Tuesday, March 10, 2009
London
Awaking at 6 am is late for me these days!!! I had always imagined that when I came to live alone in London, I would have daily lazy lie-ins, never dreaming that I'd awake long before the first rays of light reached my window blinds. Still, I'm not complaining. I do not feel sleep deprived and I have been enormously productive. When I do occasionally feel fatigued as I did last night, I respond to my body's signals by switching off the light (sometimes as early as 9. 30 pm) and going off to bed (though midnight is pretty standard for me).
I am sure now that my short nightly sleep spells have to do with the warmth of my bedroom. Under the down comforter, it is deliciously cozy, but it also can get oppressively hot as the night wears on. Arben, my concierge, had told me way back in September that 7 High Holborn does not get any cross ventilation unless one has a corner flat--which mine is not. This explains why air-conditioning is so essential in this building and comes as a standard built-in ammenity.
On the upside, this has meant that I have not had my heating on at all all winter long! I know...it is hard, if not impossible to believe, given the kind of winter London had this year, i.e. worse than usual. The double glazing in this flat is apparently so superbly effective that while it does shut out all the traffic noises along High Holborn that are pretty loud, let me assure you, it also conserves heat and keeps this flat toasty all day and all night. I have not had to spend anything on heating...I mean nadda, zilch. That alone has made this flat extremely economical to live in; but it does mean that come summer, I will be sweating it out rather copiously.
After reading The Goblet of Fire for an hour, I began to grade student essays--first drafts (most of which require a colossal amount of work!). At 7. 30 am, I finally got out of bed to brew a cup of coffee and eat my breakfast (yogurt and muesli with honey). I made a call to my nephew Arav (and spoke as well to my brother Roger) and then to my parents in Bombay. Then, I realized that I was running out of phone credit and needed a top up. Llew called me about 10 am and we had a chat as we updated each other on everything going on in our lives.
Then, after doing my stretching exercises (I need to get back to my exercise routines again that have been severely disrupted by all my travel) , I began work on the lecture I shall be giving in Italy next week. It is a comparison of the manner in which Pakistani novelist Bapsi Sidhwa's work Cracking India evolved from page to screen through the film 1947 Earth made by Canadian-Indian filmmaker Deepa Mehta. The first draft kept me busy until
11. 45 am when I took a shower and left for my lunch appointment with Michelle Misquita Rafferty at 1 Victoria Street, in the office of the Dept for Business Enterprise and Regulatory Reform (BERR) where she practices Constitutional Law.
Michelle and I were undergrad classmates at Bombay's Elphinstone College... so our friendship goes back a long long way. Both she and I majored in English Literature and though she does not know it, she was a source of great inspiration to me. I was so impressed by her dedication to her studies that I emulated it and, without intending to do so, constantly ran in competition with her for the highest marks. I have always believed that were it not for Michelle and Marie-Lou Menezes and 'The Two Sharmilas' (Mukerjee and Chatterjee) who were in my batch with Shoma Sen and so many other truly brilliant classmates that I had the good fortune of knowing, I would never have been spurred on to give of my best efforts in college or produce the kind of results that propelled me towards a career as an academic.
Michelle, surprisingly, did not go the academic way. She did not register for her Masters in English as Marie-Lou and I did. Instead, she became a journalist in East Asia, first spending many years working with a travel magazine in Hongkong before she emigrated to London and read Law. For the past few years, she has been a government solicitor working with British Parliament. I am extremely proud of her and the shape her life has taken and I continue to be inspired by her achievements--not to mention how deeply privileged I feel to be able to call her my friend.
We've met only occasionally since I arrived in London as she is grappling with a whole load of personal matters. Still, when she suggested we meet for lunch to catch up, I decided to carve out the time, despite my pressing schedule this week as I do not know when she will next be free to spend time with me. She had once mentioned that her cafeteria is considered the best among those run by government offices and it was something I had to prove myself.
A Far from Institutional Lunch:
So off I went on the Tube on a rather mild morning to her building which I have passed a million times on foot and in buses, little knowing that she worked in it. Michelle came down to greet me and after I had gone through security routines and been presented with a Visitors Badge, we made our way down to the cafeteria. It was buzzing as it was close to 1.00 pm.
