Hidden in Marazion
When a wild one decides to share our private space it’s rare.
I’ve been graced this privilege twice, bar living with a human Robin who you’ll meet at Christmas. All three have been too precious to share their stories outside my circle of friends until now, urged on by my daily random read from that thirteenth century wild poet, Rumi. ‘Observe the wonders as they occur around you. Don’t claim them. Feel the artistry moving through, and be silent.’
Clock Clock was never mine to claim. Nor is any artistry.
But Clock Clock claimed ‘Lizzie Limner’s’ as his for the Summer of 2009.
Ready to join him?
Curiosity roused by a wooden painted arched door tucked to the side of Suffolk House - the cornerstone between Fore Street and Leys Lane - you'd better cling onto the handrails as you clamber down steep and uneven steps.
It promises all things small and even a place to rest – for free – for the footsore*
A room-sized courtyard about twelve foot lower than the road is dressed to reflect light in white painted stone. A semi-circular raised bed high enough to lean on boasts the only shade-loving white climbing rose Lizzie can find. Its name is Mme Alfred Carriere which adds to the French feel of the dusky blue painted door in the corner and wooden table laden with tiny flower-pots.
The magenta and pink succulents spilling over them betray our Cornish location.
It’s a world away from the bustle of tourists thronging the narrow streets to queue for the boats to St Michael’s Mount. We’re sheltered from sun, wind and although the rain of this unusually wet season reaches us, it doesn’t carry the sting of salt coming off the beach.
Stepping straight into the softly lit gallery which fails to hide its true nature as a living room, we catch a movement to our left. We are not the first visitors today…
In the right hand corner, a woman sits almost motionless under a lamp which doubles as a magnifying glass stroking barely visible dashes of colour onto a portrait no bigger than your little finger.
Without looking up she says,
‘Don’t mind Clock Clock, he’s here most days.’
On cue, Clock Clock hops round the table, onto the window sill and ‘clock clocks’ once or twice… then looks as if he’s waiting for a response.
Exclamations and questions follow.
If her energy allows, the woman responds. Children – who need no invitation or explanation as to his name – produce a chorus of ‘clock clocking’. Unsurprisingly, as they turn themselves into birds, Clock Clock flies off into the safety of the rose.
Try ‘clock clocking’ next time Blackbird graces your path.
*Not only did I open up my living room, but within a few months of opening provided a wicker chair, with a jug of lemon squash and glass in my bedroom for those in need of a little peace without a price. The locals who heard about it concluded I was mad and predicted I’d be robbed. I lost nothing.