NOT many beachcombers roam shorelines in search of oil. But this traveller did just that and happily found not a trace. Oil, in fact, was the unusual reason behind my initial trip to the fabled Cornish coast.

On a five-week tour ranging across Europe, that adventure had included Paris, Rome, Switzerland and finally London. The journalists' group had long since returned to the United States, but this explorer decided to stay on a big longer. That was still an era when airline tickets were easily changed.

Just starting out as a young fledging journalist, my imaginative antennae picked up potential of an incident everyone was still talking about. Only months earlier on March 18, 1967, 60,000 tons of oil had smothered seas along England's dramatic Cornish coast.

"That was a real nightmare," shuddered a local fisherman recalling the shipwreck which catapulted these sunny beaches into world headlines.

It was a high spring tide when the oil tanker bled its heart out on Seven Stones reef 15 miles off Land's End and spread its octopus-like oil slick shorewards. For weeks, portions of this waterbound Utopia resembled a grimy disaster area . . . and unfortunately much of the world was still envisioning it that way.

But was it? Or had the dramatic efforts to save its shoreline succeeded?

Naturally, I had to go and find out for myself. As an island enthusiast, the lure of Land's End and the Scilly Isles had always been on my "want to visit" list. So off I went in search of a story, the kind the was certain to like.

As things turned out, that feature, "The Cornish Coast Is Clear", also eventually appeared more places than I ever expected . . . from the and to and according to the British Tourist Authority's count, some 60 major metropolitan American papers. The event evolved into a major news story, the first tragic oil spill of its kind.

Today's seascapes there are strictly travel-folder material . . . white sand, clear blue sea and craggy, weather-etched cliffs. Tiny villages dotting these remote coves and inlets still maintain their old enchantment and remain unchanged by the centuries.

West Countrymen have long eked their living from the sea and these sturdy fishing hamlets harbour many a tale about pirates, smugglers and sea captains. Cornishmen are noted as stone masons and their distinctive granite cottages have a personality all their own.

But, of course, one trip is never enough. So after examining those beaches and writing about the man-made miracle that cleaned them to pristine condition, it was time to take in all the sights, then head home. But so special was the mood of the place that it was always in the back of my mind to return . . . which I've now done.

The landscape is one of surprise and contrast. Thanks to a Gulf Stream climate, its lovely resorts are called "The Cornish Riviera" with daffodils blooming at Christmas and palm trees and unbelievable hydrangeas brightening coastal gardens.

The close-by Scilly Isles are a favourite of Eastertime when fields of flowers bound for Covent Garden combine with mild weather to lure holiday seekers.

There are a number of things that make this area so special, and in some ways reminiscent of Bermuda as it was in an earlier era. Like Bermuda, it has a uniquely distinct personality, one different than any other place and immediately recognisable when seen in photos or on screen.

many travellers, this writer is always intrigued by reaching the tip of land that is furthest south, north, whatever. Whether it be the very tip of South Africa, the outermost of Scotland's Hebrides, the very end of Chile's challenging coast, the rugged edge of Portugal, or Cornwall's Land's End . . . it's always some place special.

Land's End braces its massive cliffs against the wildly defiant grandeur of the Atlantic, restlessly chiselling its way along the North Coast past St. Ives and Newquay. This ancient Celtic land still echoes with legends of King Arthur and his stronghold on the cliffs at Tintagel. Ancient ruins, Norman castles and mediaeval churches add their touch of history.

Eroded hillsides thin out to isolated, heather-scented moors and fields boxed with neat stone walls look out over once thriving tin mines.

Altogether 320 miles of shoreline edge the long finger of land which juts into the sea. About a third of this shoreline was actually affected by oil from the wreck, but indirectly the entire area felt its effects.

Cornwall is traditionally a favourite vacation retreat of the British, as well as Americans looking for something unique. So widespread was the disaster publicity that many travellers completely bypassed the area for years. Even today, mere mention of it brings the response: "Isn't that the place that was once covered in oil from a disaster?"

Rest assured, that description is definitely part of the past. In fact, those who did arrive on the scene just a few months afterwards found a modern success story. Even before the first slick hit land, "Operation Torrey Canyon" leapt into action. Thousands of civil defence workers, civilian volunteers, military and government personnel swarmed onto beaches with tons of concentrated detergent tackling "the greatest menace since the Spanish Armada went by in 1588". Within weeks the beaches were cleaner than ever before.

Remember, this was just over 20 years after World War Two's end, and the indomitable spirit that survived endless bombings and dug out after frightening Blitz attacks took this in stride as just another challenge to be faced.

"No only did they get rid of this shipwreck's oil, they've got rid of years of accumulated debris," enthused one annual vacationer from Scotland.

Beaches during that first visit and again on the most recent one have the crystal-clear quality reminiscent of the Caribbean and sunbathers, surfers and swimmers frolic along scenic shores in the shadow of giant headlands.

