Mousehole – the name made me smile and wonder, with some trepidation, whether the town would be overrun by little, furry, grey and brown creatures with beady eyes. It wasn’t, of course, but the moment I stepped out of the car and saw the streets lined with cottages and decorated with a profusion of flowers of all colours, the word ‘hobbit’ came to mind.
We arrived in Mousehole in the rain, that very English type of rain that seems to fall as gently and as soundlessly as a butterfly’s tears. Tendrils of mists floated around us, as soft as gossamer and just as delicate. Enchanting, I thought, as I tried, without success, to catch the wispy whiteness between by finger-tips.
Somewhere a spell was being laid. I could feel it working on me. I knew that I could easily sit on these trellised steps, thick with moss and grass, and dream up stories of fairies and goblins and elves and dwarves …
But I thought it wiser to do a spot of sight-seeing and immerse myself in the real Mousehole, not the one that I was creating in some corner of my mind. And I was not disappointed.
On my travels I have learnt to expect the unexpected; to delight in the ordinary and to seek out the extraordinary.
To embrace glimpses of the past and sweet reminders of the present.
To explore, to dream, but, above all, to give in to the fleeting joy of the moment.
I never thought that I would fall in love with a place with such an unromantic name as Mousehole. But I did. As surely as the rain falls from English skies, I did.here.