SomewhereinwestCornwall

Complex regional Pain Syndrome: 13years, 8months & counting … (24th August 2025)

Trigger Warning: suicidal ideation / self harm.

Complex Regional Pain Syndrome (CRPS) is a neurological disorder characterised by extreme pain and an array of debilitating symptoms (sensory, motor, autonomic, skin & bone abnormalities) that can progress into a persistent condition causing disability. I have lived with CRPS in my main hand since a crush injury to the index finger of that hand in October 2011. Recently I learned that my 2016 fibromyalgia and 2018 photosensitive migraine diagnoses (both triggered by topical chemotherapy treatment to my face) are both rooted in the underlying CRPS, which has also now spread to my legs and feet following neck and lower back injuries from two rear-impact road traffic accidents (May 2022/July 2023). This blog post is not intended for attention or sympathy, but to share information that may be helpful to others – whether living with CRPS themselves or supporting a family member, friend or colleague whose so-called ‘invisible’ disability may at times leave everyone perplexed and struggling to manage.

There is no ‘cure’ for CRPS and the word ‘pain’ is overly simplistic, because the symptoms of CRPS are disproportionate to the physical trauma and can persist long after the physical effects are seemingly healed. CRPS ‘pain’ goes beyond the limits of ‘normal’ pain and generally does not respond to pain medication. Subsequent trauma (physical and/or psychological) can cause existing symptoms to worsen and/or manifest in other parts of the body, and CRPS can cause physical deterioration and dysfunction which in turn causes psychological and emotional distress, anxiety and depression, which then exacerbate the physical symptoms …

On and on it goes.

The exact cause of CRPS is unknown: CRPS can happen to anyone and may occur spontaneously with no evident trigger but more commonly develops after a physical trauma (injury or surgery) to a limb (arm, wrist or hand, leg, foot, ankle or hip) and is known to involve the peripheral and central nervous systems along with the vascular (blood circulatory) and immune systems, causing changes in how the brain communicates with the affected limb: put simply, the nerves in that part of the body become more sensitive, altering sensations, function and movement.

CRPS patients commonly feel detached from the affected limb, as if it is not their own, and can often feel stigmatised by health professionals who do not know about, are not interested or simply do not ’believe in’ CRPS. Likewise, friends and family may struggle to understand: the injury is healed, and you look fine, so what is the problem?! Stop making such a fuss: drama queen!

For me the reality is that CRPS has ruined my life, reducing me to a much lesser version of the person who I used to be … and yet, the majority of people around me don’t even know that I have CRPS – or, more accurately, that CRPS ‘has’ me – imprisoned in it’s agonising grip – because I’ve largely managed to hide it. For nearly 14 years. Going about my daily life as if nothing is wrong, when in reality every aspect of my life has become ‘wrong’, extremely wrong. All of this is , however, now changing, since I’ve recently participated in the 2-week residential rehabilitation therapy course at Royal United Hospital Bath (RUHB), transforming my understanding of this brutal condition to empower myself with knowledge, survival tools, and the confidence to speak up, to share my truth and no longer hide beneath the shadow of CRPS.

It is no coincidence that CRPS is known as ‘The Suicide Disease’, and no great surprise that long-term sufferers commonly request amputation as a desperate solution to a desperate situation.

I have certainly considered both of these options … Not because I want to end my life, or ‘harm’ myself, but in fact the exact opposite …

… My own body is a torture chamber, every day is a battle, and I exist in a state of constant exhaustion from which there is – and will never be – any escape. Thus, I occasionally imagine how it might be to walk gently into the moonlit sea on cold and clear black velvet night, to feel the icy dark salty ocean envelop my entire being … to feel nothing other than that wild and wet cold darkness, so that I might – even for a moment – find relief through distraction from the relentless pain of CRPS … But here’s the reality check: I know from personal experience that cold water amplifies my CRPS symptoms … meaning, this fantasy must and indeed will remain just that: a fantasy …

… This, however, is not where it ends …

… Because sometimes … just sometimes …

When I am going about my daily life, when I appear – to all the world – like I am fine, like I am functioning as a seemingly ‘normal’ person, and yet I am in reality suffering such excruciating pain, another idea kicks in …

My arm and hand hurt so much that the obvious solution is to remove the arm and/or hand, as the source of the pain …

Problem solved, yes?

