‘Went fishing with Sam. Day wasted.’

When I came across this story it was attributed to James Boswell in his Life of Samuel Johnson, purporting to be something the great man himself had confided.

The story goes that Samuel Johnson’s father took him out for a day’s fishing, and this was the first and only time it happened. Samuel was so very happy that day, he wrote in his diary that he had had the Best Day Ever. Many years later he came across his late father’s diary and couldn’t resist looking up the entry for that day. His father had written:

‘Went fishing with Sam. Day wasted.’

This little story had an immediate effect on me. I found myself back there, in that dusty loft or study or whatever, inhabiting the body of the young Samuel Johnson, feeling his sadness.

I suppose you automatically relate these things to your own experiences. I was linking the Samuel Johnson story to a tiny conversation I had with my mother, maybe ten years ago. We didn’t really realise then that she had dementia: one of the first things to go in her case was empathy – oh yes, and tact – but then the two are intertwined. It seemed safe enough, at this great distance in time, to say that I always assumed my youngest sister had been her favourite. I expect I was hoping she would say ‘Oh no, my dear, we loved all three of you the same.’

‘Yes, she was’, she said, ‘and your middle sister was your Dad’s favourite, always’. Why did she have to add that always? Salt in the wound.

This sort of thing is not supposed to matter as you get older, but of course it does. It just seemed to me that the equation didn’t balance, it was one short. There needed to have been three parents – one to favour each of my sisters and one to love only me. It occurs to me now that this could be one of the ground rules for Brave New World – precisely as many parents in a family as there are children.

Fishing around the internet a bit more (oh dear, a pun) I discovered the same fishing story was said to have happened to virtually every father-and-son combination including some 19th Century political chap called Charles Frances Adams and his son Brook Adams. I also found short stories purported to have been entirely imagined by not-very-good amateur writers. I think it may be one of those urban myths that everybody ‘remembers’ or swears to be true, or ‘knows someone who knows someone who knew the person it happened to’.

I was trying to think of some others. There used to be one about a poodle accidentally cooked in a microwave oven, and one about a man with a bloodstained axe lying low in the back of the car whose mad visage suddenly rears up and appears in the rear view mirror. The classic is the one about the hitchhiker, picked up on some dusty highway and then mysteriously vanishing, often while the car is still moving.

I also found some modern day computer-based ones. There are a whole lot of translations computers are supposed to have made of sayings and book titles. For example:

Angry Raisins (Grapes of Wrath)
Blind & Insane (Out of Sight, Out of Mind)
The Vodka was Good, but the Meat was Rotten (The Spirit is Willing, but the Flesh is Weak)

I suppose the thing is a good story is a good story, and why let it go to waste? Embellish it, change the names, pass it on and take the whole credit for it, why not? I expect that’s how the human race has been functioning since ever it first began to talk.

The Absolute End: tribesmen

BUT something about this place continued to haunt me. Something had been there, but it had eluded me. I thought hard about it as my husband negotiated the car-choked streets of Marazion (we were planning to visit St Michael’s Mount that afternoon) and came to the conclusion that what Land’s End harbours is not so much the Meaning of Life as the ghost of its own long history.

The Land’s End peninsula was formed 270 million years ago when molten granite forced its way up through the Earth’s softer surface. The very notion of it as The End is artificial, a convenient man’s-eye-view. It is merely the second nobble on Cornwall’s rocky backbone, which extends all the way down from Bodmin Moor to the Isles of Scilly. The earliest inhabitants of Cornwall are often referred to as Celts but in fact the Celts arrived only a few hundred years before the Romans. Before this, tribe after ancient tribe must have inhabited the area. They left no monuments, no clues as to their way of life, but were probably wanderers, hunters, gatherers and fishermen. Cornish legends tell of Giants, and it is possible that these really existed – a race of very tall men who lived in the Old Stone Age and hunted the mammoth.

What is known is that later, in the New Stone Age when Britain had been made into an island by the retreating glaciers, settlers arrived from Europe in primitive boats with leather sails, somehow managing to negotiate the treacherous Land’s End peninsula. The flints and tools they used have been found on the cliffs, but they seem to have been a peaceful people, since no weapons have been found. Their religion was the mysterious megalithic cult of the dead and they left, among the many other delights to the archaeologically-minded that pepper the area, ‘quoits – the roofs of megalithic graves – and ‘carns’ – stone burial chambers. These people would have been farmers, makers of tools, pottery and cloth.

Following the gentle Stone Agers, from Europe came wave after wave of Celts; fair- or red-headed, tall, superior in their knowledge of metals, their crafts, their arts and their social organisation – an aristocracy which, by the year 600 BC, had become the dominant race. These men of the early Bronze Age made stone circles, of which there are more than twenty in Cornwall, for use in their gatherings and rituals. Nearly all of them are to be found on either the Land’s End peninsula or Bodmin Moor. One of the peninsula rings at St Buryan – Boscawen Un, or Nine Maidens, may even be a Gorsedd, one of the three main sites of druid worship, along with Stonehenge and Bryn Gwiddon. Perhaps I wasn’t so far wrong about the ancient magic.

The natives of the peninsula were fiercely protective of their Celtic heritage, which included the Cornish language, last spoken in Cornwall in the mid sixteenth century. In 1497 there was a Yorkist plot to install upon the throne of England one Perkin Warbeck, who was actually an imposter masquerading as the younger of the Princes in the Tower. When he landed at Land’s End six thousand Cornishmen decided to march with him to London, but it all went wrong. He deserted his forces at Exeter, and was executed.

There were other rebellions, equally unsuccessful, and ‘the foreigners’, which meant everyone east of the Tamar River, continued to demand higher and higher taxes from what they saw as the ‘barbarians’ in the far west. The people were poor, disaffected and desperate. They took to smuggling and piracy, and to scavenging anything they could lay their hands on from ships wrecked along their coast. Sometimes they would even ‘encourage’ wrecks to take place by lighting lamps on the clifftops, which lured luckless mariners onto the rocks.

Throughout the history of the area runs this thread of expediency, of doing whatever has to be done for survival. Cornwall has never been able to offer its inhabitants a great deal in the way of natural advantages – only tin, which failed to make them rich, and copper, which was destroyed by foreign competition. But it is beautiful and, in spite of increasing commercialisation, continues to attract large numbers of tourists. And it does possess Land’s End – the most south-westerly point in England.

The Cornish know that the average holidaymaker would be disappointed if, having made the longish drive from ‘civilisation’ to this remote and not especially scenic section of clifftop; he was to find – nothing. People have become more and more accustomed to the idea of a tourist attraction as a noisy, crowded place where one can buy souvenirs, eat unhealthy food and take snaps. The Cornish have simply supplied the demand. I for one would rather have seen it as it must once have been, bleak and remote, a home for seabirds and the occasional cottager, blasted by sea winds all winter and parched a delicate brown in summer. But Land’s End itself, I suspect, couldn’t care less.

Perhaps it is one of those odd little bits of Britain where ghosts seem to accumulate. What I think I sensed there was an invisible multitude of mammoth-hunters, berry-gatherers, stone circle-makers, druid priest, fishermen, pirates, smugglers, tin miners and their womenfolk, watching all the razzmatazz in quiet amusement. Just as the land fails to end at Land’s End, merely submerging itself until it’s time to pop up again in the Scillies, so the spirit of Land’s End lives on beneath a crawling carpet of visitors. Eventually, inevitably, these ghosts will be joined by those of the car-park attendants, the ice-cream eaters and the ice-cream vendors, the German band and the makers of leather key-rings. And in the silence, Land’s End will still be there.