They’ve been lucky with the weather so far. It’s another clear day and surprisingly warm for the time of year. Waiting on the quayside, Oliver gazes at the large cumulus clouds overhead. He takes a deep breath, the salt in the air tickling the back of his throat. The river mirrors the blue of the sky and as the little motorboat manoeuvres alongside, he catches its bow. Steadying the vessel, he offers his hand to Zennor and she steps aboard and quickly settles herself on the seat. Oliver swiftly follows.
‘Oliver, this is Dave,’ Zennor says.
He nods to the man at the helm.
‘Hi. If you don’t mind pushing off,’ Dave says.
Pushing away from the jetty, Oliver propels the boat out into the river.
As Dave expertly weaves through the large concentration of moorings, Oliver looks out across the water to the huddle of properties hugging the north shore and recognises the pub he and Zennor lunched at the day before with the brightly coloured boats neatly lined up on the beach in front of it. He watches the water taxi leave the pontoon and make its way across the water from Helford Passage to Helford Village. As it draws near, the ferry pilot nods at Dave. The boatman raises a hand in return.
‘The ferry has been running continuously since the Middle Ages,’ explains Dave, as he heads the motorboat upstream. ‘Then, it was a vital transportation link for the communities to take local produce to the markets in Falmouth. The cart and driver travelled on the ferry and the horse swam along behind!’
‘A slightly more conventional mode of transport these days,’ comments Oliver.
Zennor suddenly leans forward and points. ‘See that property over there, the one with grey stone elevations?’ Oliver observes a handful of exclusive properties commanding the waterside setting, their immaculate gardens lapping the foreshore. ‘It recently changed hands for five million.’ Oliver raises an eyebrow. ‘I know,’ she says, ‘but its location, location, location all the way. The next inlet coming up on the right is Polwheveral Creek, where we viewed the first house.’
Ancient oak forests reach down to the water’s edge and, along the riverbank, a number of startlingly white egrets stand in groups on trees. Two elegant swans stay close to their mates sitting on nests. It’s a timeless scene. The picturesque, unspoilt scenery and quiet foreshore offer few clues to the century.
Zennor turns again to Oliver and points mid-channel. ‘Look, fish!’
Oliver scans the sparkling river. A sudden flash of liquid silver catches his eye as several fish breach the water.
As the little boat motors further upriver, Oliver breathes in the unique atmosphere of the Helford and something locked deep within shifts. Since returning to his family in Surrey he has blocked out all emotion, knowing he’s only a shallow breath away from giving into the searing pain in his soul. Telling himself that Cara was just a dream, he buried any hopes he might have had for his own gratification. Instead, he embraced duty and responsibility and threw himself into his work. But here, out on the river, the natural environment begins to work its magic and through the many layers of self-inflicted suppression Oliver hears its whispering call telling him this is home.
He shifts in his seat, his eyes following the south shore. High up on a hilltop a roof inches into view. As the boat cuts through the water, the house reveals more of its secrets. A two-storey verandah runs its full length. The property intrigues him. Secluded and private, almost hidden in the trees, it could easily be missed, yet, from its elevated position, the house must enjoy stunning views in both directions. On the riverbank, immediately below, is a stone quay with a wooden boathouse, and a bit further along Oliver spies a small, but charming, octagonal wooden building perched on stone pillars at the water’s edge. For the first time in many months, excitement stirs his soul. As they pass by Oliver watches, mesmerised, until the property is out of sight.
‘We’re just coming up to Frenchman’s Creek,’ announces Dave, steering the boat to avoid a large patch of seaweed covering the surface of the water.
‘Made ever famous by Daphne du Maurier,’ comments Oliver.
‘It’s such a romantic book,’ says Zennor, ‘but so terribly sad. It left me in floods of tears. Not many novels do that!’
‘The power of words.’ Oliver smiles at her.
‘Here we are,’ says Dave, manoeuvring the boat into the mouth of a secluded creek.
The inlet is surrounded by ancient woodland and seaweed drapes from branches hanging low over the water. A heavy stillness pervades the air. A secret, enchanted, mystical place…
Easy to understand why the author chose this particular creek for the French pirate, Jean-Benoit Aubéry, to hide La Mouette from the authorities.
The motorboat slowly turns. Next to a stone quay and half-sunken in the riverbank, a rotting boat reveals itself.
‘That’s the Iron Duke,’ says Dave. ‘It’s been there for years. Belonged to the artist, Percy “Powder” Thurburn. He built that cabin up there.’ He jabs his thumb in the direction of the riverbank.
Through the trees, Oliver catches a glimpse of a cedar-clad cabin blending into the hillside.
‘Who owns the property now?’ he asks.
