This meeting was organized by Oliver Padel. There is a report in Nomina 32, 157–159.
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| The Greenbank Hotel | View from the window of the lecture room |
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| The lecture room | |
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| The boat at the quay | On the boat |
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| Looking across Falmouth harbour | Oliver Padel giving his commentary |
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| St Just on the east bank of the river | Trelissick house on the west bank of the river |
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| King Harry Ferry leaving west bank - Ships moored in river for storage | Approaching Malpas. At the state of the tide, we could go no further |
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| looking up the east branch of the river towards Tresillian | Oliver Padel tells us about Malpas |
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| House on the the east bank of the river, just above the ferry | St. Mawes Castle |
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| Inside the restaurant | Re-embarking at St. Mawes |
Fine Fishy Ferlies at Falmouth.
by Peter Kitson
Tune: Song of the Western Men.
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When namers came to Falmouth Town, Their exploits to pursue, Their weather eyes were much perplexed: It rained while sun gleamed through. White yard-high letters marked the strand Where their sojourn should be, As if to call as guests to land Corsairs from Barbary. The landscape took historic hues, Much green, some herring-red; Young women tended transhumed ewes In a one-person shed. Two tradesmen to their workshop bench Upon the morrow came. The first watch singed the staff of life With burning beacon-flame; The second cloaked in teasing terms Of angled ovals round Half-buried boroughs' bulwark berets In streets or parkland found. Next Quietus Candidinius Would set our fancies freer To keep the tale that St. Jerome Heard Celtic speech in Trier. Big Brother's Glasgow acolyte Damned cherry-picking styles, Then Alabama's Wadhamite Sought Adamnanic isles. Swift streams of something not quite nice Made runic riddles rank, And England's treasure-givers dinged Dire foes till down they sank. With subtle doctrines pro and con Were largely overset Commandments graven late in stone By the prophet Hunnisett. The Poms in Scots beguiled the eve With paradoxes rare; Goscuthbert, Gillemichael's father, Flourished at Traquhair. Conciliar resourcefulness Had stacks of things to teach Of past and future pinnacles That ev'n goats could not reach. And when the Factoids were full-sung And M had followed A, The barside night might still be young But Dogshanks fled away. If saga heroes earnt their meed Of praise in next day's rhyme, It seems they must have done the deed In saga flexi-time. Preferring what Reformers call Popish imaginings, A killjoy lady would part all Young women from their springs. Then striking while the anvil's hot, Via bush of hero-bands A cunning West Kilkennite comes To rest in hometown lands. |
The energetic onomasts Find space to draw their breath Where Ireland's storied landscape's strewn With beds of sudden death. An ancient pair of standing stones Or monumental heap Will roving recent chieftains' bones In part-asylum keep. So we should honour polymaths (This side-reflection means That that is not what this year some Historian(s) chose at Queen's). Hying forth all then rejoiced to see, With heaviest clothing on, This was the single day of three That the world-candle shone. Uphill and down past open opes They toil and they career To board a collie-guarded boat At a three-feathered pier. To naturalists in half-high seas Beneath a brisk clear heaven The Black Rock was an open book With seals one less than seven. Thence sail was made up Carrick Roads With rarities to port: Autochthonous Trefusis and Great woods of nasal sort. They starboard tacked past Turnaware And bishops' tall domains, Where oaks bow down to water and King Harry clanks his chains. The corsair ships lay two by two In neat mid-river line, Discharged long since the rascal crews To quaff their strengthened wine. Navigation's limit, Malpas ford, Yields a ferly to review: A mad onomast mired to the knees In the lesser stream of two. Coasting down along the western bank, Its topography acquaints Us with churches by the waterside Used by millstone-sailing saints. Last we veer down through the outer zone To take tea upon the shores Of that stymier of good English ears, The singular St. Mawes. The closing service heard a man Of minor orders preach How Georgian mapping dated wrong The loss of Cornish speech. In parting converse, hints were caught Of quests in future time, How next year we should seek the fort Of Merlin estuarine. This year much thanks to Darwin's kin For bardic memory Of posthumous achievements of King Arthur and St. Kea. |