For many years now, I have lived a double life. Like Senara, the main protagonist of this new novel, I arrive on the train from London and sink back into my parallel existence in St Ives. Every boat in the harbour, every rock on the beach is familiar to me. With each step along the narrow, cobbled streets of the old fishing quarters of Downalong, laden with backpack and bodyboard, I pick up the thread of experience from the last time, as if I have never been away. I smell the seaweed on the wet rocks, hear the gulls’ cries and I am back; I am home.

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I usually rent one of the fisherman’s cottages or studios in the Downalong area, as close as I can get to beautiful Porthmeor Beach; perfect for morning strolls along the sand or wandering over in a wetsuit to play in the surf. Not all these cottages, as one of my characters remarks, have been ‘gentrified’ to death. If you search it is still possible to find those with original charm, although tellingly, few are occupied by actual fishermen or artists anymore. But for the lucky visitor, granite walls are thick and strong against the outside elements, and provide affective sanctuary to write when the rain lashes and the sea rages outside.

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I had long wanted to write a novel that attempted to describe the spirit of St Ives. That, and the ineffable feeling that I had on my very first visit, and that has stayed with me ever since. After a long day travelling, I had strolled late at night, accompanied by only the sound of the ink-black sea lapping against the harbour walls, and felt an affinity; a strange blend of yearning and familiarity. I was there to walk the coast path, and so had to leave immediately the next morning. But as I looked back longingly at Porthmeor from Carrick Du headland, I knew I would be back.

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​Situated on the north coast of the Penwith Peninsula, St Ives is encompassed by high, mysterious moors and the Atlantic Ocean. But far from feeling rural and remote, it is no backwater, but a vibrant and unique mix of heritage, art and surfing culture. Away from the shops, bars and restaurants, the art galleries and the summer crowds, there is still a strong sense of local community and a working harbour.

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​And in quiet moments you can feel the prevailing undercurrent of the ghosts… Ghosts of artists, fishermen and miners, and of the many sailors lost to shipwreck in the waters where we now play. The Atlantic Ocean battles against granite rock, imbued with memory. The sound of the sea itself, seems to want to tell of some ancient knowledge, long lost to myth and legend. As Malory, my second protagonist says to Jago when they are walking up on The Island: ‘I can feel the past up here…’

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It was some years ago that I found my inspiration for High Tide in St Ives. I was standing on Smeaton’s pier, gazing idly down at the fishing and sailing boats, when a handsome boatman looked up and smiled at me. He was running boat trips to ‘Seal Island’, and beckoned me down. I smiled back but foolishly shook my head to say ‘no’. I had other plans, and besides, I had been to Seal Island before.

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​I know. What an idiot.

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​Of course, as the loaded boat chugged out of the harbour into the bay, I immediately regretted it; wished I had been more spontaneous. But it didn’t matter…because I had my new hero; my Kit Curnow of the novel. Curiously, the whole story began to unfurl in my mind around this one, small, innocuous exchange.

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I had, at the time, other fish to fry, in the shape of existing works-in-progress, and in a rare fit of discipline, I determined that they must be finished first. But I kept notes… I jotted down scenes and conversations as they appeared miraculously to me, until I had the whole novel from start to finish lurking, but unexpressed, in my imagination, and rather badly in note form. I have finally begun to put it all together but it means so much to me that I do justice to the characters that came to me from nowhere, and to the love stories that entwine them.