A Spring Picnic at the Cornish Cat Cafe | English Bedtime Story For Adults | Rewind

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Eligibility rules in terms of conditions apply. Please come by responsibly. ATEMPLUS.COM.WIRE.ORG. Hey, Jeffrey here. Welcome back to Night Falls. Whatever you've been up to today, now is your time to lie back, relax, and simply listen to my voice. For me, it's been one of those weekends where everything feels a little softer around the edges. I've had some friends staying. The kettle's been on almost constantly. The tea alarm hasn't stopped. Laughter has echoed through the rooms, and even Otto seems a little more cheerful than usual. There's something quietly magical about Good Company. The kind that slips into your life like it never left. Maybe that's why tonight, we're heading back to Pennyworth Cove and the Cornish Cat Cafe. A place where community means everything. Where the rhythms of the seasons shape the rhythm of life. And where, just like in my own home this weekend, people gather to share stories, warmth and cake. During the winter months, Cornwall, in the far southwest of England, folds in on itself. Shutters are closed against the wind and the rain, and hardly any visitors come to walk along the cliff path. Only hardened locals trudge along in the mud, grey waves crashing onto the rocks below, and there is a certain peace and calm that only those who live there will ever know. But with the arrival of spring come the tourists. The first hint of warmth and sunshine, the sea shifting from slight grey to a brilliant blue, the muddy paths drying up, and flowers bursting from the hedgerows, and suddenly, everyone wants to be there. Pennyworth Cove is no exception. Gardens are bright with colour once more, and the field at the top of the hill is filled with cars again, a long, beatling line of people winding their way down the path that leads to the village. Shutters are thrown open along the promenade, and displays of buckets and spades, once more out in the open. The beach is covered in deck chairs and windbreaks and towels, and ice creams are requested faster than they can be scooped into a cone and handed out. Jenny's cat cafe feels busier than ever. She knows it's just the contrast to the slow winter season, when only the locals come in for coffee, cake and gossip, and actually spring is just a warm-up for the summer, when things get seriously, properly busy. But it feels as if she's baked more cakes in the last week than she did in the previous four months, and her mind is constantly bouncing between thoughts of rich black forest gattle, springy Victoria sponges, and the perfect chocolate brownie. Every morning, Sam slips away before the sun is even considered rising, heading out into the dancing dolphin, along with all the other fishermen of the village, easing through the gentle waves towards their favourite fishing ground. And every morning when he returns, now that it is springtime, there are always some eager tourists waiting to snap photographs of the huge baskets of gleaming silver fish that he hauls up onto the pier. Sam feels shy every single time, carrying out the tasks he has to, before rushing to the sanctuary of the cafe, where he helps Jenny serve the eager lines of customers, blending easily into the background bustle. But this morning, Sam hasn't left the cove. None of the fishermen have. It's a beautiful, perfect, sunshine blue sky, flat, calm sea day. But he has stayed in bed, wrapped around Jenny, his face burrowed into her hair. The calls of the seagulls wake them, though, as they do every resident of Pennyworth Cove, reminding them that today is the day. Almost every village in Cornwall has its own traditions. Halston has the furry dance, Mousehole has its starry, gazy pie feast, Penzantz has Maisy Day, and St. Ives the nil ceremony, a day of dancing, processions, and feasting. And Pennyworth Cove has its Festival of Flowers. For hours and hours during the night before the day of the festival, groups of people congregate along the cobbled streets of the village, and decorate them with beautiful displays of spring flowers. These cover the cobbles themselves, and there's just a narrow strip left on either side for people to walk down, and bystanders to take pictures. It is one of the busiest days of the year for Pennyworth Cove, with a second field opened up as a car park, and thousands of tourists descending to line the streets. The primary school children come together to complete one of the sections, and this year they've gone for an under-the-sea theme, so the flowers come together as whales and schools of fish, and octopus, and jellyfish. Then there's the Women's Institute, who conveniently for Jenny and her cat cafe, have their spot just outside her place. This year the ladies of the WI have shaped their flower displays into huge, elaborate cakes. They've been in discussions with Jenny for months about the types of layer cakes they will recreate in flowers, and Jenny has baked the real things and stood them in the windows of the cafe, life-reflecting art, as she likes to think of