three steps up the wooden stairs in the living room so she could poke her head up into my bedroom. My living area downstairs has two rooms, split by the chimney where Rory was happily crackling away. Then there was only the kitchen and bathroom to show.

We were soon settled around the table, wine glasses charged, while Barbara told us what to expect.

“It is very important that we are all at ease here,” she said in a quiet but powerful voice. “The beings we are dealing with are sensitive to noise, on an emotional level as well as physical, so please stay quiet and calm whatever happens.” She looked around and fixed each of us with her eye, myself, Cameron and Ruth in turn.
“After relaxing us a little I am going to open up our psychic centres, and ask you three to pool positive feelings onto the table-top between us. Are we set - shall we get going?” I thought she was surprisingly brisk and business like. Cameron put up his hand like a schoolboy.
“I just need to go to the bathroom if you don’t mind,” a picture of Oliver asking for more. I lit some incense and Ruth asked me where it was from.
“Its Tibetan, very subtle and purifying. ‘Kalachakra Traditional Tibetan Incense,’” I read from the packet. “I bought it from a shop in Truro last week. The trader who stocks it makes regular trips to Nepal and was a Buddhist monk for some time.” I waved the lit stick around to put the flame out and a delicious soft fragrance perfumed the air. Then Cameron came back and sat down.

“Now join hands,” intoned Barbara. We sat and felt the warmth in each other’s hands. In my right hand I could feel Cameron’s rather pudgy fingers. They were quite coarse, bricky’s hands that hadn’t worked bricks since he qualified. I could feel a swelling on the top of his index finger bleeding slight heat into my cooler fingers. He had slammed it in his car’s door two weeks earlier and it was still humming.

On my left, Ruth’s fingers were cool and sweaty, watery, but so much softer than Cam’s, with a kind of inner strength. I was sitting with Pudgy and Squidgy. I stifled a laugh at this thought.

“Close your eyes now,” came the command from Barbara. “I want you to concentrate on my voice for a short while. With your eyes shut, I want to you remember the space around us. Picture the room we are in, inside your mind’s eye. You can still sense the flickering candlelight through your eyelids and hear the fire. Sense where the windows are, and the door, and the walls, for a moment, feel this space.”
I enjoy these sort of ‘inner journeys’ and gave my whole attention to Barbara’s voice.

“Now in your mind’s eye, see this building, the upstairs, the kitchen and bathroom, the garden, the lane outside the gate. Be aware of the bushes outside, the houses next door and down the lane. Feel the energy of the people here, burning like candles in the night.

I want you to expand your awareness and take in the whole street, the buildings, the Royal Oak, the Talbot, the road through the town. See the town of Lostwithiel, layed out underneath you like a map. See the many souls of the town safe inside their houses.
See the river running through the town, the high spire of St. Bartholemew’s, the industrial estate and the railway, the Community Centre and the park, the roads, the lanes, the houses and fields. See the housing estates on the edges of the town, Pendour Park and Coffeelake Meadow, Dark Lane and Knight’s Court, see them all as you zoom your consciousness out.
Go higher and expand your view. Imagine the town is laid out underneath you like a model railway. See the woods around the town, the castle, the lips of the valley.”

I found this easy to do because I spend a lot of time looking on Lostwithiel from every vantage point around the rim of this valley. A veritable ‘Lily of the Valley’.

“Imagine you are in a hot air balloon floating up, and higher, faster and faster. See below you the whole river, starting way up on the moors at Siblyback, flowing down past Bodmin, through Lanhydrock, through Lostwithiel to St. Winnow. See Lerryn, then Golant and then Fowey where the river empties into the ocean.

Keep going, higher and higher. Picture East Cornwall now, bordered by sea above and below. Follow the River Camel from Bodmin up to Wadebridge and Padstow on the north coast. See Tintagel and up to Bude. See Cornwall standing proud on the sea like the foot of Britain, linking to Devon. Sense the Tamar in the east and the Mount of St. Michael and Men an Tol to the west. You can see the land laid below you from Penzance to Plymouth, standing proud on the Atlantic, thrust out into the water.

