All it takes is four hours in the car, but Fowey feels a world away. A room in the pink-washed King of Prussia, with a huge sash window looking right out over the river estuary. No internet signal and water so soft that tea brews clear amber. A little orange boat chugs sturdily across the water, ferrying handfuls of people to Polruan and back. It smells of diesel and rope. At Polruan a path climbs high onto the headland. Sun hot on my head, blue sky and banks liberally scattered with primroses and violets.
Back in Fowey, the light fades and jackdaws mess about on the ridge tiles of the British Legion.
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