it. Of course, Tina and Meg have taken over the area outside Bloomin' Marvellous and created murals showing huge bouquets of flowers made from the tiniest petals. The scouts and guides, allotment gardeners and churchgoers, members of the mermaid pub crew, and groups of fishermen and their wives have all created their own displays. All in all, over a mile of cobbled streets are now covered in flowers and petals and leaves, all shaped to tell their own story. Jenny and Sam lean out of the window of her flat that overlooks the street to admire the handiwork of the night before. Jenny calls down to Tina, putting some finishing touches to her oversized picture of a bouquet, and Tina waves cheerfully. It's wonderful! Jenny calls, and Tina beams, turning back to her fussing over petals and their precise locations. It's still a few hours before a procession, and dancing will start. But already the streets are being filled with people eager to witness the traditions. Jenny slips downstairs and leaves Sam beneath pumpkin and montee. The two cats happy to give him an excuse to stay in the chair by the window and have a few last moments of precious peace. Jenny's hands are a blur of plates and cakes until she hears the music start in the distance. Then the customers melt away and cram themselves into the few spaces left at the side of the street, those at the front kneeling down so those behind can have a better view. A brass band leads the procession, sunshine bouncing off the gleaming instrument. Jenny and Sam lean out of the window upstairs, craning their necks to see the band as soon as they come around the corner. Then there they are, in their smart blue uniforms with red piping. Mr. Fotheringham leading the way with his golden staff, the music seeming to fill the whole cove. Then the dancers appear, the youngest leading the way, little girls in white dresses and little boys in smart navy blue and white sailors' outfits, holding hands and twirling each other around and around. Then come the ladies in their floral dresses and the men in their suits twirling and whirling their way across the carpet of flowers. By the time the final dancers arrive, an elderly couple who do more smiling and waving than real dancing, all the beautiful images of a few hours ago have disappeared into masses of leaves and petals and flowers, all piled higgledy-piggledy together in the streets. People have peeled away from the sight as the procession passes and so crowds now follow the music and dancers, all the way to the pier where it comes to an end. In true Pennyworth Cove tradition, as the final blast on the tuba goes, the little girls and boys grab each other's hands and leap off the wall of the pier, shrieking with delight as they fly through the air and splash into the perfect green-blue sea below. White dresses floating around the girls like jellyfish and the blue caps of the boys lost to the waves. The children who are tourists see the fun and tug on their parents' arms to be allowed to go and join in and of course they're set free. So suddenly there are a mass of others pushing their way through the crowds to reach the pier and throw themselves off too. They'll join in the games on the beach, tug of war and sack races and beach volleyball, dresses drying in the hot sun of the early afternoon. And because all the activity moves to the beachfront and the promenade, those with shops on the cobbled street behind now strewn with petals and flowers take the rest of the day off. Tradition has it that they join together and head out onto the cliff path, walking around until they look down on the next cove, a tiny towel-sized beach that can only be accessed from the sea and sits on tartan rugs and share a picnic. Those villagers who also want to leave the chaos and the crowds behind join the shop owners and so a motley assortment of people can be seen heading out through the little wooden gate over the style and trundling along the path. It should come as no surprise that Miss Tibbs and Miss Whimsy join the group. Over the decades they have led the way as dancing girls in white dresses, holding hands with boys in sailor suits, then headed back in the rows to be the ladies in floral dresses twirling and whirling with men in their smartest suits. They too have jumped off the pier shrieking in glee and then played tug of war and jumped around in sacks and licked, dripping ice creams in the afternoon sun. They've also been involved with the teams of people who head through the streets to sweep up all the flowers and petals and leaves, carrying them in sacks up to the allotments where they're piled up for composting. The ladies sat together on the bench by the church as the procession went through the town this morning, smiling as they watched the children launch themselves from the pier after the final blast of the tuba had sounded out and then waiting patiently as the hordes moved from the streets to the beach and promenade, slipping away to meet up with Jenny and Sam once everything was quiet. Jenny links her arm through that of Miss Tibbs and Sam does the same with Miss Whimsy. Once upon a