A few months(!?) ago I finally made it to Cornwall.
I wanted to go there for a while now, ever since I arrived in the UK, but one thing or another always prevented me.
There was one place, in particular, I wanted to visit -- Boscascle Harbour. It is one amongst many small villages along the coastal path, which I've promised myself to walk before my time at Oxford is up. But why would one, amongst so many wonderful and popular places there want to visit a relatively unknown Boscascle? Two reasons really: first one is that Will, a charismatic barista I photographed in Oxford some time ago, decided to open up a coffee shop there with his wife Alice -- this is how I discovered it in the first place. The second one was a more ineffable one: ever since I discovered it and read about it, I felt like something there was calling me there. Like the place was waiting to be discovered. So this past bank holiday, we packed up Sonja with snacks and camera gear and went to Boscascle. The visit had a profound effect on me; more than I could ever expect it to. I've written several letters from there, and I've decided to string some of the key thoughts in this blog post:

Seagulls are flying over me, and a cool breeze is ruffling what's left of my hair. It is a night before we drive back, and I'm waiting for a sunset reflecting on my time here in Boscastle. On my way up here, everything was pretty much dead. No one was walking around, only a few people gathered in the town's pub and the Rocket Store, a local restaurant serving some of the best seafood I had outside of Croatia. This silence gives me the peace I was seeking in the first place. There are many reasons why I loved my time here so much. The place is objectively beautiful.

It is as if every stone, every man-made object in this little harbour has a story of its own; each one of them in synergy with nature. Take, for example, the stone walls that line the river Valency as it spills into the ocean. They are made by hand in a traditional drywall style. Each stone is painstakingly arranged next to another in a mesmerising art piece. The design was inspired by nature - one only needs to take a few steps up the hill to find the same patterns in the sedimentary slates just above the harbour. The walls were allegedly made by Sir Richard Grenville, who found refuge here in between his privateering and colonisation efforts.

While the place is pretty and rich in history, the main reason why I fell in love with it is the people, who seem so distant from the coloniser that inhabited this place in the past. The village seems to form a tight-knit community of surprisingly young people. Alice, a co-owner of "The Good Stuff" and Will's partner told me that their almost-2-year-old son has several kids his age to grow up with. In a village of less than 400* people. A manager of the "Rocket Store" knew Will from Oxfordshire -- he is in his mid-twenties as well. Unlike many places where generations mix (such as Oxford), I didn't really feel as striking of a divide between young and old. Older residents whom I talked to, spoke kindly with almost parent-like care about their younger neighbours. And all residents, young and old seem to be artists of a kind. Helen, an artist who painted the cards I've sent to my friends and family (and a proprietor of the "Old Forge Gallery") paints all her stunning scenes locally from her front yard. It is very clear where she got the inspiration from. The way light plays and reflects over the valleys even in today's subdued light is mesmerising. Cynthia, our lovely B&B host, is a writer; her husband is a painter too. Their BnB is a gorgeous mix of their arts - quirky yet beautiful at the same time. And then there are Will and Alice from The Good Stuff. The space they've created is that perfect mix of cosy, modern, beautiful and comfortable. Yes, their coffee shop is a business, but it also has a memory of older times; a feeling of an old friend. Even though it opened just two years ago, there is something about the place that made me feel as if I was one of the many strangers looking for an escape there, and it welcomed me with open arms. It is tastefully decorated with the artwork of local people. I don't know much about sign-making, but I'm pretty sure each sign on there had to be made by hand too. Subconsciously, there is something about such space that makes it feel... real and welcoming.

Almost as welcoming as their hosts. As one amongst many tourists that visit the village, thanks to its many accommodation options, I never once felt like just one amongst many tourists. Which is what I was -- and to find that I didn't feel like one was refreshing. Every single person took the time to talk to us. I have not experienced that in England; not really.

It is because of these people that I find myself here, on the top of the cliff in the first place. On the top of the hill overlooking the harbour, with my camera and my binoculars, waiting. I'm feeling almost obliged to make something. I missed this feeling -- this creative energy. For a while, I felt like I'm not at home in the city. I enjoy it immensely, and I enjoy its amenities, but I don't feel ... connection for lack of better words. Here, on the top of this hill, I felt more at peace than I did in months.

And it got me wondering. How many more Boscastles are there in the world? How many of them didn't take the time to visit, explore to experience?

I don't think I could ever settle in Boscastle itself, but there have to be so many more of them in the world. And once I find them, will I ever have the courage to take the leap of faith and settle down in one of them?

Only time will tell I suppose. Until then, I'll be on a constant lookout.