My wife works at a dairy in Cornwall. Every morning she takes the train from Plymouth for 45 minutes, across the 1859 Tamar railway bridge and down into the depths of the Cornish countryside. At Lostwithiel train station, the milk van picks her up and takes her the last leg of the journey down unsealed sunken laneways that mark the boundaries of ancient feudal estates.  She is managing the office, but I prefer to imagine she milks the cows.

A few weekends ago was the dairy Christmas party, and as a dutiful husband I had the pleasure of attending a sit-down three-course dinner and discotheque for 80 staff plus partners at the Losthwithiel Golf and Country Club. Having a Christmas party in the last weekend of January seems a little strange to me, but I guess they are a bit behind the times in Cornwall.

There was strong evidence that this was actually the party for Christmas 1972.  That might be a little cruel; after all, office parties all over the world are more or less the same.  If you don’t know what I mean then you could always try eating some slightly stale profiteroles while listening to You Sexy Thing by Hot Chocolate, Carl Douglas’ Kung Fu Fighting and Shania Twain’s Man I Feel I Like A Woman. If not everyone’s ideal night out, it’s not without a certain dependable charm.

Being in Cornwall for the evening, I had to endure the familiar baiting about being a foreigner.  I’m considered a foreigner in Cornwall, not because I am Australian, but because I live in Devon. The Cornish call going to Devon “visiting England” and refer to anything this side of the Tamar as “overseas”.

As far as I can tell the major cultural difference between Devon and Cornwall is the often heated dispute over cream tea etiquette.  The Devonians spread the cream on the scone before the jam, the Cornish contrariwise. Devon can claim the cream tea as its own (it was invented in Tavistock around the 10th century) but the Cornish are resolute. When in Cornwall it is best to adopt the jam-first method or risk being accused of cultural insensitivity. Perhaps unsurprisingly there is less animosity felt on the Devonian side of the debate. By and large Devon is much more secure about its place in the world.

Cornish people argue there is historical justification for this demonstrative provincialism. And to a certain extent they have a point.  The Kingdom of Cornwall was independent at the time of King Canute. It wasn’t until the Norman Conquest that the boundary at the Tamar began to lose importance.  So only the past 1000 years or so then.

Despite this the Cornish independence movement has recently gained some traction. A separate Cornish ethnicity was recognised on the latest UK census. There is even a case pending in the European Court of Human Rights accusing the UK government of discriminating against the ethnic Cornish minority. Among other claims, the case demands “the distribution of state funding so that the culture, heritage, traditions and language of the indigenous Cornish national minority of Britain is funded proportionate to that currently made available for the culture, heritage, traditions and language of the English national majority of Britain …”

BBC Radio now has Cornish language news bulletins, even though UNESCO lists the language as extinct and as of 2008 only 2000 people were able to speak it fluently. This may soon change. The first Cornish language crèche opened a few weeks ago. Maybe things really are changing west of the Tamar.

Meanwhile, back at the 1972 Christmas party a good time was being had by all. Those who had come to get drunk got drunk, those who had come dance danced and those who had come because they had to figured “what the hell” and enjoyed themselves anyway.  Personally I drank plenty of real ale and got invited pheasant hunting, which in itself is enough to call the night a success. Then I won the “heads or tails” competition.  If you have ever been to a fund raising dinner at a local football or netball club you are probably familiar with this game. Everybody stands up and puts their hands on either their head or their bum, someone flips a coin, and those with their hands on the wrong piece of anatomy sit down.  And so on until there is only one person standing.  I took home a £100 prize for my troubles.

The real winner of the evening, however, was the dairy. When it was time to give speeches it was announced that the company and been awarded nearly £six million worth of grant money from the European Union. Cornwall is officially classed as economically depressed and the subsidy is supposed to create jobs.  It’s a pretty big deal.

I feel I should say something disapproving about European farming subsidies at this point (such as how they exacerbate third world poverty, which they do), but I’m keeping my £100 prizemoney so it might seem a little crass. Besides, its Christmas time in Cornwall, and I wouldn’t want to spoil the celebrations.