Off Grid

a certain sort of country living

There is a tiny stone and slate cottage I know. Off grid, impossible to find and out of this world, it sits wedged into the far corner of an almost inaccessible field, looking out across rolling acres of Cornish farmland. Each time we turn up I expect it to have vanished, possibly never to have been there at all.

It is safe, in the nurturing, practical hands of old friends, the tenancy passed down through generations of family custodians, their heights scratched on the limewashed bedroom wall, preserved like the building itself. It’s a magical place that had my heart from the first time I stayed over 25 years ago and has continued to work its charm, doing so again over the bank holiday weekend.

The rest and relaxation I had been chasing in a topsy turvy (or as my phone autocorrected ‘tipsy turbulent’) month had alluded me until we bumped the car across three fields, past a flock of sturdy lambs and edged around a stronghold of inquisitive cattle before going full throttle to get up the hill. One glimpse of the cottage and our friends and I could feel my pulse slowing. I didn’t even mind that I spent the journey on the A30 steadying a large pot of cold beef stew between my calves.

The cottage is not a typical holiday choice. It is an eccentric mix of etiquette and roughing it, with a large wooden dresser for the crockery but no running water. Old brass beds in the two bedrooms with chunky horsehair mattresses and faded patchwork quilts, but no bathroom. A huge open fireplace with carved mantelpiece displaying old photographs, candlesticks and playing cards, but no electricity. The deadly oil lamps have now been retired in favour of a solar panel which feeds a battery to power the lights. All these things have been collected over the years to make life more comfortable in the absence of mod cons.

It’s a dying form of escape, a rare bolthole that takes you back to a time when just living took all day. From lighting and tending the indoor and outdoor fires, carrying water up from the spring, chopping logs, shooing sheep out of the porch and emptying the privy bucket, it’s honest toil. With time in the day to hike up through the beech, sweet chestnut and rowan woodland and out onto the gorsey moor, where it’s said the wind can drive you wild and the pagan stone circles grant your wishes.

I find myself sitting a lot too. In the window seat at the dining table with a view across the valley and a keen eye on the weather coming in. Or in a saggy, mouse nest armchair, feet on the hearth and damp socks gently steaming. Or outside by the open fire with a book and a precariously balanced pot of coffee, quietly wood smoking my pyjamas and eyeballs.

We rarely see another soul, although this time a couple of unfortunate ramblers strode down the ancient cart track, only to be met with the sight of me stripping off, ready to chuck a bowl of cold water under my armpits. I am not sure who apologised more profusely as they hurried on, possibly in completely the wrong direction from where they wanted to go but not staying around to work it out.

Time stretches, bends and then evaporates. There is no need for phones, money or decisions beyond what we are eating next. Here food takes on a celebratory significance, around a wobbly table laid with mismatching crockery and trivets, made from sticks bound together with twine and the meditative hours of someone with nowhere else to be.

Much of the cooking is done on the fire pit outside (think rickety rotisserie turning a couple of podgy, garlicky chickens), on the fire in the inglenook (cast iron pots nudged into the grate) or in the bread oven (focaccia, fruit crumble, breakfast eggs, ratatouille). We cram the shelves with snacks and prop the milk, wine and beer in the stream to stay cool.

This year the weather held and the kids were particularly grateful as they were all sleeping in tents. The weekend was full of sun, cloudless sky, circling buzzards and grazing livestock by day before the light faded to reveal an inky star spotted cosmos, bats and spooked dogs. We tried to stay around the outdoor fire until the chill set in, then went inside to sit by the other fire for a feisty, elbow jabbing game of Racing Demon, shuffling cards with marshmallow sticky fingers. Margot, part Golden retriever part scrounger, and her sidekick, Spud the Rescue, hid outside and waited for the embers to cool down before truffling in the ash for the leftover scrapings from everyone’s dinner plates. They are not as daft as they look.

Then we said goodbye to the cottage for another year or two, waving wistfully at our friends as we kangarooed down to the track. One last look back before it disappeared behind the trees. This is a place that demands things of you, but it is also a place that gives you things back.

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I rarely make a beef stew but it has become a tradition for me to take it to the cottage. It seems to suit the environment, is easy to heat up in one pot and rib stickingly comforting to ladle into bowls and eat around a roaring fire. I use the recipe in Simon Stallard’s excellent Hidden Hut cookbook, full of dishes inspired by his beachside Cornish café near Portscatho. It’s one of my most dog-eared books and has secured a significant spot in my list of best cookbooks.

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Still on the subject of food, on the way to our weekend escape, we stopped off at Coombeshead Farm in Lewannick to pick up a loaf. I had heard talk of this place for many a year - I thought about five years but it turns out they have been open for ten - and this was my first visit. It did not disappoint and now I want to go back for dinner, preferably with a stayover so I can eat breakfast and lunch there too.

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Back soon, to bang on about my true love, autumn. In the meantime, I hope we have a few more summery days/weeks and nobody needs a stew recipe for quite some time…