Michelle was right--if the food was as good as it looked, I was in for a treat. Indeed, it appeared far from institutional and when I saw the fillet of tuna resting on a square white china plate (as in the posh restaurants) in a balsamic-olive oil dressing surrounded by healthy vegetables, I knew at once what I would eat. For dessert, I picked a Chocolate Nut Torte and when I went to pay for this lovely meal, it cost me less than five quid! Ah, the joys of the subsidized lunch!
We caught up all right over each mouthful and, as Michelle had informed me, I found myself in the company of some sitting Members of Parliament who were either enjoying their lunches or relaxing with the newspaper. I have to say that my cultural ignorance of the UK does not allow me to recognize these folks, so Michelle introduced them to me in guarded whispers. "That is Pat Mcfadden", she hissed, and then a little later, "and there is Gareth Thomas". I have to say that these names meant nothing to me but it was fun to look at these British politicians anyway!
A Self-Guided Walk around the Theater District:
In about an hour, I bid Michelle goodbye and decided I would take one of the walks in my Frommer's Book as the weather induced me to stay outdoors. I chose one entitled "Ghosts and Greasepaint" that commenced at Piccadilly Tube Station. I reached there after changing two buses and found myself at the Statue of Eros which had attracted a number of French student groups.
Among the more interesting things I saw today on this walk was the interior of the Criterion Restaurant which has a most stunning ceiling made entirely of gold mosaics and polished full-length mirrors which must create, I am sure, a truly superb eating experience. The Victorian restaurant also has a literary connection as it was in Sir Arthur Conan Doyle's work "A Study in Scarlet" that Dr. Watson met, for the first time, an eccentric character by the name of Sherlock Holmes. Of course, I enjoy this kind of literary trivia that these walks provide.
The title of this walk derives from the many theaters through which it passes and the stories of the many ghosts who dwell within their interiors. I learned about ghosts who haunt the Theater Royal Haymarket, for instance, where a production of On The Waterfront is currently on and in which two of the UK's finest Shakespearean actors Ian Mckellan and Patrick Stewart will shortly be playing the roles of Vladimir and Estragon in Samuel Beckett's Waiting for Godot. I feel strongly tempted to book a ticket to see this version, just because these actors are the best in the land. But I have seen this play on more than one occasion and it is not really one of my favorites. I have a problem with all Theater of the Absurd but this one particularly bores me. In the earliest version I saw in Bombay, many years ago, Nasserudin Shah and Benjamin Gilani had played the key roles and yet I did not connect with the lines. I doubt that Mckellan and Stewart will make me do so.
I continued through Trafalgar Square and entered the Church of St. Martin's-in-the-Field and was reminded of my cousin's son Sudarshan Rodriguez as I had seen a concert with him about five years ago in the interior of this church featuring fusion musician Tavleen Singh. I did not remember what a beautiful plaster ceiling this church has.
Then on I went, past the Garrick Theater which also has a resident ghost and where I had once seen Patricia Routlege (Hyacinth Bucket in Keeping Up Appearances) play an American shareholder quite superbly in a comedy called Solid Gold Cadillac! This took me to a lovely street called Cecil Court that was full of antiquarian book stores (I think Llew will love this place and I must take him to it on his next visit) where I saw a real live tarot card reader dressed in Victorian clothing sitting in a window and reading the palm of a client! How very weird!
I also browsed through perhaps the neatest antiques store I have ever seen in my life--a place called Mark Sullivan's which specializes in Victorian literary pieces such as the busts of writers and royal commemorative keepsakes. Everything was so perfectly displayed on neat dust-free uniform shelves that marched around the entire store and when I told the store owner how unique his store was, he was delighted by the compliment and promptly gave me his very unusual business card!
At the Lamb and Flag Pub, one of London's oldest, I heard about John Dryden's brush with a bunch of thugs who almost killed him. At this point, I was told to go right past the gates of St. Paul's Church, Covent Garden, but because it looked so unusual and so inviting, I simply had to enter it.
