St Artisan

ST ARTISAN

It’s a long time since I caught up with well-known local entrepreneurs Tim and Sally Pondweed, so I called in at the shiny new offices of Pondweed Bespoke Holiday Synergy (Cornwall). I asked Sally what new and exciting enterprises they were involved in.

“You know us” said Sally, “We’ve always had a nose for a gap in the market, and this is no exception. We’ve found a class of visitor whose needs simply haven’t been met until now.” “Really?” I said, “Who would that be? Sports fans? People from Essex? The Chinese?”

“No, you silly thing,” gurgled Sally deliciously, “We’re talking about the filthy rich.”

“Do they come to West Cornwall for their holidays? I thought they all went to the Med, when they weren’t in their holiday homes up in Rock.”

“That’s just the point. They didn’t. But they do now.”

Just than Tim came through and chipped in jovially,  “Yeah, West Cornwall. One of the tourist destinations still worth buying a return ticket to, eh?”  Sally wagged a finger at Tim and said “Now now, let’s not even talk about why Cornwall’s now such an attractive choice. We’ll just be grateful that it is. But the result has been the awful overcrowding we’ve seen this summer, misery, jams, cheek-by-jowl on the beach …” “Can’t get a drink anywhere…” added Tim, “So we’ve done the radical thing.  We’ve bought St Artisan.”

You’ll all know St Artisan, that picturesque harbour village just down the hill from St Bleak. There were rumours that only one permanent resident remained there, but no-one revealed that the village was for sale. “What? All of it? “ I said.  “Every bit” said Sally. “What about the last resident, the old lady?” “We bought her a nice holiday villa in Southern Turkey” said Tim. “She was well chuffed. Or she was when we last heard from her.”

“So what’s going to happen to St Artisan?”

“Well first the big fence,” said Tim, “Trumpy’s got the right idea there. We’ve closed all the rights of way, hired Whiplash SAS-style Security Solutions, fitted the minestacks with CCTV, bought some of those anti-drone microbeam thingies. We’ve got the diggers in at the moment, flattening the ground for…” “The heliport!” broke in Sally with a winning smile. “Yes,” said Tim “Our people can hop over to Tresco whenever they like…” “And so help the local community!” finished Sally, “Something we’re really passionate about!”

“Are you sure they’ll come?” I said doubtfully. “Of course they will,” said Tim, “They don’t want to be staying in places anyone can afford. We’ll have the best hotels, cottages, all the best chefs, Ricky, Ben, Jamie,…” “Local culture,” added Sally, “We’ve booked the Patronisi Kernow Oo-Arr theatre company, the Padstow Rocking Horse, a hot little outfit from Penzance called The Golowan Band, as well as the top stars on their way to Eden…” “Locally sourced food…” said Tim, “Rock Lobster, wild saffron buns, Royal Pasties…” “What are they made of?”  “ Swan” whispered Sally, “But don’t tell Her.”

“And best of all” concluded Tim with a wolvish grin,” They need never go outside the village for anything. In fact – they’ll never see Cornwall at all!”

 

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