I assumed that the headline in the Mail about ‘pasty wars’ would involve some grievous insult to Cornish pride, including something other than beef, onions, potato and turnip; perhaps pointing out that the turnip was actually a swede. Instead, it was about how a deli in Mousehole, where I live, was charging a tenner for a pasty – albeit served on a plate (presentation is half the battle) with a side salad.
The Mail journalist wrote that it was ‘shocking’ that a pasty in a restaurant overlooking what Dylan Thomas called ‘quite the loveliest village in England’ [sic] would cost more than a pasty from an industrial estate off the A30. It’s not rocket salad, as the saying goes.
And while he didn’t mention that their drinks cost more than in the supermarket, and, equally shocking, the whole menu has a mark-up on the raw ingredients, the whole article fed into the myth of greedy Cornish locals taking advantage of the tourist trade. It would be easy to attack the writer as being ignorant of VAT – everyone in Cornwall knows that hot pasties are only VAT-free if they are fresh out of the oven, because we campaigned against George Osborne’s attempt to equalise the tax – or of the overheads in running a service business. But what is more interesting is what it says about the attitude to businesses in a tourist destination.
Defenders of second homes often point out that the UK has one of the lowest proportions of holiday boltholes in Europe. This is true, but in most of Europe they are separate and separated – like the remote sommerhuse where the perp is run to ground in every Scandi-noir. In Britain, however, tourists are only interested in pretty villages like Mousehole: hence the number of second homes and holiday lets.
But each man kills the thing he loves: Mousehole no longer has the resident population to support a retail bakery – like Auntie May’s and Warren’s in Newlyn (a slightly less pretty village) – any more than it can support a butcher, a supermarket or a post office. (It has an estate agent, though.)
I’ve seen adverts for second homes selling the Cornish lifestyle – but the second homes themselves are destroying Cornish life. It is absurd to attack the locals for adapting to this change that has been forced upon them, opening restaurants that provide local employment and apprenticeships, and to expect to be able to free-ride on the permanent community. This free-riding justifies the premium on Council Tax, which Cornwall Council introduced this month – the moment it was able to – and it certainly justifies a ten-pound pasty.
Across the country, you are never more than a few miles from a steak bake – until you reach the Tamar
It is true that there are cheaper pasties elsewhere – and everyone here knows where to go and has their own favourites (although it is compulsory to say that, of course, your mum’s were the best). The cook at Mousehole School insisted on giving me a crimping masterclass as she didn’t trust me to do it correctly on my own: watching her crimp two at a time, one with each hand, while carrying on a conversation about rugby, and I didn’t trust myself either.
If you were ever in any doubt about the importance of pasties to Cornwall, take a look at the map of Greggs outlets in the UK. Across the country, you are never more than a few miles from a steak bake – until you reach the Tamar, where, like the Roman Empire before it, Greggs plc reaches the limits of its power. And rightly so. The non-crime hate incident that they call a ‘pasty’ has carrots in it.
And Greggs aren’t even the worst offenders. I was once in a meeting in Camborne where a man from the Black Country – trying to ingratiate himself with the audience by saying how much he loved pasties – said that he would often grab a Ginsters on long car journeys. I have never seen a room turn on a speaker so quickly – and I’ve been at Tory conference when someone hinted at ending the triple lock. I’m not going to mention my favourite Cornish pasty maker. Some things should not be shared with outsiders.
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