cornwall

I went to Cornwall aged 33, and came back aged 70 34. (Sebastian didn't sleep in Cornwall. He decided sleep just wouldn't do.)

What a wonderful 5 days though. We went there with two other couples, also with babies, so it was our first foray into full on family vacay affairs.

 You know, with little things around. Little wellies.

 Little people's stuff.

 And little feet.

It was great. I didn't need to profusely apologise if Sebby decided to kick off in the middle of the night (which he did), and we understood when any other the other children had a meltdown. My boobs were out, we went out en masse as a big old buggy brigade, and there were toys strewn all over the floor. We'd all talk about our babies bowel movements (and our own by the end).

It was fantastic.

And we ate ourselves rampant. As did my son.

Cornwall is beautiful. Well, St Ives at least. We spent days roaming the streets, eating pasties (everyday. It was Pasty O' Clock every single day), devouring Cornish ice cream, soaking up the salty sea air. It was warmer down there too, so we were wondering around in shirts and sandals.

It was my birthday, and the Brit had booked an amazing seafood restaurant for lunch, where I had a few champagne cocktails to celebrate being completely middle-aged.

On our last day, we visited Hayle, a village not far from St Ives, where all my English ancestors come from.

My great grandmother and other family members got married in the local church (above), and apparently she made a mean pasty.
We also larked about in the old cemetery trying to find some Clemence headstones, but turned out we were in the wrong one.

My Dad's second name is St Elwyn, named after this very church.

Either way, Cornwall is fabulous - definitely worth a trip back there sometime soon. Perhaps when my child can walk and appreciate the sand between his toes.

 One of our friend's with us took these beautiful black and white photos of Sebby, playing on the carpet. Just ten days shy of being 6 months old.