O! Cornwall, with your rugged crags; your crashing surf; your incessant and unrelenting places beginning with 'Treg'. How I miss your bounteous bounty!
The reality is, of course, that lots of Cornwall is post-industrially a little grim. One of British history's object lessons in what happens when a key source of wealth fucks off and disappears over the horizon pulling moonies from the back of the coach, the UK's notion of the place as one for leisurely fortnights by the sea munching on pasties and cream teas must be a source of irk to some.
Let's not mention Jamie Oliver.
Some Cornish people want independence, and go about this by spray painting the Cornish flag on English Heritage signs. To an outsider, this direct action has more than a smattering of the Wolfie Smiths about it, but whilst I don't necessarily agree with the Cornish Stannary Parliament lot, or their more radical offshoot, the Provisional Oo-Ar-A, I'm generally in favour of letting people run their own lives should they so wish.
The Scottish Independence people have been very supportive of this journal in the past, and even Wales has shown that it can have its own assembly and make its own decisions, which is not bad for a small country about the size of Wales. The River Tamar would make an excellent defensive border in case of terrorist attack and the example of New Zealand has shown that - despite all the well-publicised doubters - if properly governed, long thin countries can be economically and politically successful.
So yay! for Cornish Independence. But Gordon Brown would never allow it. He is too dependent on revenues from fudge.
I jest, of course. I have no wish to become the Cornish Anne Robinson, by hosting a Redruth-based quiz show with ginger hair, a severe drink problem and a plasticky face. Nor do I wish to become unpopular in Cornwall.
Anyway, lots of Cornwall is post-industrially a little grim. We sped through that bit and on to the part where you can sit by the sea munching on pasties and cream teas.