Stithians circa 7,000, a beautiful idyll, set in the rolling downs of West Cornwall. The splendid 14th Century St. Stythian Parish Church, dedicated to a saintly order and, visited by no less a noble gentleman in John Wesley.

Great community, a sedate non hurried environment; that is as sweet as the fresh gardens that encompass our village.

The Stithians show is the highlight of the year, and is patronised by many people not only locally, but, from around the Country as well

Music has always played a large part in village life. St Stythians Band (formerly St Stythians Silver Band) was founded in 1928 

Stithians Dam was completed in 1964 to create a 270-acre (1.1 km2) reservoir to the west of the village, which supplies water to a large part of the west of Cornwall. It is a place for bird-watching, fishing and water sports. Stithians has a rugby football club (founded in 1890) and a football club running two teams in the Trelawny League.

So what you may ask is missing? A Bus Service would be good; serving the community for those who cannot afford a combustible conveyance or, simply are unable to drive any more and depend solely on the transport system to do the normal things that lots of people now take for granted

Forget being an employed person, the First, FIRST BUS arrives at 9.13 a.m., and the last bus home is 4.50 p.m. from Truro. Monday – Saturday only.

You have an appointment for your dentist? Don’t book anything until after 10 ‘0 clock

The service has deteriorated over the years, due to ‘Economic Diversity’, a posh way of saying that Council subsidies have hit not only our village, but those around the Nation too, and First Buses would use the fiscal term not Economically Viable due to the lack of patronage: ‘Pennies before People’ is their mantra and now, shock, horror, we do not have a Sunday service to rub salt into our festering wounds: maybe we should now erect the barriers-As in the 1949 film “Passport to Pimlico” with Stanley Holloway, and hunker down in the bunkers of obscurity: A forgotten land that the mandarins of our generation chose to ignore

Derek Adrian-Hunt