I’m not quite sure what it is about England’s Cornwall that creates an urge in me to drink pots and pots of tea simply by seeing an image or hearing the name of the peninsula spoken. Is it the British shows, for example Doc Martin, with its scenes of a windblown village and cottages tucked into the hillsides, or Poldark, with its main character riding horseback, cape trailing behind as he races across the windy cliffs, the ocean waters crashing the beach far below him? Or is it the writing of Rosamunde Pilcher, with her homey stories of island life and cozy fires lit on chilly days that spawn images of pots of tea?
Whatever the inspiration, I find myself relating Cornwall to tea—and by “tea” I mean loose black tea—tea leaves, not tea bags. A full-bodied blend, not an herbal, a green, or a flowery-fruity tea, rather an English or Irish Breakfast blend, well steeped in a Brown Betty teapot, one of which I am still searching for to replace the one I dropped years ago to a tile floor where it smashed into smithereens. Continue reading