22 July 2026
If Day Two taught me that time moves differently in Cornwall, Day Three reminded me that so does imagination.
Our first destination was Trebah Garden, one of Cornwall’s most celebrated subtropical gardens. Created during the nineteenth century, the valley has been transformed over generations into an extraordinary collection of exotic plants that tumble all the way down to its own private beach on the Helford River. It is a place of remarkable beauty, made even more poignant by the knowledge that thousands of American troops embarked from that very beach in preparation for the D-Day landings in June 1944. Standing there today, surrounded by birdsong and lush greenery, it is almost impossible to imagine its wartime role.
History, however, was not the first thing to capture my attention. It was the hydrangeas.
I have seen hydrangeas before. I have admired them, photographed them and even attempted to grow them. What I had never seen was an entire valley overflowing with them. Every imaginable shade of blue, violet and lavender spilled down the hillside towards a peaceful lake, where an elegant bridge connected two banks framed entirely by blossoms. It felt less like a botanical garden and more like someone had wandered into a Monet painting.
As we approached the bridge, my first, entirely selfish thought was one of mild frustration. A young couple seemed determined to stand right in the middle of what would otherwise have been the perfect photograph. Every photographer will understand the instinctive reaction of mentally composing a picture while silently wishing people would move.
My irritation quickly disappeared when a photographer waiting discreetly below the bridge approached us with a quiet request. Would we mind stepping back for just a few minutes? The young man was about to propose and, understandably, was nervous enough without visitors accidentally wandering into the middle of his carefully planned moment.
We happily retreated to a respectful distance and watched quietly as the scene unfolded. A few moments later, the embrace told the whole story.
She had said yes!
Honestly… who could have said no in a setting like that? Surrounded by thousands of hydrangeas, with Cornwall quietly holding its breath, it felt as though the entire garden had conspired to create the perfect beginning to someone else’s next chapter.
Eventually the path led us down to Trebah’s secluded beach. Today families enjoyed picnics, children searched the shoreline, dogs investigated absolutely everything and I found myself happily enjoying a Roskilly’s ice cream while watching the world drift gently by. There was something profoundly peaceful about that moment. Surrounded by the three people I love most, I felt quietly grateful simply to be exactly where I was. Knowing the extraordinary history beneath our feet only deepened that appreciation. Sometimes places carry both joy and sacrifice with remarkable grace.
Just when I thought Trebah had exhausted its surprises, I encountered the giant Gunnera and suddenly felt as though I had shrunk to the size of an ant in a Pixar film.
Leaves the size of umbrellas towered overhead while enormous tree ferns unfolded prehistoric fronds around every corner. The deeper we ventured into the gardens, the more convinced I became that I had somehow wandered onto the set of Jurassic Park. At any moment I fully expected a Tyrannosaurus rex to emerge from behind the foliage.
Fortunately, only more spectacular plants appeared. Eventually we exchanged prehistoric forests for another kind of treasure: Falmouth.
The town has one foot firmly anchored in its maritime past while the other strides confidently into the future. For centuries it has been one of Britain’s most important natural harbours, welcoming ships from around the world. Today its streets are equally shaped by students, artists and independent businesses, giving the town an energy that feels both historic and wonderfully youthful.
The old docks quickly proved dangerous for anyone who appreciates handmade craftsmanship. Independent galleries, potters and artists occupy beautiful little shops tucked between cafés and historic buildings. I was extraordinarily grateful that I had travelled with nothing more than a backpack. Had I brought a suitcase, it would almost certainly have returned to Portugal considerably heavier.
One culinary misconception also came to an end in Cornwall. For years I genuinely believed people were talking about Cornish pastries. Somewhere along the line I discovered they were actually Cornish pasties (pronounced PASS-tees). Even then, I had not fully appreciated what they were until I finally saw one. They are, quite simply, giant empanadas.
The Filipino in me immediately approved, while my Iberian resident self nodded in complete understanding. Different pastry, different traditions, yet the same wonderfully practical idea of wrapping a hearty meal inside pastry to be eaten by hand.
That practicality explains why the Cornish pasty became famous. Originally prepared for Cornwall’s tin miners, they were traditionally filled with beef, potato, swede and onion. Their distinctive crimped edge allowed miners to hold the pasty with dirty hands before discarding the edge, avoiding contaminants such as arsenic that were common in the mines. As Cornish miners emigrated across the globe during the nineteenth century, they carried both their mining skills and their beloved pasties with them. Today variations can still be found in former mining communities as far afield as Mexico, Australia and the United States, each adapted to local tastes while retaining their unmistakably Cornish origins.
The stroll was followed by one of the most charming cafés ever discovered. The Café Above the Bookshop feels exactly as its name promises. Tucked upstairs above an independent bookshop, it is the sort of place every writer secretly hopes to stumble across. We enjoyed a proper Cornish cream tea with freshly baked scones while surrounded by books and gentle conversation. It would have been dangerously easy to lose an entire afternoon there with nothing more than a notebook and another pot of tea.
Later, while the family continued towards Pendennis Castle, I claimed a table outside a sports bar overlooking the harbour. For a little while, I had the place entirely to myself. Beach Boys drifted effortlessly into Stevie Nicks while seagulls patrolled the waterfront with the confidence of seasoned thieves, constantly calculating which unsuspecting diner might soon surrender their fish and chips.
Along the harbour, the Ferris wheel beckoned, and the photographer in me briefly considered buying a ticket in the hope of capturing a few aerial views of Falmouth. It was tempting. In the end, however, the writer won the debate. Rather than chasing another photograph, I stayed exactly where I was and simply watched the world unfold.
The universe has a curious way of rewarding those moments. An elderly gentleman slowly emerged from the National Maritime Museum, paused beside the harbour with the support of his walker and stood quietly gazing across the docks. There was something profoundly moving about the scene. I instinctively reached for my camera and captured what became one of my favourite photographs of the day.
Sometimes the best images are not found by climbing higher; they arrive because you choose to stay still. Before long the family returned, and we rounded off the day exactly as one should in Cornwall, with cocktails followed by fish and chips at Harbour Lights, one of Falmouth’s long-established family-run institutions. Crisp batter, perfectly cooked fish, generous portions and the unmistakable feeling that some traditions are worth preserving exactly as they are.
Leaving Cornwall tomorrow will be difficult. It has only been a brief interlude, yet I already know this will not be my last visit. There are still hidden coves to discover, villages to wander through, cliff paths to photograph and stories waiting patiently to be told. One day I hope to continue my journey through England before finally making my way to Stonehenge.
Until then, a small piece of my heart will remain here, somewhere between the hydrangeas of Trebah, the artists of Falmouth, a quiet harbour filled with music and seagulls, and a Cornish beach where history, gratitude and an ice cream somehow became inseparable.
Related blogs
FrogDiva Thoughts 