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“Newlyn does not look like the Cornish towns on either side: Penzance and Mousehole. Those are resort towns where British vacationers practice that peculiarly British pastime of strolling the beaches and walkways, bundled in sweaters and mufflers. But Newlyn is a fishing town - or, increasingly, an out-of-work fishing town.”
― Mark Kurlansky, Cod: A Biography of the Fish that Changed the World

“I know, Granddad, the woods are thick and I'm a city slicker, but Ash was with me, and it was just as well we went looking, because when we finally caught up with Ramsay he'd got himself stuck down a hole in an old jetty."
"A jetty? In the woods?"
"Not right in the woods, it was in a clearing, an estate. The jetty was by a lake in the middle of the most incredible overgrown garden. You'd have loved it. There were willows and massive hedges and I think it might once have been rather spectacular. There was a house, too. Abandoned."
"The Edevane place," Louise said quietly. "Loeanneth."
The name when spoken had that magical, whispering quality of so many Cornish words and Sadie couldn't help but remember the odd feeling the insects had given her, as if the house itself was alive. "Loeanneth," she repeated.
"It means 'Lake House.”
― Kate Morton, The Lake House

“The Cornish hens were filled with a fragrant stuffing that seemed to be laced with mushrooms, celery, and...was it sage? I think so. And the bread. It was rich and eggy, like a challah or a brioche. The skin on each of the birds was crisp and salty, with pops of...garlic, I think. And paprika. The sweet kind, not the spicy one.”
― Dana Bate, Too Many Cooks

“If you ever need help - if there is ever a time when you need me, come here. Meet me at the clootie well. Nothing can touch us here, meurgerys.”
― Katherine Kempf, The Mimameid Solution

“But God knew how he missed the sea. He missed it in the sun, in the wind and the dark. He even missed the hiss of rain sweeping across it. He missed the dancing sunlight, its ever-shifting tint and hue, scudding cloud and shadow â€� dappled, ruffled, heaving, waves ridden by white horses, spume streaked, fierce and shrieking. He missed its limitless, open call, its ungoverned, unchecked freedom, the pull of the horizon, an unknown shore, clarity and unfathomable deep. Most of all he missed the 'mordroz': the sound of the sea, its soothing whisper, its pounding drum, its howling fury. For the sea called to him still; it was in his blood, wanted him back, sucked at his soul, clawing, smothering, dragging him down, a restless lover, a shining temptress that could never be sated.”
― Charles Cordell, The Keys of Hell and Death

“The duchy’s singular structures encouraged participation whilst also feeding and fuelling senses of solidarity and separation: if the tenth-century kingdom was a spring, the earlier Norman earldoms were rivulets â€� tributaries to the duchy â€� which, like a river, coloured and cultivated the landscape of Cornish identity.


R. E. Stansfield-Cudworth, ‘The Duchy of Cornwall and the Wars of the Roses: Patronage, Politics, and Power, 1453â€�1502â€� (2013), p. 129.”
― Robert E. Stansfield-Cudworth