Well, erm … no. Because, obviously, if I did actually try to cut off my own arm it would hurt. A lot. And I’d then bleed, perhaps to death. It would be messy. And painful. But I’m unlikely to find a surgeon who would do it (professionally and tidily) for me. And I have friends who are amputees, and they still feel the pain of the body part that is no longer there. Thus I am aware – in rational reality – that cutting my arm off is not the answer. But the point is, at those most desperate times, it starts to make sense: as the only possible escape from this living hell.

Does this shock you? It certainly should.

But there we have it. Welcome to my world. The world of CRPS.

Out & About in West Cornwall – Carn Euny Ancient Village – or ‘Who stole my cheese?’ (7th June 2025)

A different slant on the blogpost this time, with the first of many musings on the landscape, history and folklore of West Cornwall.

Carn Euny Ancient Village is one of several historic sites managed by Cornwall Heritage Trust. Like so many places in west Cornwall, the name originates with a historic person remembered as a Celtic Christian saint – in this case, the 6th century Irish St. Euny, brother of St Ia, patron saint of St. Ives. The site’s history, however, goes back much further, with evidence of human activity stretching back to the Neolithic era. The surviving settlement is typically Iron Age / Romano-British, and today comprises the remains of nine stone-built roundhouses of a type found only in west Cornwall, with rooms, workshops and stables set around a central courtyard, complete with cobbled street and sweeping views across the fields out to sea. Occupied circa 500 BC – AD 400, Carn Euny was abandoned for unknown reasons to remain uninhabited for 1000 years: post-medieval remains include pigsties and garden plots, and the ruins of a cottage built c1750. Nearby is an ancient well fed by a natural spring, and besides these the ruins of a small chapel, dedicated to St. Euny.

Central to the site is a stone-lined underground passage known as a fogou (Cornish meaning ‘cave’) and enigmatic circular chamber. Such structures are unique to west Cornwall, and their exact purpose is unknown, with theories ranging from defense and storage to mysterious ‘ritual use’. Nearby field boundaries suggest that the people who lived here farmed the surrounding land, growing oats, barley and rye and keeping animals such as sheep, goats and cattle. They were perhaps active as traders, and likely played their part in Cornwall’s early tin industry. There is much to explore here.

I first visited Carn Euny back in 2001, and recall little of it other than the slightly surreal experience of venturing into the tunnel and fogou on a mizzley autumn afternoon, grey clouds in the sky, lichens glowing on the walls, and the ghosts of those ancient farmers-turned-tin-miners, long gone but ever-present. More than two decades later I returned, in May 2023, now with grandchildren Emi (then 10) and Alfie (nearly 4). This time, the sun shone in a clear blue sky and the wildflowers waved in a gentle breeze, as we pondered the big questions of Iron Age human life: What clothes and shoes did they wear? What jobs did they do? What furniture did they have? Where did they sleep? Did they bathe or shower?? What language did they speak? What did they eat and drink? And – of course – what was the purpose of that fogou and chamber?