Their quick action had saved both major industries . . . tourism and fishing. "Our lobster, crab and Helford oysters go direct to many of Britain and Europe's best restaurants. At first we feared our fishing was ruined."Luckily it wasn't... Then and now, this writer ate her way through pounds of delicious turbot, halibut, plaice, mackerel and hake and can attest to its excellence.

Cornish dialect sometimes presents a challenge, but personality-wise, they share many traits with another Celtic tribe . . . the Irish. In fact, they're such witty, good-natured conversationalists and story tellers you'll suspect they've more than a passing acquaintance with the Blarney Stone!

Travelling here is a delight, but farmers and fishermen often find it a rugged, inhospitable existence. Shipwrecks along its rocky shore have been a terror to seamen for centuries and thousands have perished off this coast.

Many lighthouses ease the hazards of navigation along with a number of Cornish Lifeboat Stations unexcelled for efficiency. Amateurs who attempt to explore its treacherous reefs or scale lofty cliffs still keep the rescue service busy.

You probably saw newscasts last month of a group of adventurous boatmen who attempted to row across the Atlantic and were overcome by turbulent seas near the Scilly Isles. The tail end of the season's first hurricane had churned up the waters making them even more dangerous than usual.

When hurricane winds sweep up from the Caribbean, across Florida and sometimes Bermuda, they're often forgotten once the threat has passed. But they do continue to present a challenge thousands of miles across the Atlantic.

Several years ago we were in the Inner Hebrides and experienced a hurricane's aftermath first hand. We had taken the late-afternoon ferry the short distance from the famed island of Iona, burial place of St. Columba and 48 of Scotland's kings (including Macbeth), four Irish kings and eight Norwegian kings, and crossed to the island of Mull, where we were staying quite near the dock.

Waters were rough crossing and escalated to the point where no ferry moved for days. If you were on Iona with its very limited accommodations, you stayed there. Those who wanted to cross over from Mull couldn't.

A shoreside waterfall visible from our bedroom window had been admired for days, cascading from its heights like a frothy, lacy bridal veil. With the hurricane's last breath, its water, instead of falling straight down, blew out horizontally and eventually back up skywards, a sight we'd never before witnessed. So when those hurricanes leave Florida or Bermuda, they're still creating mischief.

On that first trip, I'd caught the train from London's Paddington Station for a restful trip across lush, green hill country arriving in Penzance in seven hours. But it's also a very interesting drive with a treasury of sightseeing possibilities en route . . . in fact, so great are the temptations of stately homes, museums and assorted historic sites that you'd better allow a few days to get there.

Once there, take to the coastline exploring secluded beaches along Mousehole, Lamorna, St. Sennen and Porthcurno, allowing time for some sea gazing at dramatic Land's End. Few can escape the spell of St. Ives, the cobbled-lane fishing village now a dazzling artists' colony.

Bring a hearty appetite. Native foods here are both exceptional and inexpensive. Pasties, that flavourful meat and potato meal in a dumpling-like crust, is something this traveller could eat several times daily.

In truth, it would be hard to deny that our entire family is addicted to that tasty treat. It was introduced to America by Cornish miners who came to work the iron ore mines in Michigan's Upper Peninsula, lead mines in southern Wisconsin, gold mines in Colorado and so on.

Wives sent them off to the mines with this delicious lunch, often tucked inside their shirt to keep it warm. The best ones include rutabaga and are still on menus in all those places. Every time we visit one of those areas, we fill up a cooler with frozen ones to haul home and friends from Michigan's Upper Peninsula bring a supply down for us each Christmas.

A few years ago we drove friend David Allen, visiting from Bermuda up to Mineral Point, Wisconsin on a day trip. The whole town is a historic site built by early Cornish settlers who came to work the lead mines. To our great amazement and disappointment, we were served pasties made with mashed potatoes, something no self-respecting Cornishman would ever consider. They were terrible, something you'll hopefully never experience in Cornwall . . . we certainly haven't.

Fish and chips are a treat in any language ? they're especially good here when liberally sprinkled with the bottle of malt vinegar we buy along the way. We like them generously doused and some places tend to be a bit meagre in the amount used for takeout.

Between-meal nibblers can't resist rich, luscious Cornish ice cream. But the real , one that must be carefully rationed by those watching cholesterol counts, is clotted cream. Absolute heaven. There's nothing quite like it.

Teatime here means Cornish splits ? a tasty, scone-like biscuit spread with strawberry jam and thick Cornish cream. One's taste buds quiver just thinking about all these great food possibilities.

We haven't even talked about where to stay, and all the fun things we found to do . . . including an exciting shark-fishing adventure. When you hear about it, you'll be more apt to label it a misadventure.

And like Bermuda, there's plenty of sunken treasure that met disaster in wild seas. We were there when some remains of Admiral Sir Cloudesley Shovel, lost in the early 1700s, were discovered.

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