On doing so, I was surprised that the walk hadn't insisted on a visit because the church, designed by Inigo Jones, no less, is an absolute gem both inside and out. It is entirely brick-clad, very symmetrical (there are two bells embedded in the sides flanking the main entrance) and set in an adorable garden in which spring had plainly arrived, for there were hosts of golden daffodils and crocuses that brought wonderful gaiety to a rather drizzly afternoon. Inside, the walls were covered with memorial plaques to so many actors, playwrights and producers who had made their fortunes at Covent Garden-- some names that were familiar to me were Sir Charles Chaplin, Vivienne Leigh, Sir Terence Rattigan. I still can't understand why the church is not a part of the walk. Had my innate curiosity not got the better of me, I would have missed this delight in the heart of Covent Garden. The entire hidden square within which St. Paul's Church is set has facades of buildings that could easily belong to the 18th century. Indeed, it seems that if you want to see some of the oldest architecture in London, you need look no further than the tucked-away recesses of Covent Garden.
The walk ended on Maiden Lane at the stage door of the Adelphi Theater where another ghost story kept me enthralled. However, my attention was drawn to a very unique restaurant on the opposite side of the street called Rules which turned out to be London's oldest, established in 1798. Again, a host of theater and literary personalities have frequented this place over the centuries including Charles Dickens and Sir John Betjeman who described the interior on the ground floor as "unique and irreplaceable and part of literary and theatrical London...
Its paintings, prints, busts, bronze figurines, red plush seats, stained glass as well as the playbills and theatrical relics some of which often go back to earlier than 1873, make it a restaurant very much as it was when it was first newly furnished in 1873. It is the gradual accumulation of the last and previous centuries". Interestingly, on it's website, I found an endorsement for this restaurant from Candida Lycett-Greene, the daughter of Betjeman and Lady Penelope Chetwode (whom I had the opportunity of meeting many years ago in Simla in North India). It would seem as if Rules was very much a Betjeman family hangout!
Indeed, when I peeked into the restaurant, I was completely charmed by its collection of animal heads, stag's antlers and the like, not to mention photographs, playbills and all such theatrical memorabilia that grant a place the sort of ambiance that makes it distinctive and individualistic--a sort of older version of New York's famous Lindy's (renowned for its cheesecake)! It was beautifully lit with brass chandeliers and tiny lampshades (old world mood lighting!). I glanced at its menu and found it to offer a selection of typically British dishes, with an emphasis on game (there was woodcock and rabbit, for heaven's sake), most of which is sourced from its ownership of the Lartington Estate in the High Pennines. I would love to eat at this place someday...God willing....and perhaps even catch a glimpse of some theatrical legend of the future (maybe when Llew next gets here).
I took the bus home and spent the evening continuing work on my Sidhwa lecture, grading more papers and then organizing myself some dinner--pasta and mixed vegetables that I pulled out of my freezer--pleased that I had combined work and leisure in a rather novel sort of way today.
Tuesday, March 10, 2009
Monday, March 9, 2009
Back to the Salt Mines!
Monday, March 9, 2009
London
Spring seemed decidedly in the air today and in keeping with the bright sunshine that flooded my bedroom, I chose a lighter outfit--a cotton shirt and unlined jacket. So, soon it will be goodbye cashmere, hullo cotton! Can't imagine being so light hearted about the arrival of spring in the beginning of March. Connecticut is still snow-ridden and spring is still a long way off.
I walked to class today on discovering that road works on High Holborn have caused traffic delays. I also started my first class an hour later to allow my students a chance to get their work organized and the first drafts of their essay printed out for me--most of them were on the trip to Cornwall with me, so they needed a little elbow room this morning. Class went off well and most of my lunch break was spent in Yvonne's office sorting out some payment issues.
I also discovered that I had left my sandwich lunch at home on my kitchen counter, so I ate a few flapjack cookies for lunch and the two pieces of baklava that Sarah Walsh brought in as part of her presentation on Greek London. I hoped that would sustain me through my next class at 2 pm at Birkbeck.
I let those students leave a half hour earlier (meaning that I did not give them their half hour break) as I had a 5 pm physiotherapy appointment at UCL. I have not yet managed to make telephonic contact with the Podiatry clinic despite about 80 tries! Either their phone is engaged or I get a recorded message informing me that they are out to lunch! It's become something of a joke trying to fix up an appointment for Orthotics!