The answer, we decided, was purely practical: food preservation and storage. In particular, animal proteins such as meat and dairy products. It just seemed obvious to us that, like the natural caves of Cheddar Gorge in Somerset, the Cornish fogou – a deliberately constructed artificial cave – likely served a similar purpose, being ideally suited to the creation and preservation of overwinter supplies – especially cheese. For my twenty-first century small humans, this revelation sparked an impromptu reenactment of imagined Iron Age village life, consisting mainly of chasing each other around shouting: ‘You stole my cheese!’ A friend visited a week or so later with similar-age children whose thoughts also turned to food but with a more modern slant: utilising the ruined chapel’s square window frame for a game of ‘MacDonald’s Drive-Thru’ …

Recently, we returned to Carn Euny, almost two years exactly since that previous visit. Two years is a long time for a young child, and Alf (fast approaching 6) could not remember the previous venture, but listened intrigued to Grandma’s description of the strange cave and spooky tunnel, the long-ago people who lived there, and big sister Emi’s recall of the ‘You stole my cheese’ game, which he misheard as ‘Who stole my cheese’ and took to be the actual name of the place. Thus, we enjoyed another afternoon exploring the Iron Age Village that will now forever be known to us, not as Carn Euny, but as ‘Who Stole My Cheese’.

Start Where You Are, Use What You Have, Do What You Can (Friday 25th Oct 2024)

This quote is commonly attributed to American tennis player Arthur Ashe (1943-93), as a variation on a theme reworked by many, including American President Theodore Roosevelt (1858-1919) whose 1913 autobiography includes the phrase: ‘Do what you can, with what you’ve got, where you are’ (which Roosevelt himself ascribed to the far less familiar: ‘Squire Bill Widener of Widener’s Valley, Virginia’). It’s a philosophy that’s stood the test of time, and one that I’m applying in all areas of life – including my overgrown allotment, which has suffered the effects of neglect for the last couple of years, as evidenced in the brutally honest, absolutely-not-Instagram-Worthy Reality Snaps below …

Fortunately, I have a willing workforce of friends and family pitching in to help – I really could not be doing this now without them – and it shouldn’t take us too long to re-establish some kind of order. The basic structure is already there, and while it may not be obvious to outside onlooker, there is a lot of good already going on, amid the mayhem. I have my shed (a bit rickety, needs fixing, but does the job) crammed with *stuff* (mostly useful), compost heaps, burning bins, and various water features (two baths, a child’s sand pit – all sunk into the ground). There’s a barrel BBQ (rusty but functional) and a jumble of chairs, for essential rest and re-fuelling, a stash of children’s toys (for when my grandchildren come to ‘help’), an array of tools and a whole heap of equipment (pots, pots, and more pots), all awaiting their destiny.

It’s certainly a marathon, not a sprint, this allotment lark. Intermittent efforts over the non-existent summer yielded a freezer-stash of Greek Gigantes butter beans, and the promise of late-autumn yacon (a sweet tuber unavailable to buy in the shops), while permanent fixtures such as the double row of currant bushes, rhubarb patch, and perennial herbs are all going strong – as are the bees – despite their unkempt surroundings. And then there are the surprises – a late-flush of red poppies, for example.

Obviously, there are many who would ask: why bother? The answer comes down to the very basic: because I want to, because I enjoy it, and because I am not dead yet. Life is for living. In whatever way makes us feel still alive. Even if it means no longer doing so much of the actual ‘doing’ yourself, but instead asking for – and accepting – help, from those willing to give it. This is the reality of life with so-called ‘invisible disability’.

The main point is that I am still here, and I have a plan: to start where I am, to use what I have, and to do what I can …

And she’s back … (Thursday 17th October 2024)

Where to begin?? A time lapse between posts is not unusual for me – several weeks, even months, can go by between updates. But here I’ve set a personal record, with a full two years (and some) since my previous update. Quite simply, there’s been a lot going on, meaning allotment, garden, bees, academics, and any wider creative pursuits have been relegated to the proverbial back-burner, as other areas of life have taken priority. Two family bereavements just six apart (Aug 2022/Feb 2023), along with two road traffic accidents (May 2022/July 2023, both rear-impact/neither my own error), plus a switch-up in grandma duties and the acquisition of a new job …

