Eolake Stobblehouse
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Letters To DOMAI

Dear DOMAI

It was the second day of our honeymoon in a cliff-top cottage in Cornwall (SW England). Although it was in October, it was gloriously sunny and warm. As we were walking along the deserted beach, in the bay at the foot of the cliff, I suggested to my wife that the water would be just right for a swim. At first she demurred, but after a little persuasion and an assurance that no-one was anywhere near, we took off all our clothes - we had not expected to be swimming this time of year - and ran into the clear blue water. It was a new experience for her and she clearly loved it - until she noticed, to her horror, a man sitting on the beach just yards from our two piles of clothes.

He was clearly not going to move, so I advised her that we had no option but to brazen it out, and pretend we were not at all embarrassed. Again she acquiesced and we walked back across the narrow strip of sand to the pebbles and stones where we had left our clothes. We waved cheerfully to the stranger and proceeded to put our clothes back on, while he watched, fascinated.

Dressed again, we walked past him, saying what a gorgeous day it was, by means of explanation for our seemingly eccentric behaviour. He then engaged us in conversation, telling us that he was a local fisherman who particularly loved this bay, though he lived a few miles away. We responded by letting him know that we were there on our honeymoon, pointing up to the former coastguard's cottage that we had rented.

The next day we went out blackberry picking and on our return, there he was, our fisherman, standing at the front gate of the cottage, with a large lobster-like shellfish in his hands. It was, he told us, a 'crawfish', similar, he insisted, to but not synonymous with the more familiar 'crayfish' and that he was giving it to us as a honeymoon present, because it had a broken leg, which would bring down its selling price. Patiently he explained to us how to cook, prepare and eat it. We thanked him profusely and asked him to come in and join us for a cup of tea. He politely declined, then suddenly blurted out in his broad Cornish accent: “And be you thinkin' of swimmin' again today?”. My wife and I looked at each other questioningly, and to my surprise she said: “We are actually”, and that we would be there again in about half an hour.

In half an hour we were there, and so was he, sitting on the same rock and looking out to sea. He waved over to us nervously, and we said nothing, but stripped about ten yards away before running across the sand and into the water. When we looked round, we saw smoke rising. He had lit a fire for us. When we got out, we threw a towel each over our shoulders - a piece of equipment that had been lacking the day before. We then joined him, before it was time for us to dress and go. It was his turn to thank us profusely for being so kind to him. “My wife”, he confided, “she wouldn't understand nothin' like this”.

That was the last we saw of him. The crawfish was delicious, though tricky to eat.

Since then we have both always swum naked wherever and whenever possible. That was nearly forty years ago. My wife, five children later, has still the same lovely lissom body. I well understand why the fisherman was so keen to witness a repeat performance.



Duncan, Bristol, UK

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