Synopsis
Sarky Mancunian Carrie May is a lazy freelance journalist, hoping that her scoop comes to her between snoozes. She is finally offered a commission from national food magazine Munch Monthly (publication of It Magazines, subsidiary of In Ltd) for a project on finding the best pasty Cornwall has to offer. Only one problem, Carrie's a vegetarian, so creative writing, and extreme blagging, may need to be employed.
In the meantime, there's an academic sick of the Dreaming Spires and longing for home. He's on the hunt for an - admittedly clichéd - amulet. A hunt which takes him along the ley lines of the Old Country. Of course, he's not the only one that's seeking out this precious gem.
And as for poor old Brendan who works down the Queens Head in St Ives, well, he doesn't have a clue...
A story of New Age tomfoolery, truth, friendship, aliens, werewolves and pasties.
Excerpt
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Carrie began to feel slightly happier about the whole scenario and joined in with some of the banter. The older men complained that there weren't many jobs now that the fishing industry was finished; many young people were seeking work elsewhere in Penzance, Truro or event out of the county all together. These men made Bristol seem like a far off exotic place which was full of promise for young Cornish men and women. The fact that it was really just a post-industrial city whose shipping glory days was long gone was neither here nor there. It seems to be a commanility that as you get older the past is a golden place: a place where the 'good old days' happened on a daily basis; where things were cheaper, transport was better, people were nicer. It stands that this is something that is perpetual; it is always nicer in the past; like a good soak in a warm bath, retrospect is a fickle friend.
After spending a couple of hours nodding and smiling whilst their tales were told, Carrie made her excuses and went to talk to the bar staff about possibly staying the night. Fortunately, the assistant bar manager had taken a little bit of a shine to Carrie (there weren't many women in that night) and offered either his bed or one of the benches in the pub. Carrie took the bench option.
Once the clientèle had exited the establishment, Carrie made herself a bit of a nest on one the benches. It was lumpy, uncomfy and reeked of cigarettes. The floor was slightly a better option. Carrie eventually passed out slightly pissed courtesy of the beers she had already consumed and a bit of cheekily swiped left over whisky as a tumbler was left on one of the tables. At 5am she was rudely awakened by the entrance of the cleaner. She started upright and a mashed up cigarette had engraved itself to her face. She picked it off like an unwanted acne scab and felt glad that she had passed out. The cleaner was busying himself by vacuuming the floor and didn't notice Carrie until he had nearly hoovered up her sock.
“Ow.”
“What the?! What the hell are you doing here? Bar keep gets here in a few hours, she will not be pleased to see you here.”
Carrie tried to explain what had happened but the cleaner was adamant that she needed to be gone on the hurry up. He allowed her a quick toilet break, a brief wash, a pint of water and a packet of crisps. It was 5.45am by the time she left the pub and stood, shivering, on the jetty to the beach. She decided to squirrel away her case for the moment and go for a bit of an early morning stroll, not her usual choice of activity so early, however, she needed to do something to clear the whisky fug in her mind and have a bit of a think about the day ahead.
She guessed, correctly, that it was going to be a long day.
Thin wisps of final fog swooped over the beach at Sennen, a heavy slosh of wave, the swosh of the tides breaking upon the cold dawn sand, and then, suddenly, the dulcet, feminine tones of "Bugger this!" were heard, echoing along the cove.
