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Checking in from Cornwall

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We went for a walk yesterday afternoon after our fairly easy (except for *her*, who I may rant about later) train journey.

Little boats bobbing about in the buoyed water. It's the smells that made it all the more lovely: salty sea air, the occasional waft of fresh fish, and best of all ... wood-burning fireplaces giving the narrow streets the perfect amount of wintery smokiness.

We did a little window shopping and then could think of nothing better than to find a local pub and watch the 20-something local girls fawn over the boys who'd returned to the country to visit their mums for Christmas.

The penthouse suite we're in (or refurbed attic, depending how you look at it) is gorgeous, and the boys who work in the Inn are adorable. The sofas in the lounge overlooking the estuary are perfect for napping. The town (or is it a village?) is charming. It's like a shrinky-dinked Provincetown, just without the homos.

Got on the New Year's running kick a few days early and went exploring this afternoon. Found a dog infested walking trail, a little cove of a beach, and an old gray brick farmhouse that I'm certain could be housing relatives of Mrs. Danvers. Crusty, bearded, pipe smoking men walk their chocolate labs and offer gruff 'hallos'.

Off to find a pub, do some journalling, chat up a local and maybe read some more Jamaica Inn, where our young heroinne is trying to decide if smuggling is actually evil. Just what goes on in that secret barred room at the end of the dark hall?

I think her 7-foot tall, mysterious yet strangely compelling, coal-haired Uncle Joss has set up a little leather dungeon for the local ne'er-do-wells, and that's what Aunt Patience can't bear.

Life is good.