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Mellinzeath
Altes Wildhüter/Farmcottage aus dem Jahr 1665.

Völlig verwunschene Lage im Grünen am Bach zwischen Helston und Constantine.Man vermutet, dass an dieser Stele schon 1000 Jahre vorher Müller tätig waren. Reetgedecktes Haus mit ganz dicken Granitwänden, Mühlsteinen und Brotofen. Die Wände sind so dick, dass man das Bad aussen anbauen mußte und keinen Durchbruch herausschlagen konnte.

Offener Wohn/Essbereich mit altem, offenen Kamin, in dem man auch einmal auf dem Wok kochen kann. Im Erdgeschoß Originalsteinböden, im ersten Stock Holzböden und Teppiche. Die Küche ist einfach ausgestattet. Zwei Schlafzimmer: Ein Doppelzimmer und Zweibettzimmer mit hohem Etagenbett für drittes Kind.Offene kamine im ersten Stock. Zusätzlich Heizung. Feuerholz wird gestellt. kein Fernsehempfang. Riesenland rund um das Cottage zum Spielen, Wandern und Ausruhen!

Die angrenzende Scheune hat einen Spielbereich im Erdgeschoß. Der erste Stock kann auf Anfrage mitgemietet werden und bietet Raum zm Schlafen in der Scheune.

Samstagwechselhaus

Gummistiefel mitbringen!Das Gepäck wird an einem etwa 660 Meter entfernt geladenen Bauernhof , wo auch das Auto abgestellt werden muß auf einen Range Rover umgeladen....!

Kosten: GBP 285-650 (2009) für je nach Saison für eine Woche. Keine Nebenkosten, aber Handtücher und Bettwäsche müssen zum Preis von GBP 5 pro Person/Woche gemietet werden.

Über das Cottage erschienen in der britischen Presse mehrere Artikel. Zum Beispiel dieser ( der Titel bezieht sich auf die Sonenfinsternis, die damals besoders gut in Cornwall zu sehen war):

London's Evening Standard Newspaper vom18.8.99:


At last, it's safe to go back to Cornwall

by Pete Clark

There comes a moment each year when the desire for a week in the perfect country cottage becomes irresistible. The symptoms are always the same: daydreams of a thatched roof penetrated by a chimney billowing white clouds of fragrant wood smoke; lots of walking and reading and no television; badgers, buzzards and butterflies; eight hours of non-snoring sleep each night; half-hearted attempts to fight off the stupid grin which is threatening to monopolise the facial features.

Things doesn't get much more peaceful than this. Just don't stoke the fire too much

Unfortunately, the reality does not always match the daydream. I have been to cottages in England and certain other countries that did not live up to their billing in the brochure. I once went to a cottage in Northern Ireland which for four days had no view at all, and on the fifth offered the unappetising prospect of an old cow's bottom. Four-legged, that is.

There have been cottages that have been nigh-on perfect, to be sure, but somehow an element was out of place: a hint of stuffiness in the bedroom; not quite enough hot water for a truly splendid soak; a flash of cuteness in the ornamental department which raises the hackles.

I have just returned from a cottage which was faultless in every major respect. It goes by the name of Mellinzeath and peers out from under its thatched roof down a valley furnished with proper trees through which a stream gurgles. Places that have names containing the letter "z" are usually in Cornwall, and this one is no exception, being at the top bit of the Lizard (see what I mean about "z"?)

There are foxgloves crowding the front garden, and every second foxglove seems to contain a bee. The bees are chased around the place by Red Admiral butterflies, and I chased around after the butterflies because it's been at least four years since I've seen any of this particular sort and I was afraid that they'd gone on the missing list.

A quiet Cornish hideaway. Huge eclipse crowds definitely not pictured

The front garden plays host to the sun in the morning, through lunch and into the middle of the afternoon. The sun is then gently handed on to the two little lawns up at the back. We were lucky with the sun during a week's stay, but this is the kind of place that you fondly imagine could attract rays of light when the rest of the world was plunged in gloom.

Mellinzeath has the kind of tranquil privacy which virtually puts it in a time warp. The price to be paid for this is a stroll of between five and 10 minutes - depending on urgency of movement - up a rocky path to where your car is parked in the neighbouring farmer's yard. If you find yourself up and down this path more than once a day then the wheels have come off your plans, because the point of the cottage is to be in it or just outside it, and not driving to places which will probably not be remotely as nice. Our main priority is filling up the fridge with fine food and drink, and here I should like to give you the benefit of my considerable and highly satisfactory experience in this field.

After a minimum of trial and error, the best pre-lunch and pre-supper drink proved to be the Moscow Mule, made with proper ginger beer (Fentiman's in a bottle is best), a good squeeze of fresh lime, three drops of angostura bitters, and vodka to taste. Rosé wine was best for lunch, chilled in the fridge, and a robust red for supper.

As one is on holiday, brunch is better than breakfast, and duck eggs, bought from another neighbouring farm, cuddled up most cosily with pancetta imported from a London deli for that very purpose. Food for supper was anything we could stomach after several hours grazing in the sun reading Hannibal, but had to feature fresh fruit and clotted cream at the end.

A perfect country cottage can plunge you into a sort of dream life, and it is important to clear the head so as to be able to enjoy more of the same by taking decent walks - one a day, at the absolute minimum. This process is helped enormously by the presence of dogs, and my wife and I had taken the precaution of bringing one each. The walks were enlivened by the presence of much nature - apart from the aforementioned bees and butterflies, there were birds, voles and a really sweet field full of sheep with black heads.

My wife is a bit of a hedgerow queen, given to pointing out minuscule flowers and telling me their names slowly and succinctly in the manner of a primary school teacher. Pointing to a flower I can barely see, she intones, "That's a lovely example of Lord Wilf's Pyjamafoot," or, "I haven't seen so much Gesticulating Gwendoline since I was a young girl."

While these nature lessons were never anything less than thrilling, the walks served a more profound purpose in that they brought us inexorably to the pub. This splendid establishment is called the Trengilly Wartha Inn, and is a 45-minute walk with a gentle following breeze and a genuine thirst.

The garden is pleasant and friendly to dogs, and the beer is fine, although a pernickety person might wish that they did a little more in the cider line, even if that pernickety person might be confusing Cornwall with its neighbour Devon. Garden and pint pots aside, the star of this show is the open crab sandwich. There is one possibly as good on offer in Mousehole, a good few miles west, but this one is a prince among crabby delights in the vicinity.

Later it will be back to the cottage, and, after the sun goes down, the huge log fire which has been marking time all day will come into its own. Then there will be another book before bedtime and the opportunity to sleep like another type of log. The only cloud on the horizon is the end of the holiday, but that is a field of cows' production of clotted cream away.