>> What's the yarn?
Well folks, a long, hard winter approaches. The days are getting shorter, the nights longer and that Atlantic wind stronger. It’s little wonder, then, that filmmakers are treating us to a season of fantastical flicks, promising to whisk us away to enchanting lands and to enrapture us with magical delights.
Sweet escapism awaits. You can lose yourself in Narnia, forage into sinister woods with the Brothers Grimm or sink into the underworld in Tim Burton’s Corpse Bride. But, most eagerly awaited by the millions of Potter fans across the globe, is the return to the captivating realm of Hogwarts. Harry Potter and the Goblet of Fire, inspired by the publishing phenomenon that is that homely young maid from Bristol, J.K. Rowling, is back to dazzle, transfix and ignite imaginations.
Join Harry, Ron and Hermione as our hero battles the terrors of dragons, death-defying challenges, his arch nemesis, Lord Voldemort, and, by the looks of things, puberty (my, how they’ve all grown). It’s going to be an exhilarating ride into darkness and teenage trauma.
But hold on. The captivating land of Cornwall, with its mystical atmosphere and legends of giants, witches and mermaids, surely deserves a Harry of its own.
Harry Penberthy and the Goblet of Scrumpy is the spellbinding tale of our hero, whose only resemblance to Harry Potter are the round glasses he scored off the NHS and the scar across his forehead he got from a night of druid-bating on Carn Galver one summer solstice, back in the days when he didn’t know better. Short and stocky, he has a mane of fiery red hair and whiskers that began to sprout from his chin at the tender age of eleven.
And what of Harry Penberthy’s magical skills? Brought up on the enchanting tales of King Arthur, as far back as he could remember, he longed to be like that great wizard, Paul Daniels. He might not have got into the academy of Hogwarts but he did, however, get into Helston’s. There, he concocted some head-spinning potions in the chemistry lab and sometimes skived off afternoons so he could sit on ley-lines and chant. To Harry’s dismay, nothing remotely magical ever happened. By the age of twenty-two, he began to doubt he would ever be the great wizard he dreamed he would be.
Then, one day, he was wandering up to Carn Brea when he noticed something glint in the Camborne sunshine. Digging away at the earth, he was astonished to find a goblet appear beneath. It was a beautiful shimmering gold, decorated in intricate detail. At first he thought it was the Holy Grail and got quite excited, eager to inform Monty Python to halt their quest: it was no good hunting in the Vale of Avalon, for the chalice of Christ had been buried in Camborne all these years.
But then, peering closer at the rim, some words appeared: ‘Harry Penberthy’. He rubbed his eyes. Surely he had imagined it. But the words were still there. Turning the goblet, the word ‘scrumpy’ appeared on the other side. Open-mouthed, he watched the words disappear. It was a sign.
“Eh? Scrumpy?” With his words, the sky went black and a thunderbolt lit the land. Suddenly, a golden waterfall began to tumble from the goblet. Harry inhaled its heady scent: scrumpy. He put the goblet to his lips: it was the finest scrumpy he had ever tasted. When he could drink no more, the scrumpy continued to flow; a gurgling stream swelled to a river of the golden, heaven-sent liquid. The people of Camborne emerged from their homes to see Harry holding up the goblet triumphantly and, cheering, they dived into the river and gulped the sweet scrumpy. Harry rejoiced. He would not only be known as a great wizard but a local legend. His head swimming with scrumpy and joy, he sat down to watch the merry scene before him.
Then Harry opened his eyes. Where was he? Scrumpy trickled from his mouth and his head spun. His spirits plummeted as reality hit him: he was on the floor of The Railway Tavern. It had all been a dream. “Back to the Paul Daniels’ magic set then,” he mumbled. Heaving himself up and stumbling into another day of Camborne sunshine, he felt something in his pocket. A goblet: a beautiful shimmering gold, inscribed with some strange words….
Movie Magic and Big Screen magazines do not recommend readers plunge into rivers of scrumpy.
Beccy Matthews