About forty years ago

It was that long ago! I went on my first holiday without my parents with my sister. We came down from London by train and stayed at St. Austell. One day we took a trip to Penzance and for no reason that I recall, other than that it happened to be waiting outside Tregenza's fruit shop, we thought the destination sounded funny and boarded the little blue bus to Mousehole. It rattled along the prom, through the fishing port of Newlyn, with stunning views across the bay to St.Michael's Mount. The bus descended into a narrow lane, turned right and the approach to the village opened into the arc of the harbour.

The impact of the image before me took my breath away. My ethos of suburban-safe stability, with roads of cloned houses and shuffling commuters, was shunted sideways: I had read "Loving Spirit' by Daphne Du Maurier, but that was just a novel: could this fantasy place be real? A conglomeration of cottages crowded each other for the best view, lobster pots and fishing nets piled in the shadows of narrow passageways and fishermen wearing salt-bleached smocks, gathered along the harbour wall waiting for the tide.

We went into the pub, The Ship. It was bustling with people, laughing and chatting and we were greeted by the customers as if they knew us. Believe me, we didn't talk to strangers, our mother would have killed us...well, I didn't, I don't know what my sister did ! But on reflection it probably had more to do with my sister's gorgeous blonde hair or my indecently short mini-skirt rather than the locals interest in "they up-country maids". Viv, my sister, was soon in deep conversation with Cyril, a crinkled, conker-brown local (whose son was lost on the 'Solomon Browne') and we were invited to walk out along the cliff path to his violet fields. Cornish violets were sent to Covent garden on the train at that time. Over my crab sandwich, I struck up a conversation with a woman called Chris, who to this day has remained a dear friend. We left Mousehole with bunches of the sweetest smelling violets, a book Chris had given me and my head spinning.

Once back to work, I couldn't settle. I had no reason to be dissatisfied as my life was good; my mind wandered with such an out -of- character yearning. I read Chris's book of stories and bits and pieces about Cornwall, one of which is the following (For anyone of a sceptical nature, this is an unavoidable piece of copy and I suggest you look away!) "There's magic afoot in Cornwall, as those who have been there know, she'll hold your heart in her fingers and never let you go"...her spell is still working, she never has let go ... I left home and arrived on Chris's doorstep on the day Neil Armstrong landed on the moon... he wasn't the only one to take a ' small step' on that day in July 1969.

To precis the years; I met my husband, John, whose reasons for living in Cornwall were not dissimilar to my own, John is a musician and designer and as we couldn't just mess around, we had to make a living and started our own graphic design studio. John is a terrific designer and it still amazed me that he has the ability to be so creative, while I had to learn my skills of marketing and copywriting. And it's worked; our clients' requirements range from web design, brochures and print to exhibitions and we provide, quite literally, everything in-house, including photography and media campaigns. It's been tough at times but we've always done it our way, working from a studio at home with the sea outside my window.

I was talking to one of my sons about gap years and he said "I don't know why you would want a gap year, you've had a gap life"; it's not been quite that easy, but I do know that you don't have to take the expected route in life's journey to know where you're going.