Left and right Cornwall is a land dotted with harbours and fishing towns, of changing skies and sudden downpours. The <strong>Bentley</strong>’s sumptuous cockpit and all-wheel drive transmission makes light of fickle weather. Chasing the sunset <strong>continued</strong> In more than 30 years of travelling to the West Country my undisputed world record stands at three hours 18 minutes. I might have broken the speed limit, but I was young, there were no speed cameras and it was a VW Golf with a very big engine. My friend who joined the Fleet Air Arm recounts that on full reheat, his McDonnell Douglas F-4 Phantom could get to Cornwall from Norfolk in just over 10 minutes. It’s not just me in a hurry to get to Cornwall, even fictional characters get their toes down. Maxim de Winter drove hard through the night when he learned his wife had lied to him in Daphne du Maurier’s Rebecca. He was too late to save the blazing Manderley, though. Or what about those whizz-bang TV chefs, Jamie Oliver or Rick Stein, anxious to see how their stables of West Country restaurants are faring? My wife’s grandparents and friends used to race through the night to Cornwall from London. Nicknamed the ‘Jet Set’ they arriving on the north coast in the wee small hours to play endless rubbers of bridge fuelled with neat gin. They used to say that when the tangerine Cornish sun dipped behind the last wave at dusk you could see a momentary green flash, although I suspected this was a version of sunset seen through a green bottle of Gordon’s gin. Not true. I recently discovered the phenomenon was real, caused by the earth’s atmosphere bending the sun’s rays, with the blue/green wavelengths the last to sink beneath the horizon. Good grief! So the green flash does exist. Time to travel west to see this mythical phenomenon. Despite almost biblical rain, the <strong>Bentley</strong> Continental GT starts (naturally) in imperious fashion. There’s only one route to Cornwall, the A303 across the pillowy downs of Salisbury Plain, with Cranborne Chase’s multicoloured fields spread like a summer picnic to the south. My dad’s split-cane rods are in the boot. Last time out they hooked a little sea bass in the Camel estuary. I’m not sure who was more surprised, but I let him fight another day and I’m looking for a return match. The cathedral city of Exeter funnels traffic into the mutton-leg shaped peninsula, which stretches so far into the Atlantic Approaches that it gets its weather days before the rest of England. The high road skirts Dartmoor to the north, the low road heads south to Plymouth. We take the high road for Okehampton and the new Continental barely stirs a gear as its 6-litre, twinturbocharged 12-cylinder wafts past Exminster and onto the A30. The new W12 engine produces more power than its predecessor and packs a wallop matched by few. It murmurs along at low revs in top, sounding like the wind in the pipes. Prod it, however, and the kickdown is speedy and the response massive. Far hills become imminent inclines and overtaking is contemptuously easy. Fiercely independent, with a long history of exploitation (of land and people), Cornwall is defined by its isolation and a close relationship with the sea. The local radio station has two weather forecasts an hour, plus shipping and inshore waters forecasts, and separate reports from a harbour master and a coast guard; it’s a blast. 18
CONTINENTAL GT FISHING, TOO, USED TO BE A BIG EMPLOYER AND AS A FORMER LONG-LINE FISHERMAN, I’VE NOTHING BUT RESPECT FOR THE MEN WHO WORK THE NETS AND LINES FAR FROM SHORE IN ONE OF THE MOST DANGEROUS INDUSTRIES THERE IS. 19