Ein Auszug aus der Prosa von:
Ein purpurroter Mond.
Von P.B. Phillips

Most Cornish folk live in villages, hugging the coast. Their cottages hidden in zawns and wave torn inlets. My inland route took me through the villages of Gwennap and Lanner. I felt I and the last of the spring wild primroses, had the whole Duchy to ourselves.

​

The high land west from Devoran to Cambourne is rugged, dramatic, challenging, but deeply, anciently beautiful. The castle at Carn Brea perfectly matches the look and feel of the land; Saint Michael’s Tower seemingly growing out of the rock it’s built on. The tracks crossing the plateau meander through battle-worn gorse bushes. It was too early in the year for the heather blossom to paint the heathland lilac; even the gillyflowers lay hidden. I don’t think I saw a tree all day; certainly not one above head height.

​

This far western tip of Cornwall, has been the arrow-head sharpened by a million years of west wind. Zephyrus ever blowing across the Atlantic, with nothing to stop him for thousands of miles. Nothing, until he and his waves crash headlong in to the serpentine rocks of The Lizard.

​

​