Keep going up. See Devon and Somerset appear from the body of England to the west. To the north, the Bristol Channel, the coast of Wales and the Irish Sea. The Scillies off to the west and the expanse of Atlantic, then the English Channel to the south.
And up, see Cornwall, England and Wales, Scotland and then Ireland below, the coasts of Europe to the east,  the Orkneys, a sense of Iceland to the north and the vast expanse of ocean to the west. See Brittany, France, Belgium, Denmark, Sweden, Norway. See Spain, the Mediterranean, the vast land of Africa running away to the south. Expand across Asia.

See Germany, Poland, the huge bodies of Russia, Siberia, China, North America. Turning below you on a globe, South America, the massive Pacific, New Zealand, Australia, India.
Our beautiful globe. In your mind’s eye, see it turning and turning, growing smaller and smaller. See the moon, our companion, rotating around the planet. See the sun, a bright light burning in the distance, the centre of our solar system.

And out, and out. Sense it all, our sun, beating like a great heart at the centre giving us life. There is Mercury, a tiny planet of quicksilver, nestling next to its massive power. Further out is Venus, forever cloaked in its cover of cloud, hiding its acidic mysteries. Then our Earth, a rich planet of cerulean and ultramarine, flecked by swirls of white cloud and the brown and green of land masses.

Out to Mars now, lifeless and sterile red dust holding invisible secrets, then the asteroids, the masses of Jupiter then Saturn turning in their pre-ordained orbits, rushing through the vacuum of space, a perfect balance of gravity against momentum. Can you hear them now, turning in their immaculate paths?

Smaller now, see Uranus then Neptune and finally the tiny, lonely, frozen Pluto. And out, and out. See now our solar system, just a dot in a cloud of dots on the edge of the Milky Way, one of infinite galaxies strewn around the infinity of the universe.”

Barbara paused for a while, and I opened my left eye slightly to see what the others were doing. I was distracted because my stomach was making rumbling sounds. Barbara started speaking again.

“Now the energy, the force that holds all this together is the power of love, and we are going to bring some of it here, into this room. Come back to your body awareness but fix your mind on us four, sitting around this table holding hands. See us here and pull in the energy of love that makes up this universe. We are a magnet, drawing in love from the furthest reaches of the universe to the nearest.
Imagine us here attracting particles of love to the tabletop. Imagine a small globe hanging on the table in front of us, white and pure, filling us with radiant energy, the love that holds the universe together. Just keep that thought in your minds for a moment.” She paused again.

“We are here tonight because a spirit wants to make itself known” announced Barbara.
Suddenly the room went icy and the hairs stood out on the back of my neck, the boy was here. Although my eyes were shut I could feel a radiant energy pulsing on the table in front of me in resonance to the one I was pushing. It seemed to be stretching out, drawing us into the divine safety of its glow. My body began to feel like lead, my arms petrified and held. I started to feel another body, beyond the physical, singing chords in tune with the glow globe we were making on the tables I felt air brush past my face. The feeling of cold increased, a feeling of ice, but also that of clay changing to ceramic.

“We are asking for this spirit to step forward and make itself known. If you have good intentions then you are welcome, but otherwise begone from this place now. Are you ready to come forward and make yourself known to us?” said Barbara with a quizzical but commanding air.
I felt a loud click in front of my head.
“Come forward and state your name and purpose,” she commanded.
I felt a whisper, the sense of someone, something, trying to speak, and then it did.
“Fintan. Is my name.” I felt the voice as much as heard it. I could sense its vibration. It was a young voice that had a musical quality, an edge to it like the ringing sound of sword blades. “I have been trying to contact Andrew,” it said.
“For what reason do you require this contact?” said Barbara’s voice.
“I need the help of a physical being. Albion is sick, its ancient channels are blocked by negative force. It is time for the spirits of this place and people to be set free. There is a journey that starts in this place, Lostwithiel. It is part of a balance between light and dark that has existed since the dawn of time. This is the switching place. Andrew loves this land as I do. He can understand what needs to be done. He also has the skills to do it.” The voice paused, and then Barbara spoke again.

