Tearing the city at the seams no.17 - Christmas in Cornwall

And so to Cornwall for Christmas, travelling southwest from London under a country-sized tarpaulin of rain.

This then is the antithesis of life in the big city; a place where at night you can stand and stare up at the stars as though it were the roof of some vast geodesic dome, and where you can walk through the countryside for a solid hour without encountering any other humans at all.

As befits the gorging season, the Christmas to New Year interregnum is like a corridor of interminable hebetude and woeful inactivity. There is the alluring dichotomy at work in which epic films are watched - this year 'Lawrence of Arabia', 'Spartacus', 'Ben-Hur' - in a state of almost terminal lethargy, shifting only to fetch another drink or replenish the supply of salted nuts and other calorific comestibles.

I like the way in which the on-screen heroics of Charlton Heston racing a chariot round a coliseum or Kirk Douglas rallying a slave revolt against Rome provide a Herculean counterweight to my own near-supine state, with only the repetitive levering action of lower arm to open mouth and back down again.

Increasingly, I've viewed this week of wallowing as sound evidence for the notion that humans can, and probably should, never be truly free. Despite all noble intentions, true freedom from work, stress and strife likely resembles nothing more productive than this perennial period of watching old films for hours on end whilst forcing down another alpine-peak of Toblerone.

But no, I thought. With the rains abating and the cold sun on display, it was time to stride out and explore the Cornish environs. From my parents' new house on the hillside of Higher Bartinney (the perfect place for harsh elements to take hold, cabin fever to set in, and familicide to necessarily follow), the nearest observation point of Carn Brea provides a pleasantly disorientating panorama.

The green fields lie spread out like an accumulation of snooker tables, as wigs of long grass are combed over by the sea wind. At this point, on the very toe of the British Isles, the sea is visible from dual sides giving the impression of being newly islanded on Cornwall. Or, at least, of having hitched up the rest of the country like a dress around the leg of this peak perspective.

From there I worked my way around the winding lanes towards the Cot Valley. Through the glutinous prism the hand-crimped hills either side assumed the appearance of enormous Cornish pasties, as the foamy beer poured in and out of the cove mouth.

I trudged on up the side of the pasty and along the bridle path towards headland Cape Cornwall, the top of which is marked, rather bizarrely, by a stone Heinz sauce bottle. This is not my attempt to eck out the food imagery still further; the Heinz company did actually gift this dubious effigy back in 1987, and can perhaps be seen as a precursor to the far-reaching claims on the built environment that brand marketing has since made, from the Phones4U Arena to the countrywide O2 Academies to the Sports Direct Stadium amongst innumerable others.

I couldn't resist imagining other recognisible brands standing proudly in stone upon the cliff-top - a Pringles tube perhaps? Or Coca Cola's curved glass bottle? Or a pair of giant stone arches? The possibilities are limitless, and surely no more bland than the crop of 'logo buildings' currently being inflated throughout London.

As I sat and surveyed the view I could feel my sense of scale being eroded into new forms. Being faced with such a pronounced geomorphology of the coastline, I imagined that the entire landmass of the British Isles had been greatly reduced, and that from my vantage point I was in fact situated in the Scottish Highlands staring out at the western ridgeline all the way down to the outward sweep of Cornwall itself.

On the horizon was Land's End, an outpost settlement that has long since succumbed to the usual bland commercial imperatives where travellers will find a multimedia 'King Arthur Experience' and a man charging £9.50 for photographs of you and your family beside the famous white signpost.

Heading back in land I arrived at the diminutive town of St. Just, an old tin mining community that, like the rest of Cornwall, now seems largely bereft of much real purpose save for maintaining and catering for the burgeoning tourist trade. Picturesque coastal locations such as Sennen and, naturally, St. Ives, appear to be made up almost entirely of holiday cottages with any pre-existing parochialism now an endangered commodity.

Meanwhile, the nearest major town Penzance, gives off the impression of being just another down-at-heel 'clone town' feeling the tight hug of the recession straitjacket. In the public toilets a prominent needle depository unit is in place, something scarcely seen in London; a stark indicator as to the inevitable negative social implications of the economic downturn.

By contrast, one evening we drove over to Mousehole, a quaint village set into the skirting board of the coastline. We scurried and nosed our way through streets lined by the famous community-funded Christmas illuminations, celebrating in 2013 their 50th anniversary. They put Oxford Street's efforts (which this year seemed to be a marketing exercise for an animated kids film) to easy shame.

Wandering through the centre of St. Just I stood by the WWI memorial, with names etched in stone and a simple commemorative wreath. 47 men from this modestly-sized town in all; several of the traditional Cornish surnames replicated twice or even three times, evidence of brothers signed up and marched off to give their lives in the terrible conflict that throughout 2014 looks set to be manipulated into a patriotic jamboree by shameless government ministers.

From this pondering on the horrors of war, it was time to head homewards to partake in the traditional family game of Risk - a bitter struggle for world domination and imperialist triumph waged with the fate of entire nations held in the sway of the dice.

The games played at Christmas do offer another curious paradox from the season of glad tidings and general merriment. Through a series of false accusations and libelous misjudgments we attempt to track down the perpetrator of a foul murder in Cluedo. And we attempt to grab, horde and gradually redevelop property portfolios in increasingly affluent neighbourhoods of London, creating wealth ghettos where through-transit is financially perilous, in Monopoly.

So here's to 2014, when we all pass 'Go' and begin another year-long circuit of the board.