Tuesday, the rain was coming down in sheets, or at the very least net curtains. The sea, the sky and the landscape were grey but the intrepid quintet, plus one, piled into the Tank and sallied forth regardless.

We decided to re-investigate the St Just lead, this time we went over to the tin mines to see what secrets they might hold. Levant was the most westerly of our possible sites. The arsenic tipped chimneys and shafts were perched precariously on the cliff edge.

It was National Trust and with it being Tuesday that meant that after 60 years of idleness the oldest beam engine in Cornwall was steaming again - no it was not! They had taken the beam engine apart for vital restoration, rumour had it a cat was in the cylinder but when it was striped down they found no cat, it had gone.

We peered down the shaft but again no cat. The Geevor mine was next door so back into the Tank and round the village to the Geevor car park. This mine was in use until 1990 and at its peak it provided employment for around 400 people. In Mowzer's time fathers and sons bid for the privilege to work in their own bit of hell. While they slaved away underground their wives and daughters smashed the rocks to gravel with four pound sledge hammers before passing it on to the company for processing. the miners had to buy all their own equipment, including their tallow candles, made from sheep fat, five a day, but surely this had nothing to do with Mousehole's illuminated Christmas.

After a bowl of soup we followed the road and the blue-green sea round to St Ives where we indulged ourselves by touring the Galleries, once more, and consuming chips and ice cream, butterscotch and coffee. By now the rain had moderated to heavy cold splops which seemed to delight in going straight down our necks.

As we sat on a seat overlooking St Ives's harbour, consuming bags of chips, a very large sea gull alighted on the railing in front of us. He looked both ways before riveting his bright yellow beady eye onto our chips. "Old Tom" he said "sat with Mowzer on his knee, she felt him take a deep sigh. 'Mowzer, my handsome,' he said, for he was a courteous and well- spoken man who delighted in giving sea gulls chips at every opportunity.

' Mowzer, my handsome, it will soon be Christmas, and no man can stand by at Christmas and see the children starve. "Someone must go fishing come what may, and I think it must be me." Our seagull had finished his narrative and looked longingly at our chips. We rose from our seat in unison before surreptitiously passing over seven chips.