“What is it that needs to be done?”
“For the past three decades there has been interest in self for self and decadence sweeps the country of the Angles. There is a difficulty in removing self from self in your world of density. The energy gathers for many of you to move forward into a new transformational era when your purpose is revealed. The energy is ready to move forward, but the old ways entrap and strangle like the tentacles of an octopus. There is one movement forward, and another that is trapped, so the forward movement is blocked. The trapped attempt to hold tightly to systems of belief and hide the necessity for change in darkness. What is important is the settlement of that which is Celt with that of the Anglo, for it is only in this that the energy can move forward.”

“What is it that stops the energy?” Barbara again.
“This nation of Albion, in its acceptance of civility and political correctness also creates the most barbaric and soul destroying weapon, the repression of who it is and the repression of who others are. The civility stops the truthfulness. What is needed is a courageous ‘breaking through’, a breakdown in correctness so that the truth may reveal itself. The nation of England has shuttered minds because of their tendency to ‘sweep things under the carpet’.

The male energy that has dominated for so long is feeling threatened now, for it knows it must have equity with the female or it cannot survive. All the source of human power comes from the female. By controlling the female power and keeping her in bondage, he owns that power and has corrupted it. The male power knows that it only maintains its power by taking the energy of female, and it is afraid.”

“So what do you expect Andrew to do about it?” asked Barbara rather crisply.
“He is to mend the Serpant, the Dragon Line. The line known as Michael and Mary was cut and the energy corrupted long ago. It is the cutting of this line that has caused the imbalance of male and female power found in the nation of Albion. The mending of this line that circles the Northern Hemisphere will correct the balance and allow the heavy ones to release their stranglehold. And so you will all enter into the light.”
“How is this to be done?” demanded Barbara’s voice again.
“First, he must hear my story. I will come to him and we will speak when he is ready, but now I must go, other forces sense this activity.”

Quite abruptly I felt the presence depart, and opened my eyes, or tried to. My eyelids seemed stuck together. My mouth was very dry but my lips felt like I’d been dribbling. I unlinked my hands and rubbed my eyes to open them. Cameron and Ruth and her mother all looked at me, their hands still joined. Mine were loose.

“That was incredible,” I said, lost for words.
“Yeh,” said Cam, “I’ve never seen nuthin’ like that.”
“Imagine that, him finding you, and sort of adopting you,” said Ruth with a nervous giggle.
I looked at Barbara. “Barbara, thank you. That really was amazing, you are incredibly talented to do such a thing. What do you think? It just sounds so fantastic. Is it true, could such a thing really happen? Is it real?” I felt strangely ecstatic, excited. I babbled.

Barbara looked at me.
“I think you are just about to embark on the most important journey of your life. You should be humbled that you have been chosen to do this. You must take every precaution to protect yourself though, from psychic intrusion. Let me show you how.”
“OK,” I said. “I’d love to know how, but why would I want protection from psychic intrusion, you’re the medium?”
I felt Ruth and Cameron looking at me in amazement. “What?” I said.
“Didn’t you know,” said Cam. “You were the one doing the speaking.”
My mouth dropped open and I sat there completely unable to say a word.

END OF CHAPTER 1

Tree by St.Winnow

Bee on Teasel

Farm near St.Winnow

Methodist Free Church in Lostwithiel

Rosebay Willow Herb

Pine woods near Restormel

Plantain

Brook at Pelyn

The river Fowey at Lostwithiel

St.Barts, Lostwithiel

Moon conjuncts St.Barts at Lostwithiel

Restormel Castle

Restormel Castle

Restormel Castle

Over the valley of Lostwithiel

American Currant blossom

St. Barts behind the willow

Restormel Manor

Fiddle Heads

Chicken of the Woods

View from Lanhydrock

By Lostwithiel Golf Club

Yarrow

Over the Golf course at Lostwithiel

Ladys smock

Horses by Restormel

From Lanhydrock

Towards Druids Hill from Lostwithiel

Cow Parsley and Campion

Footbridge by Restormel

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