Remember Doc Martin’s Portwenn (actually Port Isaac, on the northern coast of Cornwall) with its narrow winding streets, walled port, small shops, its cheerful cast of villagers — all seen from the doctor’s office ledge?
Well, there’s smaller fishing port a couple of hours drive south that eclipses Port Isaac’s for its snugness, charm, and seascapes. It’s called Mousehole (and pronounced “Mauzul’’).
My English wife, Roma, and I wanted to get away for a week where no one we knew had ever traveled. We arrived just offseason and rented a house right on the port. We try to travel offseason for obvious reasons: the summer crowds have thinned and residents become real people returning to daily rhythms that better accommodate latecomers like us.
One of England’s least populated regions, Cornwall, lies at the southwestern tip surrounded by the English Channel and the Celtic Sea. Its rolling countryside is divided by miles of stone walls and hedgerows and dotted with abandoned tin mines (“Poldark’’) and bronze age stone carvings jutting out of pastures.
We got to Mousehole (pop: 697) by train from London to Penzance — and then a short drive to the tiny port. Our rental house, like most in the village, was made of local granite mottled with lichen.
Just beyond our Dutch front door lay the small harbor enclosed by two arms allowing an entrance of no more than 40 feet between them. The first of the breakwaters dates back to well before the 13th century when the harbor was the busiest along the entire Mount Bay coast. Fishing, the primary industry for centuries, has dwindled along with the sardine (or “pilchard’’) catch. Today, a couple of dozen pleasure boats rise and fall with the large tide.
Low tides virtually empty the harbor, stranding boats tethered to the break wall by long ropes. The result is a sandy beach picketed with kayaks, which, even in September, drew bathers.
We were to come to know Bill Johnson who once collected fees to the only car park and, since automation, still shows up every morning to hold court and offer fishermen and friends instant coffee (and dog biscuits) from a tiny stone hutch.
On one morning the conversation ranged from a woman in a pink coat who moved there “because I can keep the world out’’ to a man with a terrier who started a debate as to whether Stornoway or Bury produced the best black pudding.
The port’s main commercial street follows the curve of the harbor — beginning with an art gallery and ending with The Ship Inn. Adjoining our house was Webb’s Dairy ice cream store, which I frequented every day for a double scoop of salted caramel.
Ice cream, made at close-by Callestick farm, is the village’s marker. I’ve never encountered such a unanimous demand; the benches below our house would be packed with consumers in winter gear.
The next most popular custom is dog walking. It’s a virtual parade, from the common Jack Russells and spaniels to the more exotic lurchers and newfies. A waitress explained that Mousehole is very “dog friendly,’’ including every restaurant and pub. Water bowls sit outside a number of shops.
Up from the harbor rise five or six shelves of slate-roofed houses connected by a web of narrow streets and alleys. Some claim that more than half the residences are given over to “holiday rentals’’ during the summer. Among the shops that front the upper streets is the Tyler Gallery which is one of the region’s most recognized. Owner, Essex Tyler, is both painter and potter and hangs modern artists, like Terry Frost and Barbara Hepworth, whose works fetch into the thousands.
Tyler shares a workshop with Michael Chaikin, a metal sculptor whose signature works are fish mobiles, small and very large. He’s now working on a 9-foot shark for a Minnesota fish house. (I confess to bringing home a smaller model.)
I’ve long miffed my wife by holding English food in high humor. I have since eaten those words. The gastronomic evolution has clearly reached Mousehole, with 2 Fore Street bistro-cum-cafe the shining star.
Its full windows looking across Mount Bay and white walls lend a modern luminescence to the spare tables. Chef Joe Wardell’s daily menus are anchored in the sea — roasted hake with peperonata and ray wings with burnt butter and capers. He does a sublime double baked Parmesan Soufflé with local brown crabs from next-door Newlyn.
The Old Coastguard is the village’s most popular hotel. Set atop the sea wall, the grounds are planted with palms and slope down to the water, with St. Clement’s Isle in front. The restaurant rates number two with intelligent, simple cooking and modest prices. Try the rabbit and prune terrine or the roast partridge.
For a pint of local ale it’s The Ship Inn, where we met Arthur Brown, 80, who held a mug inscribed with “Arthur’s Glass.’’ The pub was low ceilinged, with a gleaming bank of tap handles — pulling local ales. Pointing to a chair by the fire, Brown, who lives across the street, explained that’s where he sits during the winter “mostly alone.’’
He groused about the changing scene. “There’s not a single fish and chips left in the village. There used to be three. And most of the pubs are gone.’’ An aside: electronic games are mercifully on the wane.
“There’s a hell of a job getting a good pasty these days,’’ he lamented. Next to scones, clotted cream and strawberry jam (Cornish tea), the pasty is the region’s famous specialty — a shortcrust turnover filled with chopped meat, potatoes, and onions.
Stick with the scones. That England claims the gummy, bland pasty as one of its culinary jewels says something still. My wife doesn’t smile.
“Mousehole is changing, and that’s not a bad thing,’’ mused gallery owner Tyler looking at Chaikin’s 6-foot fish hanging in his window.
But whatever the change, it’s coming at a creep. We’ll be back in 10 years and surely find Arthur by the fire and Bill Johnson pouring coffee for his regulars.
And Webb’s will still be scooping salted caramel ice cream.
John Sherman can be reached at johnlewissherman@gmail .com.