Yes, I have continued with the beekeeping. But I – and they – have struggled, because my time, energy and abilities have been so greatly reduced – plus, the appalling weather and non-existent summer have have taken their toll. Same applies to allotment and garden efforts (surviving rather than thriving) with insufficient ‘me’ available for any further creative pursuits. Mostly, I’ve focused on enjoying the people and places around me – west Cornwall is such a beautiful place to live and work, so I’ve been making the most of it with those who matter most – embracing the moment, whilst accepting my limits, living day to day, not projecting too far ahead. It is therefore an absolute joy to be able to say that I’ve recently managed to crawl (rather than jump) through the milestone hoop of passing the probationary stage of my PhD candidature (a ‘Dragon’s Den’ moment, involving a 10,000-word essay and a 15-minute presentation followed by an hour of questioning, and a two-week wait for the result) …

This simple statement marks the culmination of 3 years’ stop-start persistence (Oct 2021-Sept 2024) and a pivotal point that I’d begun to doubt I’d ever actually arrive at. Doctoral research is vastly different from the usual ‘taught’ academic format. Rather than follow a set curriculum dictated by others, PhD research means deciding on your own subject, setting your own research aims and designing your own ‘syllabus’, managing your own workload and taking responsibility for your own progress through a process that you yourself have designed. This last three years have been a journey of discovery, not only about my chosen subject but about myself – charting progress along the way, from initial application to full research proposal, ethics approval, and – finally! – this ‘probationary’ pause-point to evaluate, not only my own academic potential but the value of my chosen subject: in essence, is the subject worthy of continued research, and do I have what it takes to complete a PhD?!

Fortunately, the answer for me has turned out to be a resounding ‘yes’.

What a relief.

This, however, is merely the start – for now the ‘real’ work begins! Inevitably, my plans have moved on from my initial aims & ideas – as would be expected, three years on. I’ll be blogging about it here, and returning also to my musings on allotment and garden growing, bees, health, and life in general. I’ll also be launching a Patreon page, sharing my research as it unfolds, along with news of offshoot projects (hint: there will be books) and expanding this blogsite to include a ‘shop’ section. Watch this space for further news …

Storm, Swarm, return to Norm (Tuesday 9th August 2022)

What a difference 6 months makes. Ditto: three years. And, oh, how time flies. Back in February I lost my last remaining colony of honeybees to Storm Eunice. The previous year had been an odd one (not only for me but others beekeepers I’d heard of, around the world): starting 2021 with 6 healthy colonies, I ended with just the two, with one of these becoming queenless, so I’d combined them together and they survived well overwinter – until Storm Eunice arrived, and that was that. Prompted by a friend I set up a Crowdfunder, aiming to raise sufficient funds for a replacement colony, and was amazed at the generosity of friends and strangers: enabling me to get going again.

In my Crowdfunder pitch, I stated my intention to thank each contributor with a jar of honey from the new bees. However, honey production is unpredictable, so I’d given myself (and the bees!) an 18-month timeframe, to avoid undue pressure. So, what a joy it has been to find I’ve been able to do this sooner rather than later, thanks to these wonderfully busy bees very quickly producing an impressive stash of honey, largely due to these past few weeks of wonderful warm weather. I’ve taken only enough to reward my Crowdfunder supporters and others who’ve helped me. The rest is staying on the hive for those busy bees: they’ll continue to make more in the coming weeks, so that, come autumn, they’ll be well-stocked with honey to get them through winter, ready to get going again next spring.

In the meantime, of course, I also caught two swarms, taking my total colony collection from zero to three, in a matter of weeks. The first one, I caught via the magic of a bait hive, set up in the back garden at home. The second one I retrieved from a nearby garden, following a shoutout for ‘help’ on social media. This second one I’ll write about another time. The first one was a small swarm, with a beautiful red-brown queen who got straight to work, laying eggs as fast as her daughters could build the comb for her to fill … they have, however, taken some time to expand, and have struggled with wasps robbing their precious food stores. They’ve remained living in a small hive atop the playhouse in my back garden, where I’ve been enjoying watching them going about their busy-bee-ness; checking in on them every now and then until, this week, I felt they were ready to move on, and I relocated them into the ‘spaceship’ (as I call my Eat Natural Pollenation hive) at Crows an Wra (not far from Land’s End).