Claire Curtin at UCL is of the opinion that I do not need to see her any longer. She thinks that there is no more that physiotherapy can do for me and that I have improved considerably since she first saw me. I have been told to continue the strengthening and stretching exercises, do the alternate soaking if it gives me relief and 'manage' the condition as best I can. She did make a tentative appointment to see me a month from now, but if I think I do not need it, I can call to cancel. When she discovered that I have been unable to make the Orthotics appointment, she told me to keep trying but not to worry too much about it as it is not imperative at all and is not likely to make much of a difference.
I stopped by at the Senate House Library at the University of London to pick up some books in preparation for the lecture I will be giving in Padua later this month--but neither of the books I wanted was available. I will need to try to get them from some other source. Meanwhile, I did some food shopping (yogurt, coffee, bread, Stilton) at Sainsburys and walked home on a lovely crisp evening.
Perhaps it was my late night last night, but I felt quite worn out and decided to vegetate on the couch with a movie. I chose Cassandra's Dream, a Woody Allen film, with Colin Farrel, Ewan McGregor, Tom Wilkinson and Haley Atwell in one of her earlier roles. The very interesting drama about greed and guilt actually made me stay awake right through it!
I had intended to do some grading of my students' first drafts before going to bed, but I think I will leave it for tomorrow as I am well and truly fatigued. Instead, I put a load of laundry into the machine and went to bed.
London
Spring seemed decidedly in the air today and in keeping with the bright sunshine that flooded my bedroom, I chose a lighter outfit--a cotton shirt and unlined jacket. So, soon it will be goodbye cashmere, hullo cotton! Can't imagine being so light hearted about the arrival of spring in the beginning of March. Connecticut is still snow-ridden and spring is still a long way off.
I walked to class today on discovering that road works on High Holborn have caused traffic delays. I also started my first class an hour later to allow my students a chance to get their work organized and the first drafts of their essay printed out for me--most of them were on the trip to Cornwall with me, so they needed a little elbow room this morning. Class went off well and most of my lunch break was spent in Yvonne's office sorting out some payment issues.
I also discovered that I had left my sandwich lunch at home on my kitchen counter, so I ate a few flapjack cookies for lunch and the two pieces of baklava that Sarah Walsh brought in as part of her presentation on Greek London. I hoped that would sustain me through my next class at 2 pm at Birkbeck.
I let those students leave a half hour earlier (meaning that I did not give them their half hour break) as I had a 5 pm physiotherapy appointment at UCL. I have not yet managed to make telephonic contact with the Podiatry clinic despite about 80 tries! Either their phone is engaged or I get a recorded message informing me that they are out to lunch! It's become something of a joke trying to fix up an appointment for Orthotics!
Claire Curtin at UCL is of the opinion that I do not need to see her any longer. She thinks that there is no more that physiotherapy can do for me and that I have improved considerably since she first saw me. I have been told to continue the strengthening and stretching exercises, do the alternate soaking if it gives me relief and 'manage' the condition as best I can. She did make a tentative appointment to see me a month from now, but if I think I do not need it, I can call to cancel. When she discovered that I have been unable to make the Orthotics appointment, she told me to keep trying but not to worry too much about it as it is not imperative at all and is not likely to make much of a difference.
I stopped by at the Senate House Library at the University of London to pick up some books in preparation for the lecture I will be giving in Padua later this month--but neither of the books I wanted was available. I will need to try to get them from some other source. Meanwhile, I did some food shopping (yogurt, coffee, bread, Stilton) at Sainsburys and walked home on a lovely crisp evening.
Perhaps it was my late night last night, but I felt quite worn out and decided to vegetate on the couch with a movie. I chose Cassandra's Dream, a Woody Allen film, with Colin Farrel, Ewan McGregor, Tom Wilkinson and Haley Atwell in one of her earlier roles. The very interesting drama about greed and guilt actually made me stay awake right through it!
I had intended to do some grading of my students' first drafts before going to bed, but I think I will leave it for tomorrow as I am well and truly fatigued. Instead, I put a load of laundry into the machine and went to bed.
