Christmas in Cornwall

A wet December day is enchanting when you are taking it in through a giant window, hands wrapped around a mug of hot tea. My husband, Nadeem, and I have stopped for lunch at the Garden Café at the Newt in Somerset – an elegant halfway stop in a five-hour drive to the Roseland peninsula in south Cornwall, where we’re spending a festive week over Christmas. It’s not an obvious choice for this time of year, but seeing the county free of summer’s people-jam appeals. So does slowing down and having the time to try some of its fêted culinary pitstops along the way. Today’s lunch, made with the estate’s winter pickings, is suitably soporific. A celeriac soup with toasted hazelnuts and brussel-sprout risotto is beefed up with toothsome swatches of chestnut and bacon. A warm mince pie with a slab of Westcombe cheddar rounds off a fortifying meal.

Rain falls in dim, vertical lines. The greenery outside abstracts, as though we’re looking at it through a pane of melting ice. There’s nothing like lashing rain for washing away mental debris, and we decompress as we drive south to the Nare, a quaint country-house hotel with a romantic seaside charm. Built in 1929, it first opened as a hotel in 1930, took a turn as a boys’ prep school and was eventually acquired by powerhouse Bettye Grey in 1988. Today it is operated by her grandson, Toby Ashworth, who displays the matriarch’s portrait in the hotel’s reception.

The property is set precariously on a cliff near St Mawes. It’s dark when we finally pull into the car park and we are greeted by the roar of barrelling waves. Inside, the lobby’s wood-panelled walls and warm light make us feel like we are long‐awaited guests. It’s like stepping into a time warp, in the best way. Our spacious suite is joyfully chintzy, and a cream tea is served with pinkie-raising antique teacups. Dinner dazzles, with proper silver service, skilled fish cookery, a seductive dessert trolley and an impressively pyrotechnic tableside flambé – a disappearing plaisir de la table. In the morning, we enjoy one of Britain’s finest sea views from our terrace. If we were any closer to the ocean, we’d be swimming in it.

That evening we visit the nearby Lost Gardens of Heligan – the 400-year-old seat of the Tremayne family, which thrived in the 19th century before being forgotten after the First World War. Today, more than 200 acres of gardens blossom with exotic plant life. As well as an Italian and a Victorian sundial garden, there’s a productive kitchen plot that celebrates long-forgotten varieties and produce that have fallen out of fashion, such as cardoons, salsify and borecole, a type of kale. At this time of year, there’s an enchanting night garden and sculpture that is especially good for entertaining young children.

Cornwall is filled to the brim with self-catering options, which can be daunting, but a sift online through Beach Retreats is rewarding. We decide on the Tower, on Praa Sands, not far from Penzance. It sits atop Acton Castle, overlooking Mount’s Bay. The coastline has a mysterious, primitive quality, and reminds me of Daphne du Maurier’s Gothic suspense Rebecca. The property itself has every comfort for the 21st-century traveller, including a giant flatscreen TV, on which we binge-watch Christmas films, and a well-equipped kitchen that makes cooking a Christmas roast for the two of us a cinch.

By far the best asset is the poetically beautiful view from a private rooftop terrace. Mossy hills and hedgerows frame the raging Atlantic and the National Trust treasure of St Michael’s Mount rises through the mist like a mythical aquatic kingdom. You can walk two miles of craggy coastal path to the secluded idyll of Prussia Cove and spot colonies of seals basking on rocks in the pale winter light. There are a few brave coldwater swimmers; they look exhilarated, but I’m not tempted, not even to dip my toes in the frigid water. Perhaps next year – I’ve already earmarked Praa Sands for a return trip in early summer.

Later we drive 20 minutes down to the tiny fishing village of Mousehole, dubbed Mousevegas for its spectacular Christmas lights, which illuminate the harbour. Fortuitously it is Tom Bawcock’s Eve, an annual procession commemorating a 16th-century fisherman who braved rough seas and saved the villagers from starvation with his catch, when locals carry lanterns through the village’s ancient, narrow streets. The wonderful community spirit continues at 2 Fore Street, a bistro just off the harbour where chef patron Joe Wardell, previously with Raymond Blanc, serves roasted scallops with lobster butter, Newlyn crab with linguine and samphire, and a seafood curry, all eaten to the sound of sea shanties being sung be fellow diners at a nearby table.

Our Cornish tour wouldn’t be complete without a stop in Padstow. The picturesque harbour town has gained notoriety thanks to its seafood, made famous by the celebrity chef Rick Stein. The problem with it is the mob scene in the summer – a financial boon, yes, but also a curse for locals – so it’s lovely to be able to savour its authentic charm. We stayed a night in the seaside-themed rooms, with a view of the harbour, attached to Stein’s Seafood Restaurant. Breakfast here is an unmissable fishy affair: grilled sardines, kippers and kedgeree all perfectly executed, as you would expect from the titan who last year celebrated the restaurant’s 50th anniversary.

Another famous chef making his mark here is Paul Ainsworth. We check in to his Padstow Townhouse, a discreet, make-yourself-at-home kind of boutique hotel in the old town. The well-stocked honesty pantry is crammed with excellent wines and spirits, snacks and homemade cakes. The hospitality here is perhaps the warmest we’ve experienced in England, an extension of the sunny personality the chef is well loved for. Our suite, with its statement bathtub and lounge, is as cosy as a hug. Sugar is Ainsworth’s love language, and a sticky toffee pudding is delivered from No 6, his neighbouring, Michelin-starred restaurant. It is followed swiftly by a flask of boozy hot chocolate and a marshmallow-filled teacake that raises smiles. Breakfast, too, is brought to the room, in a hamper packed to the brim with Cornish produce. Freshly baked brownies mark a sweet farewell at checkout.

That evening we take the short ferry ride to the Mariners, Ainsworth’s gastropub. The welsh rarebit is something to dream about, and is followed by a shepherd’s pie made with tender lamb shoulder and seaweed ragù. A steamed lemon sponge pudding with lashings of custard has us quarrelling over the last spoonful, but there are no quibbles over Christmas in Cornwall: it may be cold, but the jaunt has left me warm inside.

Photographs by Lee Rogers and Jon Tonks, Getty, Alamy