It’s not the prettiest of beehives, and there have been some issues with it (a novelty design trailed specifically for this project). I had to bodge-up a reinforcement roof covering (because the original roof let water in), and it could definitely do with a new paint-job … but the heavy metal legs are sturdy (meaning it won’t – fingers cross! – go over in future wind storms) and it is dry and secure inside … I’ll keep using it until it can no longer be used. And then make a new plan …

I actually haven’t been back to this apiary site since retrieving the toppled hive back in February, and was not entirely surprised to find the place overgrown with gorse and brambles: though I was a little shocked to discover just how much it had grown – towering at nearly 2m high!! Astonishing, the difference, since I first sited my bees there back in August 2019. Fortunately, my glamorous assistant (aka husband) came along to help; clearing a path to leave the spaceship nestled securely in a protective enclosure of thick gorse and brambles – providing shelter from the wind AND a source of pollen-&-nectar bee-food. Win-Win.

Museums, who needs ’em? (Sunday 10th July 2022)

You really do have to wonder what goes on in the minds of County Council representatives, and their chums in the finance department.

‘Where can we save a few thousand quid, hmmm?!’

‘How about we quit funding the the Royal Cornwall Museum?’

‘What, Cornwall’s premier museum in the centre of Truro, Cornwall’s Capital City?’

‘Yeah. That’.

‘What, you mean the Royal Cornwall Museum, which is not *just* a visitor thing, y’know, like, where you go to look at a load of old stuff, but a secure depository for a whole array of priceless items evidencing 4,000 years of Cornish history and heritage – including the Courtney Library and Archive: a unique collection of 40,000 printed books, pamphlets and periodicals, as well as transcripts, manuscripts, individual archive collections, original newspapers and engravings, maps and more …’

‘Yeah’

‘Right … ok … and if we cut the funding, the place will close?’

yeah. If we cut the finding, the place will close. Of course it will. Can’t keep it running without funding, doh. So, yeah, all of that really important, valuable, irreplaceable STUFF will be lost …’

‘Oh’. I see. Right. Well that would be a terrible loss. But, what the hell, eh, yeah, go ahead, cut the funding – excellent idea!

And so it is.

If you think this is wrong, and want to help challenge this insane decision, you can sign the petition here: make your thoughts heard.

change.orgpetition

Well, he’s only gone and done it again! (Tuesday 28th June 2022)

By ‘he’ I mean my husband, local Community DJ and author Rob Spooner, with ‘it’ being the publication of Radio Therapy: A Musical Memoire as the sequel to FM247 Radios in Motion.

Watch this space for news of how and where to buy – and in the meantime, if you can’t wait, send a message via the ‘contact’ link to arrange purchase direct with us.

Swarm Troopers (Thursday 23rd June 2022)

Just three days ago, I documented the arrival of not one but two colonies of honeybees, reinstating me as an actual beekeeper since Storm Eunice toppled by last remaining overwintered hive back in February. Here I likened honeybees to busses – wait long enough for one and two then arrive together. Well, it turns out I was wrong. Three is the magic number. Why? Because, within hours of writing that blogpost, up popped a call via a Facebook community group: ‘Help! A swarm has landed in my garden!’ Lucky for me, I was the first to respond, and they are now happily settled in a polynuc, awaiting relocation to a full-size hive as permanent home. Retrieving a swarm is such a magical experience – I’m yet to meet a beekeeper who has tired of watching a colony ‘march’ willingly into a box (the trick is to get the queen in first – once she is safely in there, the rest will follow).