Boscastle—A Cornwall Village, Resurrected
Sunday, March 8, 2009
Cornwall
I am certain that my sleep patterns are affected by room temperature. I slept till almost 7. 30 am today—the hotel room being much cooler than my bedroom at home-- finding only enough time to jump in the shower and repack before I met my colleagues in the lobby of the Sunnyside Hotel downstairs. The sun was shining upon Newquay and Sunday morning surfers were already hitting the waves by the time we sat down in Pistachio Restaurant for our full English breakfast.
Muesli and OJ started off our day as the waitress took orders for our fry-ups. Since we were not leaving for Boscastle until 10 am, I had the leisure to linger over coffee as I gazed out over the ocean and listened to the shrill calls of the gulls. A group of weekenders had descended on the hotel and as they piled in for breakfast, the place grew livelier. Hauling my strolley uphill, I made my way to the coach and at 10 sharp, we pulled out of Newquay, Surfer’s Paradise, and drove along sleepy country lanes on the journey to Boscastle.
Then, as happens to often in these parts, the sun disappeared behind menacing clouds and a light drizzle began. Raindrops splattered the windshield as our driver maneuvered his vehicle towards the little Cornish village. No one seemed to be stirring for villagers take their Sunday lie-ins seriously, it would seem.
Arrival at Boscastle:
The village of Boscastle sits in a river valley straddling both banks. We arrived and parked in the parking lot with instructions to get some lunch and return to the coach by 1 pm. Walking out into a playful breeze, I found the village still asleep or stirring very slowly and reluctantly. Most shops were clustered around the car park and none seemed in a hurry to open. At last, not right then.
Recovering from An Ecological Disaster:
It was only as I walked towards the riverbanks that it vividly came to me that I had seen the destruction that had been wrought upon this village in 2004 when a flash flood and a huge landslide had destroyed most of it. Thanks to BBC World News, I remember gasping at the scenes, so expertly shot, of houses tumbling into a gushing river. I had wondered then where in Cornwall this place was located for I had always thought of it as flat pastureland.
Well, it turns out that the flash flood had left a trail of destruction in its wake and Boscastle’s attempts to resurrect itself out of the mess are little short of miraculous. But for the occasional scaffolding that drapes itself across a stuccoed cottage, there isn’t much to remind the visitor of the disaster. This speaks so well for federal funding and the use to which it is put in the UK. Hailing from a country like India, where government assistance almost always ends up in the pockets of some slimy official, I was heartened to see the results of the valiant and determined efforts to rebuild that have overtaken this quiet Cornish outpost. Well done, Boscastle!
And then suddenly it came down again. The playful breeze became a vicious gust that wrapped itself around me as rain pelted down and drove me to the nearest tearoom. There, I found that a few of my students had treated themselves to a meal. Since I had eaten a massive breakfast, I could not face the thought of food and I waited until the rain stopped and sunshine flooded the streets again before I set out to explore.
Sunday Shopping:
Boscastle has a series of charming shops that are all interconnected—you enter one of them and find yourself walking through a whole string! As always, it is the antiques shops that first attract me and when I spied a sign for Pickwick Antiques, I just had to fish around inside. What a perfect little antiques shop I found! As the salesman later explained, the shop carries what he calls “small treasures”—the sort of antiques that tourists can carry easily with them in their pockets. I saw loads of silver cutlery including a bunch of odd pieces—butter knives and soupspoons, saltcellars and peppershakers, cut-crystal cruet sets and bits of jewelry. There was also a good variety of very pretty china—Trios, i.e. cups, saucers and cake plates. Lovely porcelain cake serving platters and many Limoges and Royal Albert sets graced the collection—all shown off strikingly in spotless glass vitrines.
My eye was drawn then to a little teapot that would be perfect for brewing one or two cups of tea. It was not an antique—in fact, it was a Victorian reproduction that featured purple violets against a pure white background. What made it special was its lid—it featured three bone china violets in a three-dimensional design that was as finely crafted as a brooch. It called my name urgently and though I took three or four rounds of the shop, I could not get it off my mind. Furthermore, the price was right—at ten pounds, I could not go wrong, not for so exquisite a piece of china.
“Right”, I said, to the salesman, "I think I will have that darling teapot”.
“Do you collect them?” he asked. (What is it that makes antiques’ dealers sniff out collectors so unmistakably?)
