A wonderful night in Cornwall lives on.
A soft swell delivered gentle waves to the beach, each breaking in a whisper, dragging small stones back in the undertow with a gravelly scraping swish. The echo of an autumn moon rose and fell on the bay, and a myriad of stars twinkled overhead. The air carried the tang of salt and the lingering scent of beer-soaked wooden floors, mingling with the faint aroma of candle wax burning down to stubs.
Sunrise would not be far away, yet the music that was scheduled to stop at eleven o’clock played on. Every seat was filled, many bodies spilling outside onto the beach itself, each clasping a tankard of beer or something more exotic. The place had transformed into something beyond a pub—part church, part concert hall, part living room. More than a hundred songs from the sixties had already been played, some more than once, voices growing stronger with each round of beer. The Beatles, The Rolling Stones, The Kinks, Bob Dylan, Simon & Garfunkel—song after song rolling out into the night, sometimes in harmony, sometimes in gloriously drunken chaos.
Putting the world to rights
By now, the wisdom and deep knowledge only alcohol can generate allowed us to drift into meaningful analysis of lyrics. Songs were no longer just songs but held hidden meaning. I Can’t Get No Satisfaction became a philosophical statement. House of the Rising Sun was dissected with the care of literary scholars. And then came American Pie. That one went on for an age—sung in full, debated at length, argued about with passion, yet with still no final conclusion forthcoming. Who was the jester? What was the significance of the levee? Did McLean really say it was about Buddy Holly, or was that just a cover story? We’d never know, and in truth, it didn’t matter.
Licensing laws held no terror as the local Policeman was flexing his philosophical muscles along with the rest of us, his uniform loosened, his pint half-full. As dawn broke, far too brightly for some, the unmistakable opening chords of Annie’s Song led a good number of the throng into an unsteady waltz, arms draped over shoulders, some couples lost in their own hazy romance, others too far gone to worry. And then, as if summoned by the music, the scent of breakfast filled the air.
A last pint sat alongside plates of sausages, bacon, fried bread, and eggs, fortifying us for the journey home. The sound of waves continued its steady rhythm in the background, as though applauding the night’s performance. Enriched, nourished, and ready to take on the day, we stumbled away from the warmth of our monthly gathering, the music still echoing in our ears, the memories still alive fifty-plus years later.
This is a romanticised, but largely accurate memory from the mid-seventies at a pub which I re-visited last year. Of course, it had changed, now resplendent in shades of corporate grey, food refined, delicious but lacking that touch of rustic wonder I remember so well. I was amazed to find a couple at the bar who remembered those evenings, shared so long ago and we spoke with affection, but not regret, about how things had changed. Steve and Carla will find their way into my stories, of that I am sure.
Keep the Music and Memories Alive!
If this took you back—or made you wish you'd been there—why not stick around for more? Dive into more stories, music-fuelled nostalgia, and reflections on nights that refuse to fade.
Sprinkled between episodes exploring the spooky and macabre labyrinth beneath fifteenth-century Chy Nans, great gigs all over Cornwall and discoveries from the Middle-Ages and the Renaissance, beautiful romance that will take your breath away and a collection of quirky characters, you will also come across nights such as I outline above. Join us on the journey.
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