This is a slightly bigger swarm than the one that arrived into the bait hive, but smaller in number than the purchased colony. And, again, they are beautifully dark in colour, some with a fine deep golden stripe/others with slightly wider gold band – and a lovely calm temperament. And what a wonderful midsummer Solstice gift – from zero to three colonies in three weeks flat! I have not yet seen the Queen in this one – I sneaked a peak inside, briefly, this evening (to get a ‘feel’ for size and temperament), but I won’t be disturbing them for a week or more (other than to add supplementary feed and precautionary varroa treatment), leaving them in peace to get on with the important business of drawing out comb (building ‘furniture’) so that the Queen can start her essential work of laying eggs to produce more bees. There is just the one other job for me at this early stage: I’ve never previously named any of my Queen bees, but feel I want to from now on – starting with this one, who I am dubbing ‘Amanda’, after the lady whose garden she and her entourage decided to land in.

Back to Bee-sics (Monday 20th June 2022)

Honeybees, it transpires, are a bit like busses. As in, the old cliche about waiting a long time for one and then two arrive at once. Well, not two individual bees, but two colonies – one, finally purchased with generous Crowdfunder donations (after bit of dilly-dallying to make the right decision on which bees from which local honeybee-breeder) and the other, a wild swarm that I caught in the garden at home using the ‘bait box’ technique. I am beyond excited, and feel that I now have an essential missing part of me back in place. Beekeeping really does ‘get’ you like that!

And so to introduce my new ladies.

Firstly, the swarm. I’ve known of the ‘bait box’ technique for a long time. It really is simple: just an empty hive-box with a frame of old comb inside (ooh look girls, a ready-furnished house!) and a few drops of lemongrass essential oil (to mimic Queen bee pheromones). Position the box up high up – well, in this instance, on the roof of my grandchildren’s playhouse in the back garden here in Penzance. And then wait. I’d read about it, and heard from others who’d done it, but I’d never previously tried it myself. Thus, I was amazed to find that it really does work – and it only took four days, from set-up to move-in!

Swarming is the honeybee colony’s method of reproduction: when a colony grows too large for it’s present location, it will split into two; half(ish) stay behind, raising a new queen to continue in situ, and the rest then leave together (swarm) with the old queen, to set up a new home elsewhere. In readiness for this, a number of ‘scout’ bees go in search of a suitable new location. The idea of a ‘bait hive’ is to present such a location, all set up and ready to move into. The arrival of a swarm is indeed a sight – and sound – to behold. And quite scary if you’re not a beekeeper; a noisy cloud zigzagging back and forth, around, and around. The mayhem soon settles; within ten minutes they were (mostly) all safely inside, having evidently decided that this was indeed their perfect ‘des res’. Honestly, I felt like some sort of witch, enticing these wild creatures to settle where I wanted them, using my very special magical powers. It also felt like these bees had themselves chosen me. Even more so because I’d had a difficult morning (minor traffic accident: car written off) … this swarm’s unexpected arrival just a few hours later really helped put me back together.

Three weeks on, they are doing really way: I let them settle for a few days, and sneaked a peak at the Queen – she is a beautiful dark reddish brown, and her daughters are all mainly black, some with a fine golden stripe (a free-mated queen honeybee will partner with multiple drones, meaning a wide mix of genetic traits in the resultant offspring). I am relieved to find that their temperament is calm and gentle. Because the downside with swarms is that you very much ‘get what you’re given’, which in reality can mean bad tempered bees that may be loaded with disease or parasites – for this reason, I’ve treated them for varroa, added food supplement to give them a boost, and am keeping a close eye on their progress. So far so good. Already, there is a growing brood of eggs and larvae in varying stages. In a few weeks I’ll move them into their permanent new home, a full-size hive at my out-apiary near Sennen. I may then give the bait hive one more go, here at home, on the off-chance of another swarm in need of a new home …

And then, to the bought-colony. Again, beautiful dark, locally-bred native honeybees, purchased from a trusted beekeeper friend (who I’ve bought from previously, several years ago when I first got going). Whereas a swarm is something of an unknown quantity, buying a colony from a known breeder is much more of a safe bet. These lovely ladies have gone to my allotment in Gulval, where they are already hard at work, getting ready for honey production. Fingers crossed, before the season’s out, there’ll be enough for me to fill a few jars for my Crowdfunder supporters, in return for their generous help back in February, when Storm Eunice brought my beekeeping ventures to a (thankfully, now temporary) halt.

