We’ve been staying in a village called Polruan, on the River Fowey in Cornwall. It is opposite to the town of Fowey. And very pretty it all is. But…

Despite the fact that it’s a beautiful area and everyone is having a good time on holiday, there is a sadness about these towns and villages. From bustling, self-sufficient communities they have become almost entirely dependent on tourism. In other word, us. Nearly all the charming cottages in the twisting streets going down to the estuary and beaches are holiday homes. “Genuine” Cornish pasty, souvenir and ice-cream shops abound. Yes, it’s very pleasant, but rather, I suppose, one-dimensional.

People delight in naming their houses “The Old School” or “The Old Fish Market”, etc., not realising that, to cynics like us, this is not so much amusingly twee but a reminder of a lost age.

For instance:

Still, there were some great walks and scenery, and crab sandwiches. Result! The weather brightened up after Sal’s birthday. Among other minor disasters I lost my smartphone which, against all the odds, was found (and returned), after we returned home, by another tourist.