Cornwall is two places really, and it is more pronounced in St Ives than anywhere. When I arrive in late morning, I find a grey Ferrari parked in the loading bay by the Talay Thai restaurant. It is parked at an offensive angle, indicating carelessness. That is the first Cornwall. Cleaners walk past it with vast sacks of laundry, and that is the second. It is changeover day: they have six hours to transform an Airbnb from one guest’s dreamscape to another’s. Most Cornish stories are brought in from out of duchy: travelling myths. The lighthouse in Virginia Woolf’s novel – the Godrevy – is on the horizon; Woolf was born in Kensington. Daphne du Maurier was born in Camden, but moved to Cornwall and wrote Rebecca, which is a novel about a house.
St Ives used to be a fishing village. Now it is a tourist resort around a waning fishing village. The old town – “Downalong” – is a cobbled hotel filled with Airbnbs and second homes. In winter you will see barely a light on. Locals live up the hill in the Penbeagle estate and look down on what they used to have.
