Once upon a time, a married couple was walking through the Barbican, the medieval port section of Plymouth, England, when they grew tired and fancied a cup of tea coffee. (The woman didn’t like tea; indeed, she knew she wasn’t well if she actually did want a cup of tea. The man didn’t care for it, either, despite being a Brit born and bred.)
Shortly, the couple came to a many-panelled window they had passed before. “Isn’t this the place we had lunch when we last came here?” the woman asked.
It was. The restaurant behind the windows was called the Tudor Rose Tea Rooms.
They entered, and were directed by a young woman–since it was a lovely spring day, as lovely as the woman herself who seemed much akin to the storied Queen of the May–to the tables in the back garden. Shortly, a very pleasant older woman entered the garden bower and asked if the couple had seen the juvenile seagull that had gotten trapped and wasn’t quite strong enough yet to fly back out. They young-as-springtime woman and the woman of a certain age were keeping him safe from evil trolls and feeding him while he grew to adult gullhood.
“Oh, there he is,” the man exclaimed, upsetting the tea coffee cups, but getting a fine photo of the feathered fellow.
This is the juvenile bird.
It has been two years since then. The juvenile bird is now probably an avian greybeard, and the man and woman don’t expect they’d recognize him now. For that matter, they don’t expect he would recognize them. They, too, have aged, although ever so slightly. One would hardly notice. Really.
After the man and woman met the juvenile bird, several months passed. Then they went journeying to the far south of England, farther even than Plymouth. Farther than almost anything except Land’s End, the westernmost point in the storied nation. Except for the Scilly Isles (pronounced silly). But that’s another tale.
Anyway, the man and woman went one day to Lamorna, there to visit a potter and her husband, who was a writer and painter. And to see their fine work, and to have delicious cakes and tea coffee with them as it was Christmastide and their shop and studios were closed to visitors. The man and woman had a dispensation, however, because they were on a magical journey. Today, others–on magical journeys or just a Sunday drive–can also visit the place, called The Old Well Studio.
The man and woman also saw a holy well.
But they didn’t see Hubert. Hubert must be a magical bird. Hubert has only recently arrived, tapping on Mim Nash’s office window. Mim is the woman, the potter. John Nash is her husband, the artist/writer.
This is Hubert.
If you are not Hubert and you are reading this, why not spend some time in Lamorna, Cornwall, and see if you can help Mim out. Bring a soft cloth. Clean off Hubert’s beak. Pass by Plymouth first and stop at the Tudor Rose for tea coffee. You probably won’t see the juvenile seagull. But you’ll have a good time, anyway.
Shortly, the couple came to a many-panelled window they had passed before. “Isn’t this the place we had lunch when we last came here?” the woman asked.
It was. The restaurant behind the windows was called the Tudor Rose Tea Rooms.
They entered, and were directed by a young woman–since it was a lovely spring day, as lovely as the woman herself who seemed much akin to the storied Queen of the May–to the tables in the back garden. Shortly, a very pleasant older woman entered the garden bower and asked if the couple had seen the juvenile seagull that had gotten trapped and wasn’t quite strong enough yet to fly back out. They young-as-springtime woman and the woman of a certain age were keeping him safe from evil trolls and feeding him while he grew to adult gullhood.
“Oh, there he is,” the man exclaimed, upsetting the tea coffee cups, but getting a fine photo of the feathered fellow.
This is the juvenile bird.
After the man and woman met the juvenile bird, several months passed. Then they went journeying to the far south of England, farther even than Plymouth. Farther than almost anything except Land’s End, the westernmost point in the storied nation. Except for the Scilly Isles (pronounced silly). But that’s another tale.
Anyway, the man and woman went one day to Lamorna, there to visit a potter and her husband, who was a writer and painter. And to see their fine work, and to have delicious cakes and tea coffee with them as it was Christmastide and their shop and studios were closed to visitors. The man and woman had a dispensation, however, because they were on a magical journey. Today, others–on magical journeys or just a Sunday drive–can also visit the place, called The Old Well Studio.
The man and woman also saw a holy well.
This is Hubert.
(Photo copyright Mim Nash)
Hubert has been knocking on Mim’s window quite frequently. But she does have a favour to ask: If you are Hubert and you are reading this, please clean your beak before knocking. You are much more likely to get a good reception that way.If you are not Hubert and you are reading this, why not spend some time in Lamorna, Cornwall, and see if you can help Mim out. Bring a soft cloth. Clean off Hubert’s beak. Pass by Plymouth first and stop at the Tudor Rose for tea coffee. You probably won’t see the juvenile seagull. But you’ll have a good time, anyway.
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