“I collect cups and saucers”, I responded, “but for want of space to display them, I now only buy sets that are very rare, very beautiful and very inexpensively priced”.
He laughed. “That is very wise indeed. But, collecting teapots is a natural progression from there, wouldn’t you say?”
“Maybe…but unless I am sure I will use it…”
All the while, he busied himself lovingly wrapping my little precious find in bubble wrap and tissue paper, and feeling as if I had bought a very appropriate souvenir from Cornwall—once the capital of china clay in the country—I walked out of the shop.
In Search of Boscastle Harbor along a Coastal Path:
The rain remained at bay and seeing the coastal path entwine itself along the riverbank, I decided to follow it uphill and see where it led me. My camera worked overtime in trying to capture the bucolic idyll that lay before me. As I wandered on, I passed by a National Trust gift shop and paused to buy a postcard for my travel scrapbook. That’s when I realized that so many of them featured “Boscastle Harbor”. Yet, I could see no evident signs of it. I then went up to the counter, asked one of the little old ladies whom one always finds in National Trust shops where I could find it and she simply said, “Just keep going, dear. You will not be able to miss it”.
At that point, I ran into some of my students and persuaded them to join me on the costal path. They were game, and braving the wind that had stepped up quite strongly, we began our climb to the promontory that, like Tintagel, jutted out into the sea. Pools of rain had accumulated along the narrow pathway that is maintained by the National Trust and I was pleased to see that my membership pounds did go towards these worthy causes. As we climbed higher, the wind became fiercer and by the time the harbor came into view, the scene was simply spectacular.
Gigantic waves dashed the rocks below and we saw a manmade ‘harbor’, probably newly constructed, way below us. It was clearly evident why smuggling had been such a lucrative pursuit in Cornwall for with high taxes levied on such things as tobacco and wine during the late 18th and 19th centuries, smugglers found ways to evade the tax man by bringing in contraband on small boats. In doing so, they risked their lives for such boats had only a fighting chance at reaching the small sandy strip of beach that we could see way below us.
Not content with taking in this scene, we pressed on along the pathway, determined to glimpse the other side of the rocky escarpment. By this point, the wind was almost lifting us off our feet. With many whoops and screams, we clung on to each other and posed for pictures, hoping to capture a scene that somehow seemed exclusively ours for there was no other human being in sight. In many ways, it was reminiscent of Tintagel in its remoteness and in the fury of Nature as wind and wave combined to create the sort of mystifying aura of which legend is made.
Then, it was time for us to return to the coach and when I boarded it, I could not quite believe what I had just seen. Little did I expect that I would have such an unforgettable adventure in Boscastle. I was delighted that I had asked where the harbor was located for, in doing so, I had the chance to indulge in something I had sorely wanted to do ever since I set foot in Cornwall—walk upon a coastal path towards the sea and allow myself to taste the salt spray on my lips. This walk, undertaken so spontaneously, had satisfied that desire and as I settled down in the coach for the long drive homewards, I felt as if I had enjoyed the county in every possible guise and created memories that would live with me forever.
Harry Potter came into his own as the coach ate up the miles along the highways of Devon and alongside the southeast coast as we brushed past Bristol. I could see the lovely white bridge that spanned the bay and led into Wales as we glided on. The landscape changed every few miles, the undulating waves of Cornwall and Devon giving way to the flat fields of Wiltshire. Then, we were stopping at a wayside restaurant for a quick bite (sandwiches and coffee for me as it was close to 4 pm and my breakfast had been long digested). Most of my students had dozed off by this point but I kept on reading The Goblet of Fire until we were skirting the periphery of London.
We arrived at the Nido hostel at 7. 15 pm though caught in Sunday evening traffic for a bit of the way. It took me only a few minutes to climb aboard the Number 17 bus and, fifteen minutes later, I was home, unpacking. A long call to Llew and a shorter one to Chriselle followed as I also tried to download my email and attend to the more urgent work-related messages that awaited my attention.
I worked steadily for almost five hours and it was long past midnight, when still feeling full of beans, I put out my bedside light and tried to fall asleep. I had finally visited Cornwall and toured this fabled holiday destination and I had returned home with memories that I knew I would cherish forever.
