When Cornwall Slows Down

There’s a point every year when Cornwall seems to take a breath. The beaches become a little quieter, the roads calm down and the evenings start drawing in. Then there’s that first moment when you come home from a dog walk and think about putting the fire on.

Summer has packed its bags. And, if I’m honest, I quite like it.

I love summer in Cornwall, of course. The long evenings, salty dogs, sandy feet, people filling our little towns and villages and that wonderful energy that seems to arrive with the sunshine. But there’s something about this time of year that feels very special too.

Everything slows down a little, and I think I do as well.

Back to quieter days

 

For lots of makers in Cornwall, summer can be wonderfully busy. There are markets, fairs, events and orders to juggle alongside families, work and everything else life decides to throw into the mix.

I say this as though I spend my summer travelling heroically between Cornish markets with a van full of baskets. I don’t. 😂 But I know plenty of wonderful local makers who do, and I know just how much work goes into those busy summer months.

Then autumn arrives and we retreat a little. Back to our workshops and coastal homes. Back to quieter beaches and muddy dog walks. Back to cups of tea that are actually still warm when we remember where we left them.

There’s a different rhythm to Cornwall in autumn, and I love it. The light changes, the coast feels a little wilder again and you start getting those days where you can have sunshine, sideways rain and a beautiful sunset before tea.

For me, the next few weeks will mean making Christmas stock. Rope baskets, mats and pieces slowly taking shape while outside the weather does whatever Cornish weather has decided to do that particular hour.

But I don’t want to rush it. That’s the lovely thing about this quieter season. There’s time to enjoy the process again.

Making without the rush

Lovan has always been about making things slowly. I work with both new marine rope and repurposed fishing rope, choosing different ropes for their colour, texture and character and for the piece I’m making.

There’s something very satisfying about taking such a practical material, something so connected to life by the sea, and turning it into something completely different for the home.

The repurposed rope brings something else with it too. It has already had quite an interesting life before it reaches me. It has been out at sea, worked hard, been pulled, dragged, soaked and weathered. It arrives with marks, faded colours and little signs of wherever it has been before.

I don’t want to make all of that disappear. That’s part of what I love about it. Whether I’m working with beautiful new marine rope or something that has already spent years at sea, both have that connection to the coast running through them.

Perhaps that’s why I’ve always loved things that have already had a life. There’s a beauty in something that isn’t absolutely perfect. Actually, I think it’s often the imperfect bits that make something interesting.

And recently, a few lovely conversations have reminded me of that.

Things that have weathered a few storms

I’ve been chatting with artists who have bought some of my textured fishing floats and buoys to use in their own art projects. What fascinated me was what they saw in them: the scratches, the dents, the faded surfaces and the marks left behind by years of tides, weather and working life around the coast.

One conversation in particular was about storms in life and the idea of carrying your scars visibly rather than trying to hide them. That stayed with me.

Because when you look at an old tide-washed float or buoy, nobody expects it to look new. Quite the opposite. Its marks are the interesting part. They tell you it has been somewhere, it has been battered around a bit, it has survived storms and it’s still here.

There’s something rather lovely about that.

Maybe we could all learn something from an old fishing buoy. Not a sentence I imagined myself writing when I started Lovan, but there we are. 😂

The coast always finds its way in

 

Living and making in Cornwall means the coast inevitably finds its way into what I do. Sometimes quite literally, through the new marine rope and repurposed fishing rope I work with. Other times it’s simply being outside.

Walking the dogs, watching the seasons change, finding odd little treasures washed up after rough weather or seeing colours and textures that make me stop for a second.

I think creativity needs those quieter moments. You can’t always force inspiration while rushing from one thing to another. Sometimes you need a windy walk by the sea, a wet dog and absolutely no plan whatsoever. That’s often when the ideas appear.

So while Lovan slowly moves towards Christmas, I’m trying to enjoy this bit too. Not wishing autumn away because Christmas is coming, but making, walking, noticing things and probably drinking an unreasonable amount of tea.

There will be plenty of Christmas noise soon enough. For now, I’m quite happy pottering away, building up stock piece by piece and enjoying making things simply because I love making them.

When somebody comes back

There’s one other thing I’ve been thinking about lately: returning customers.

I have a few lovely people now who have ordered from Lovan three or four times, and I’m not sure they realise quite how much that means to a small handmade business in Cornwall.

The first time somebody chooses something you’ve made is wonderful. But when they come back, that feels different. They’ve lived with something I made with my own hands, in their own home, and decided they’d quite like another piece.

There’s no bigger compliment really.

And because Lovan is small, I remember. I recognise names popping up again. I remember some of the pieces people have chosen before and where they were heading. Those little connections are one of my favourite parts of doing this.

Behind every handmade rope basket, mat or piece of coastal homeware is a real person wondering whether anybody will like what they’ve made. So when somebody returns for a second, third or fourth time, I notice. And I’m incredibly grateful.

The slow season

So that’s where I am at the moment. Summer has slipped quietly into autumn, the dogs still need walking whatever the weather decides to do, there’s rope waiting for me and Christmas stock is beginning to take shape.

And Cornwall is settling into its slower season.

Over the coming weeks I’ll be making plenty, but hopefully without rushing through them. Because perhaps this time of year isn’t something we need to hurry through on our way to Christmas.

Perhaps it’s there to remind us to slow down a little. To make things, mend things, walk, notice and recharge.

And to remember that a few scratches and scars aren’t necessarily something to hide.

Sometimes they’re the most beautiful part.

Zoe x 🩶