Four go to Cornwall - Trevathon Farm
Cornwall has always been a place I’ve wanted to go. But living in Manchester, it’s a hell of a drive, especially with two little people moaning in the back. But, last week we packed up the car and set off on an exciting road-trip to what I have to say is one of the most beautiful counties in the UK. My heart is usually loyal to North Wales for the best coastline, but so far Cornwall has stolen that trophy.
We’re staying on Trevathon Farm, near Port Isaac, just north of Padstow. Our home for the next week is Damson Cottage, a small two-bed bungalow with large private garden and views from the kitchen table that slow down your chewing, as your eyes can’t help but gaze over the patchwork rolling countryside.
Trevathon Farm, is run by the Symon’s family who offer early morning daily trips around the farm on the back of the tractor, so holiday makers can watch the farmer feed the pigs, cows, sheep and some crazy chickens. All the usual animals you’d expect to see, plus some extremely child-friendly dogs and a rather cute, if not random, wallaby. The ride takes over an hour and ends at the large farm shop and restaurant where you’re greeted with tea, coffee and toast and if you’re really lucky a hot batch of freshly baked Cornish scones.
Trevathon Farm is a place where the kids can pretty much just roam and romp free from the parents gaze. They can explore the barn, fling themselves off hay bales and play with the guinea pigs and dogs.
There is even complimentary kayaking on the lake just a short walk down the lane from the cottages. We did just this (without anyone falling in) and spent at least an hour and half just tootling round the lake. Plus, there’s pick your own strawberries and the occasional clay pigeon shooting.
It’s a peaceful, safe retreat that makes you want to stay forever.
Playing out in Cornwall
Whilst at Trevathon Farm, my five and eight-year old have found a whole new world ‘playing out’ with their newly made holiday friends who come calling from them. Playing out at home is pretty much a no-go as we live on a main road. Just to see them grab their wellies and legit off to the barn is a wonderful site.
The diving off and rolling round in hay bales in the barn literally metres from the cottage has kept them occupied for hours. When the 8-year-old rocked up at the door missing a hoody he went on to explain in a very long-winded (this is the concise version!) what had happened to it. How his new BBF from Oxford had thrown the hoody down a hole in the hay bales. His little sister had climbed down the deep scary hole to look for it, but couldn’t see anything because it was too dark, so she’d started crying. Helpfully, big bro had found a massive plank of wood in the barn and lowered it down into the hole to help pull her out, not before bonging her on the head with the aforementioned piece of wood and making her cry even more. (Which explained the red mark on his sister’s fod!). After rescuing her, he climbed down to have a better look but couldn’t find it and alas resigned himself to the fact the blue hoody, was lost forever.
Whilst the human dustbin munched his way through his 6th ham and cucumber sandwich, he casually mentioned to his younger sibling that he might have another go with the Farmer's large pitchfork to see if he could reach the hoody, little sister thought this was a great idea. His dad and I didn’t.
Hay bales, pitch forks and missing hoodies, in this age of 24 hour kid surveillance, I had to stop myself from banning any more fun in the hay bales, but I didn’t, isn’t this all part of playing out? (I did have a quiet word about the pitchfork though!).
Besides if they weren’t playing out, they would only have to listen to their dad and I moaning about who left all the damp stinky beach clothes in the boot overnight and who lost the camera charger, again.
N.B. helpful hint, we picked up a great tip from the new holiday chum’s dad, when you get hay in your hair it’s much easier to hoover it out!