‘The National Trust,’ Dave replies. ‘It’s available to rent by the week.’
‘What a romantic hideaway!’ Oliver says. Zennor nods.
Opening the throttle, Dave motors the little boat out of the creek and once again into the main channel.
Continuing their journey, they acknowledge a yacht gliding downriver towards them. Soon, they come upon a substantial quay with several kayaks moored alongside. Three tents adorn the quay and a group of young people sit around a fire pit. The enticing smells of a barbeque waft across the water.
‘This is Tremayne Quay,’ announces Dave, ‘built by Sir Richard Vyvyan in 1847 in anticipation of a visit from Queen Victoria. Due to bad weather, she never came. They had to wait until 1921 for royal patronage when her great grandson, Edward, Duke of Windsor, visited.’
‘Who owns it now?’ Oliver asks.
‘It’s also owned by the National Trust,’ says Dave. ‘As you can see, it’s a great place for a picnic or an overnight camp.’
‘What an interesting river,’ Oliver says quietly.
‘And that’s Merthen Wood,’ comments Dave, warming to his role as tour guide. He indicates the magnificent woodland stretching for over a mile along the north shore. ‘It’s medieval in origin and one of the largest remaining oak woodlands in Cornwall.’
Continuing upriver, as they motor past a well-built, handsome stone boathouse, Zennor speaks up. ‘We’re almost there.’
Eagerly, Oliver looks ahead. As they round a bend in the river, a picturesque collection of buildings with waterside balconies comes into view. A pristine, classic yacht lies alongside a private quay and, in the adjacent harbour, a number of brightly coloured rowing boats and sailing dinghies peacefully await their next outing.
‘This is it,’ says Zennor, switching into property finder gear. ‘On the market for the first time in over sixty years. The property has up to eight bedrooms and five bathrooms and is currently divided into two, providing accommodation for the owners and also a successful and popular holiday let. However, the layout is flexible and can easily transform into one large dwelling, if so desired.’
As Dave brings the boat nearer to shore, Oliver observes the house with interest. The property is bathed in afternoon sunshine. To one side, a large rhododendron dominates an upper terrace above a charming, waterside garden filled with shrubs. It’s an obvious suntrap and two black and white cats snooze peacefully on the garden wall, their legs hanging in a relaxed fashion towards the waterline.
‘Is there any land with the house?’ Oliver asks.
‘Yes,’ Zennor replies, ‘approximately six acres of waterside meadows, which we will see as we continue up the creek.’
All at once, two springer spaniels appear from around the side of the house, closely followed by two young blond lads. The boys are no older than Sebastian and Jamie, and Oliver watches as they pull on a mooring line. A brightly painted rowing boat jumps into action and skims through the water towards them. One spaniel immediately jumps in, and as the boys climb on board they call to the other dog. After some encouragement the hesitant spaniel joins them. Placing a pair of oars in the rowlocks, the older boy expertly navigates the boat away from the jetty. Oliver smiles. What a wonderful Swallows and Amazons lifestyle! How lucky they are to have the river as their playground and the opportunity to muck about in boats. He wishes Jamie could experience the same freedom.
‘We need to keep an eye on the tide,’ says Dave, opening up the throttle. As he navigates the boat further up the tidal inlet, Zennor points out the meadows belonging to the property.
‘So, Oliver, what do you think of the properties we’ve seen today?’ Zennor asks, on their return journey downstream.
‘Very interesting.’
‘What about the first one?’ she asks. ‘The contemporary coastal home.’
Oliver purses his lips before answering. ‘It’s stylish and in an enviable position with outstanding sea views.’
‘I hear that but again,’ Zennor says.
Oliver laughs. ‘There are too many other properties surrounding it. I don’t mind neighbours, but not when the property is so open. There would be no secrets left!’ he says with a wry smile.
Zennor laughs. ‘And the mystery house?’
‘Well, Zennor, you certainly saved the best ʼtil last. It’s unique and individual and, I imagine, quirky inside. It also has a wonderful waterfront location. It is, however, double what I intended to spend.’
‘Is that a no, then?’ Zennor asks.
‘Not entirely, but…’ Oliver gazes up at the passing hilltop as the secluded, privately set house comes into view. ‘Do you know anything about that property?’
Zennor turns in her seat and squints. ‘No, but I can make enquiries. Where exactly are we, Dave?’
‘Just past Powders,’ the boatman responds. ‘I think it’s used as a holiday let.’
‘OK. I’ll make a few phone calls.’ Zennor smiles at Oliver. ‘So, it hasn’t been a completely wasted trip to Cornwall?’
‘Not at all, Ms Stacey. You’ve given me plenty to consider.’