Ah, the lap of wave and cry of gull; a stiff breeze to blow out the old year; and a big, fat pasty to bring in the new. Cornwall never fails to quicken the blood and soothe the fevered brow. This year, for the first, exploratory time, the Hammonds decamped en masse just before New Year's Eve, and stayed for a timeless week in the South West while the rest of the festive visitors wearily packed their cars and headed dolefully back up the M5. It was a true tonic, as we had hoped it would be. A tense and stressful year end was put behind us and, amid gale-force winds, lashing rain, sodden cliff walks and soggy dogs, we put our scrambled senses back together in one of my favourite places in all the world. Regular readers of irregular Arbuturian ramblings (for over a decade now, I recently worked out) will no doubt have caught whiff of my longing for the cliffs, hollows, high, damp hedgerows and rolling beauty of both Devon and Cornwall, and I venture south at the drop of a hat, given