Cornwall
I am certain that my sleep patterns are affected by room temperature. I slept till almost 7. 30 am today—the hotel room being much cooler than my bedroom at home-- finding only enough time to jump in the shower and repack before I met my colleagues in the lobby of the Sunnyside Hotel downstairs. The sun was shining upon Newquay and Sunday morning surfers were already hitting the waves by the time we sat down in Pistachio Restaurant for our full English breakfast.
Muesli and OJ started off our day as the waitress took orders for our fry-ups. Since we were not leaving for Boscastle until 10 am, I had the leisure to linger over coffee as I gazed out over the ocean and listened to the shrill calls of the gulls. A group of weekenders had descended on the hotel and as they piled in for breakfast, the place grew livelier. Hauling my strolley uphill, I made my way to the coach and at 10 sharp, we pulled out of Newquay, Surfer’s Paradise, and drove along sleepy country lanes on the journey to Boscastle.
Then, as happens to often in these parts, the sun disappeared behind menacing clouds and a light drizzle began. Raindrops splattered the windshield as our driver maneuvered his vehicle towards the little Cornish village. No one seemed to be stirring for villagers take their Sunday lie-ins seriously, it would seem.
Arrival at Boscastle:
The village of Boscastle sits in a river valley straddling both banks. We arrived and parked in the parking lot with instructions to get some lunch and return to the coach by 1 pm. Walking out into a playful breeze, I found the village still asleep or stirring very slowly and reluctantly. Most shops were clustered around the car park and none seemed in a hurry to open. At last, not right then.
Recovering from An Ecological Disaster:
It was only as I walked towards the riverbanks that it vividly came to me that I had seen the destruction that had been wrought upon this village in 2004 when a flash flood and a huge landslide had destroyed most of it. Thanks to BBC World News, I remember gasping at the scenes, so expertly shot, of houses tumbling into a gushing river. I had wondered then where in Cornwall this place was located for I had always thought of it as flat pastureland.
Well, it turns out that the flash flood had left a trail of destruction in its wake and Boscastle’s attempts to resurrect itself out of the mess are little short of miraculous. But for the occasional scaffolding that drapes itself across a stuccoed cottage, there isn’t much to remind the visitor of the disaster. This speaks so well for federal funding and the use to which it is put in the UK. Hailing from a country like India, where government assistance almost always ends up in the pockets of some slimy official, I was heartened to see the results of the valiant and determined efforts to rebuild that have overtaken this quiet Cornish outpost. Well done, Boscastle!
And then suddenly it came down again. The playful breeze became a vicious gust that wrapped itself around me as rain pelted down and drove me to the nearest tearoom. There, I found that a few of my students had treated themselves to a meal. Since I had eaten a massive breakfast, I could not face the thought of food and I waited until the rain stopped and sunshine flooded the streets again before I set out to explore.
Sunday Shopping:
Boscastle has a series of charming shops that are all interconnected—you enter one of them and find yourself walking through a whole string! As always, it is the antiques shops that first attract me and when I spied a sign for Pickwick Antiques, I just had to fish around inside. What a perfect little antiques shop I found! As the salesman later explained, the shop carries what he calls “small treasures”—the sort of antiques that tourists can carry easily with them in their pockets. I saw loads of silver cutlery including a bunch of odd pieces—butter knives and soupspoons, saltcellars and peppershakers, cut-crystal cruet sets and bits of jewelry. There was also a good variety of very pretty china—Trios, i.e. cups, saucers and cake plates. Lovely porcelain cake serving platters and many Limoges and Royal Albert sets graced the collection—all shown off strikingly in spotless glass vitrines.
My eye was drawn then to a little teapot that would be perfect for brewing one or two cups of tea. It was not an antique—in fact, it was a Victorian reproduction that featured purple violets against a pure white background. What made it special was its lid—it featured three bone china violets in a three-dimensional design that was as finely crafted as a brooch. It called my name urgently and though I took three or four rounds of the shop, I could not get it off my mind. Furthermore, the price was right—at ten pounds, I could not go wrong, not for so exquisite a piece of china.
“Right”, I said, to the salesman, "I think I will have that darling teapot”.
