I was born high up on hill, in the area called West Penwith, in a house named Ding Dong. The house was accessed by traversing a rough old track - which claimed many a car as it's victim - and in site of old engine houses; a stones throw from their still open shafts. And by open I don't mean open for business, these were shafts going down thousands of feet. Dropping a stone down you could here it hitting the sides, getting fainter and fainter until - depending on the size of the stone - you would hear a deep rumble as it hit the water flowing far below. These were the places we played.
I was one of four, an older brother, and two older sisters above me. My Father a musician; my Mother a journalist and writer, had run away from the London madness of the the 1950's to find their idyl in rural Cornwall. My Mother had been evacuated to St Michaels mount in the war, and once married to my Father, this was where they headed back to.
It's strange to think that from a starting that could have been so good, it went so wrong. Maybe not so much wrong, but in a way that I am sure could not have been predicted. That old track in front of the house, broken and pot holed took me to living with another family, London and around the world. From working as a builder, a musician, a motorcycle despatch rider, the smuggler of contraband, to computers, to companies and eventually back to the hill, or at least very close to original hill I was born.
It is a long story, but I have decided to write it out slowly, as I have been asked by my 89 year old neighbour to do just that. Steemit seems like a good as place to start as any.