Written on the Scillonian ferry sailing parallel to the coastline I know and love so well…..
The Mouse Hole is a very special place.
Impossible to see from the Cornish fishing village named thereafter.
I am with my Dad.
His steadfast hand guiding me over the rough, barnacled rocks.
Past green pools of tiny treasures:
snakeshead and strawberry anemones,
fine sea ferns that look like pink corals,
and diamonds on the water that glisten in the maritime light.
We are now out of sight beyond the headland
amidst thick smells of the ocean,
the eerie calls of oyster catchers
and the distant chugging of fishing boats.
Finding my feet, I skip and leap; joy with every bound.
Jumping across chasms and castles; flying and free.
Then…as we turn the corner
there it be, a gaping hole for all to see.
The Mouse Hole cave,
once a secret tunnel through the cliffs,
up into the village, now blocked by time.
A place of story and mystery; smugglers intrigue.
It beckons us towards its dripping, dank doorwell,
the caverned atmosphere creating a spell.
Still I see us standing there with distant ghosts of yesteryear.
(Photograph from Greengallery.co.uk, 2016)