Rick Stein

‘When low tides drain the estuary gold …’ The ribbed and herring-boned prints in the dunes near Rock drag, as links in a chain, round Brea Hill and Betjeman’s pilgrims follow those ‘Paths, unfamiliar to golfers’ brogues’, to St Enodoc. The church’s wonky, rough-hewn spire, like some upturned ice cream cone, prods the sky between the eleventh and fourteenth tees and, in the churchyard, when I was there in the spring of 1994, a few wilting bluebells filled a jam jar by the side of the laureate’s ornate slate headstone.