“Not far now,” Belinda said, and true to her word the mist had vanished, leaving that fine rain again. The road passed through small mining towns, each with streets of faceless gray stone houses. I began to wonder what Belinda thought was so magical about this place, but I kept my thoughts to myself. After all, I was with my best friend on an adventure which was certainly better than sitting alone at Eynsleigh and wondering what Queenie would serve for dinner.

We had left any semblance of towns behind. The road had now turned into a lane with stone walls on either side, so narrow that I don’t know what we’d have done if we met another car. Even Belinda had to slow down at this point. Over high hedges I just had occasional glimpses of fields. And in the fields were tall chunks of granite.

“What are those for?” I asked.

“Those are standing stones, from Celtic times. Cornwall is full of them,” Belinda said. “Older than Stonehenge. I think they used to have human sacrifices.”

“Charming. Now I feel really welcome.”

Belinda laughed. “We are near the coast now,” she said. “I remember this part.”

She slowed. “What does that signpost say?”

I stared out of the window. “Saint Tudy and Saint Mabyn in one direction, Saint Breock and Saint Issey in the other. Those surely aren’t real saints,” I said, laughing.

“They are Cornish saints,” Belinda said. “They were the first Christian monks to come across from Ireland.”

“Tudy and Issey were monks?”

She shrugged. “Don’t ask me. I’m not an expert. I’m only repeating what I was told.”

“So what are we looking for now on the map?”

“Splatt and Rock and Pityme.”

“You’re making it up.”

She laughed. “No, I’m not. They are real places.”

“Splatt? People live in a place called Splatt?”

“Not many. Oh, and if Rock doesn’t show up on the map, look for Trebetherick or Polzeath.”

“Do they not have any normal names here?” I asked.

“Those two are Cornish. Another language, you know. Like Welsh.”

“Do they speak another language here?”

“Not anymore. Only the very old people can remember Cornish. It has pretty much died out, I’m afraid.”

“I’m not. I have enough trouble with French,” I said.

We paused at another signpost. The light was now fast fading and it was hard to read. “Oh, that’s right. Polzeath, straight ahead,” Belinda said. “We’re going in the right direction. Now we are very close. I wonder if we should stop and get some supplies if we pass a village shop that is still open.”

“It’s almost dark. Perhaps we should locate the house first,” I replied. “We can always come back and eat a meal at the nearest pub tonight.”