Beekeeping in Cornish folklore (Thursday 10th March 2022)

As detailed in previous post, as a PhD research student I am exploring the folklore of Cornwall as preserved by Victorian writers William Bottrell and Robert Hunt in their collective publications; Hunt’s two-volume Popular Romances of the West of England (1865) with Bottrell’s two-volume Traditions and Hearthside Stories of West Cornwall (1870/1873) and single-volume Stories and Folklore of West Cornwall (1880).

A century and half since their initial publication, original copies lurk in libraries and can be found for sale online. I am lucky enough to own an original edition of Hunt’s 1871 ‘first and second series in one volume’ (triumphant charity shop find). Hunt was a prolific writer, and an astute businessman, publishing books on a wide range of subjects, always in a limited run, each one going through multiple reprint for subsequent resale (KeeerchiNG!). Bottrell, not so much. His three separate books were published each just the once, also a limited print-run, meaning original copies are hard to come by. Fortunately, all are available as modern digital reprint, and I’ve been working my way through these in recent weeks, dipping in and out of the various tales. Imagine my delight to find beekeeping, honey and mead featured in stories by both …

For example … in his 1870 Traditions and Hearthside Stories; first series, William Bottrell tells the story of ‘Trewoof’, a long-gone mansion house in the vicinity of Lamorna near land’s End. Here, the reader is guided through the house, and out into:

‘… a delicious garden, richly stored with flowers and delicious fruit … under a sheltering in the hedge of holly, bays, box, and privet, protected on the north side by a close-cut hedge of yew, were placed the row of beehives … On benches, as well as suspended overhead, from the roof-timbers of rustic building, were many hives of bees. Rows of hives were also placed on shelves against the inside of the southern wall, holes being left in the wall for the passage of the bees: instead of leaving the place, swarm after swarm had fixed themselves unobserved under the rafters, from which the combs hung within reach, dropping with honey. Though the place was all alive with bees they never stung any to whom they were accustomed, who did not molest them’.

Honey and mead as staple food and drink feature in stories by both writers.

In Robert Hunt’s ‘St. Perran, the miner’s saint’ (1865, first series) everybody – including St. Pirran himself – is ‘ruined’ by overindulgence in ‘mead and metheglin’ whist celebrating the discovery of tin – giving rise to the local saying ‘drunk as a Perraner’, still in use today.

In Bottrell’s ‘Giants of Towednack’ (1870) – told similarly by Hunt as ‘Tom and the Tinkeard’ – a supper of ‘barley bread, cream and honey’ is served to a visiting guest, along with ‘mead and metheglin’. In ‘A Queen’s Visit to Baranhual’ (Bottrell, 1873), a lavish banquet is finished with ‘white bread, cream and honey’ washed down with ‘brandy, sweet-drink (metheglin) and other cordials’ – after which, the hostess whips out ‘a bottle of rare old mead, and a flask of extra strong brandy’ as digestive remedy for the Queen: ‘glass upon glass of mead, with several sips of brandy’. In ‘Cornish Castles’ (1873), the combination of bread, cream and honey features as afternoon tea, and again in ‘The fairy Master, or Bob o’ the Carn’ – this time a buffet-style spread of ‘bread, cheese, apples, honey, and other things.’ In ‘Hallantide’ (Bottrell, 1880), ‘old sweet-drink (mead)’ is enjoyed by the women as they gossip after a celebratory feast – while the men sip hot toddies and smoke ‘shag tobacco’ from ‘long pipes’.

Similar stories arise in contemporary collections by other writers across Britain, and there are more from Bottrell and Hunt – evidencing honey as a staple food, and beekeeping as essential component of rural life.