time the ladies would have run along the cliff paths but now they need little help with Sam steadying them both over the styles and the ladies taking it all in good humour. Aging, as they will tell you, is much easier with a good sense of humour. Leading the pack is Meg, her long legs striding ahead. She dashes onwards getting space between herself and the others so she can turn back and take photographs. She wants to remember everything about this scene and these people. It wasn't much more than six months ago she first came to Pennyworth Cove and met Tina and in those six months these people have made her part of their community welcoming her with open arms. The few times Tina has had to go away for a couple of days and leave Meg behind. Meg has found herself wrapped up by everyone else drawn into their lives, invited for more tea and coffee and cake and dinner than she could possibly consume. She's been out on the dancing dolphin with Sam a dozen times and loves that she can spend hours in his company with no words exchanged and no awkwardness about that. Meg helps in the allotment and is filled in behind the bar at the mermaid and is learning to make pots with Rachel and silver jewellery with Daniel and volunteers with the scout group on Friday evenings. She's often drawn into the gossipy conversations of Miss Tibbs and Miss Whimsy as they sit on the couch closest to the counter in the CAD cafe and has simply slipped into the world of Pennyworth Cove as if she was always meant to be there. Nobody can really remember a time before a long limbed blonde-haired Meg arrived. It's just half an hour of ambling along the winding cliff path until they reach the point where they overlook the towel-sized beach set into a quiet cove. Smugglers Cove says Miss Whimsy with a satisfied sigh. What nonsense says Miss Tibbs looking at her friend. It's Sunshine Cove. Smugglers says Miss Whimsy folding her arms and adopting a stubborn look. Sunshine says Miss Tibbs equally stubborn hands on her hips. Cushion interrupts Jenny passing one to Miss Whimsy who takes it with a final glare at her friend before settling down. She mutters something about smugglers to Jenny who cheerfully ignores her and passes a second cushion up to Miss Tibbs. The two old friends sits on opposite corners of the rug each taking the teacup that is passed to them and sipping it while staring furiously at the other. Jenny is busying herself with the ranging plates and packages on the rug in front of her when Miss Tibbs suddenly gasps. You're right. Oh my goodness. Of course it's smugglers. I was thinking of the one. If you go east out of Pennyworth Cove. Yes dear. I know. Finishes Miss Whimsy. Miss Tibbs picks up her cushion and settles herself down beside her friend and everyone around heaves a sigh of relief. By the time everyone has set up their picnic for the afternoon there must be 20 tartan rugs dotted around the heathers. In the center of all these are plates piled high with sandwiches and cakes sausage rolls and slices of quiche pasties and pastries and biscuits and buns. Tina and Sam bustle between the gatherings with a huge hamper filled with fruit with Tina pressing bananas and apples and pairs into eager hands. Oranges. No takers. Says Sam picking up five and juggling them throwing them out of the loop one by one as people raise their hand. Just one of the oranges misses its target and rolls off the edge of the cliff diving into the tiny beach far below. Why is it called smugglers Cove? Meg asks. Interest peaked. Miss Whimsy settles herself down delighted to be able to tell the story while some of the others pretended to groan. They'd heard this at least a dozen times before. They all tucked into their sandwiches and pricked up their ears. Miss Whimsy asked Meg if she'd heard about the smugglers who came to Cornwall and Meg said that of course she had and then Miss Whimsy said well she must forget anything she'd ever heard about Miss Chief and Mayhem because the smugglers who came here right around the corner from Pennyworth Cove were very different indeed. For these were smugglers who came in with stories. They brought books that they'd found left behind on park benches or lost on buses or never collected as packages in post offices. You can see from their place where they sat now but behind smugglers Cove was a cave that disappeared into the cliff. If you followed it for the best part of a mile it came out high above Pennyworth Cove and from there the story smugglers would descend in the night slipping the books through letter boxes and piling them up in beautifully wrapped packages outside the school. Nobody ever knew when the smugglers would come in because of course the Cove around here was overlooked by no one. Anybody who stayed on the cliffs overnight to see if a boat came in never saw a thing. They might hear the soft thunk of oars and the sound of a wooden boat being dragged up the beach but no lanterns were ever used by the smugglers so nothing was ever seen. And sometimes the smugglers would come with stories hand written on scrolls and these were stories from every corner of