An association of Cornwall's finest craft makers

Penrose, Mark
Sculpture

An affinity with the sea. Always. Every Cornish man. Always the draw to the shore. Cove/beach/cliff. The boat bobbing harbour. (Snub at their moorings.) Summer evening paddling. Winter wrecking. Gone out; mainsail flapping limp. “Here! Whistle her up, will you old cock..” Out on the delirious waters. Tranquil and murdering. By turns... by turns... And the wind. “There is a wind in Cornwall that I would know from any other...”. (Voiced in Received Pronunciation, please.) Blows steady from the East, (fair for Scilly) Swiss-watch safe; crisp highdry blue. Nursery rhyme North wind old and chill, barrels down from England’s hills, the puffed out breaths of sixty million, from the old factory lands. But from the South and West, from the Emerald Azores, soft mild or filled up with the belly clenching wild-iron stink of the Ocean Mother. Soft rain. Salt damp. (“Grand for the complexion, m’dear...”) Sou’west. Piles into the Bay. Makes white brides-lace on Cudden Point where Bobby Newton sleeps. Slaps green lick over the Prom’. Harvest of weed. Harvest of wrack. Bends up Watkiss trees. Dog lead Sunday walkers muffled up...