the world. They told tales of Japan and cherry blossoms and snow capped mountains and fields of flowers that flowed forever. There were tales of India where the air was always filled with spices and monkeys raced through the temples. Stories came from the heart of Africa caravans of camels treading solemnly across the dunes and stories came from South America where pink dolphins surged through the waters of the Amazon and parrots flew through the streets. More stories came from the Caribbean where islands glimmed like emeralds in the midst of a turquoise sea. Whenever these scrolls appeared in Pennyworth Cove scrolls tied with a piece of red satin ribbon they were always left on the bench by the church and tradition had it the word must be spread through the village so as many people as wanted could come there and hear the story read aloud always in the evening as the sun started to set. There was silence for a while before Meg asked curiously so how do you know these books and stories were brought in here to smugglers Cove if nobody ever saw that? Miss Tibbs took up the story here from her friend explaining that once over 200 years ago legend had it that somebody had seen someone dropping a book at the primary school the same one that still stood there today and they had followed that person back to the place high above Pennyworth Cove where they disappeared into the ground and after a little searching the follower found the place and went through the tunnels and the caves all glowing in the light of candles that were set into the walls and they came to the tiny beach just as a boat was being rowed away but these books and stories still appear asked Meg and everyone there and all the picnic rugs nodded solemnly and you still think smugglers bring them in? Miss Whimsy and Miss Tibbs exchanged a look we believe it is a secret that has been passed down through generations yes we believe smugglers still come here and bring the stories to us. Meg scratched her head I've been here just over six months and I've never heard of this before she said and Miss Whimsy shrugged her shoulders the smugglers come when they can my dear she said I'm sure they'll visit us again soon just keep your eyes and ears open the stories will be back as everyone packed up the plates and cups and rugs piling them all into baskets and backpacks Meg leaned over to Tina and whispered that she had a suspicion Miss Whimsy might be involved in the story smuggling and Tina whispered back that part of the magic was not trying to guess and there were some things best left unknown as Meg followed the others back along the cliff path in the gentle light of the evening sun she supposed that Tina must be right this village had existed here for hundreds of years folded into its safe space in the cliffs and huddled around the strip of golden sand and it did have a feeling of magic to it everyone had welcomed her so warmly in a way she had never felt in any other place and perhaps there were some things that couldn't be explained what was it Hamlet had said there are more things in heaven and earth or ratio than a dream in your philosophy once more Sam helped the ladies over the style and Meg striding ahead held the gate open for everyone else Tina was the last to come through and she took Meg's hand pulling at her to wait a moment so the two stayed behind looking down at the cove that the few gatherings of people left on the beach who were determined to squeeze every moment of enjoyment out of the day someone had lit a bonfire and children sat around with marshmallow's on the ends of sticks solemnly checking them every few moments and then pushing them back towards the fire Jenny and Sam peeled away from the group too as they reached the pier they were going to head out on the dancing dolphin for a few hours just to float a little way away from the rest of the world and feel as if they had it all to themselves as they were about to pull away from the pier a black cat called Lucky leapt aboard he often went out to sea with Sam trotting behind him in the early mornings and coming back draped across his shoulders and somehow he had guessed about this evening's little trip too Lucky climbed into his usual spot in the center of a spool of rope and settled down to sleep lulled by the gentle rocking of the waves as they slowly slipped away from the harbor and Jenny stood at the bow of the boat and looked out to sea wondering if perhaps the stories of Pennyworth Cove would return and one day she would find a book slipped through her letterbox or join with others at the bench by the church listening to a scroll read aloud with tales of far off lands what a risk she had taken all that time ago coming down here to this little village by the sea taking her chance on a cafe that she filled with cakes and cats but what a reward what an adventure what a wonderful place she had found she closed her eyes and felt the breeze brush against her face and tasted the salt in the air and the gentle rise and fall of the boat on the water and knew she had found where she belonged good night from pennyworth cove and sleep well