“Do you collect them?” he asked. (What is it that makes antiques’ dealers sniff out collectors so unmistakably?)
“I collect cups and saucers”, I responded, “but for want of space to display them, I now only buy sets that are very rare, very beautiful and very inexpensively priced”.
He laughed. “That is very wise indeed. But, collecting teapots is a natural progression from there, wouldn’t you say?”
“Maybe…but unless I am sure I will use it…”
All the while, he busied himself lovingly wrapping my little precious find in bubble wrap and tissue paper, and feeling as if I had bought a very appropriate souvenir from Cornwall—once the capital of china clay in the country—I walked out of the shop.
In Search of Boscastle Harbor along a Coastal Path:
The rain remained at bay and seeing the coastal path entwine itself along the riverbank, I decided to follow it uphill and see where it led me. My camera worked overtime in trying to capture the bucolic idyll that lay before me. As I wandered on, I passed by a National Trust gift shop and paused to buy a postcard for my travel scrapbook. That’s when I realized that so many of them featured “Boscastle Harbor”. Yet, I could see no evident signs of it. I then went up to the counter, asked one of the little old ladies whom one always finds in National Trust shops where I could find it and she simply said, “Just keep going, dear. You will not be able to miss it”.
At that point, I ran into some of my students and persuaded them to join me on the costal path. They were game, and braving the wind that had stepped up quite strongly, we began our climb to the promontory that, like Tintagel, jutted out into the sea. Pools of rain had accumulated along the narrow pathway that is maintained by the National Trust and I was pleased to see that my membership pounds did go towards these worthy causes. As we climbed higher, the wind became fiercer and by the time the harbor came into view, the scene was simply spectacular.
Gigantic waves dashed the rocks below and we saw a manmade ‘harbor’, probably newly constructed, way below us. It was clearly evident why smuggling had been such a lucrative pursuit in Cornwall for with high taxes levied on such things as tobacco and wine during the late 18th and 19th centuries, smugglers found ways to evade the tax man by bringing in contraband on small boats. In doing so, they risked their lives for such boats had only a fighting chance at reaching the small sandy strip of beach that we could see way below us.
Not content with taking in this scene, we pressed on along the pathway, determined to glimpse the other side of the rocky escarpment. By this point, the wind was almost lifting us off our feet. With many whoops and screams, we clung on to each other and posed for pictures, hoping to capture a scene that somehow seemed exclusively ours for there was no other human being in sight. In many ways, it was reminiscent of Tintagel in its remoteness and in the fury of Nature as wind and wave combined to create the sort of mystifying aura of which legend is made.
Then, it was time for us to return to the coach and when I boarded it, I could not quite believe what I had just seen. Little did I expect that I would have such an unforgettable adventure in Boscastle. I was delighted that I had asked where the harbor was located for, in doing so, I had the chance to indulge in something I had sorely wanted to do ever since I set foot in Cornwall—walk upon a coastal path towards the sea and allow myself to taste the salt spray on my lips. This walk, undertaken so spontaneously, had satisfied that desire and as I settled down in the coach for the long drive homewards, I felt as if I had enjoyed the county in every possible guise and created memories that would live with me forever.
Harry Potter came into his own as the coach ate up the miles along the highways of Devon and alongside the southeast coast as we brushed past Bristol. I could see the lovely white bridge that spanned the bay and led into Wales as we glided on. The landscape changed every few miles, the undulating waves of Cornwall and Devon giving way to the flat fields of Wiltshire. Then, we were stopping at a wayside restaurant for a quick bite (sandwiches and coffee for me as it was close to 4 pm and my breakfast had been long digested). Most of my students had dozed off by this point but I kept on reading The Goblet of Fire until we were skirting the periphery of London.
We arrived at the Nido hostel at 7. 15 pm though caught in Sunday evening traffic for a bit of the way. It took me only a few minutes to climb aboard the Number 17 bus and, fifteen minutes later, I was home, unpacking. A long call to Llew and a shorter one to Chriselle followed as I also tried to download my email and attend to the more urgent work-related messages that awaited my attention.
I worked steadily for almost five hours and it was long past midnight, when still feeling full of beans, I put out my bedside light and tried to fall asleep. I had finally visited Cornwall and toured this fabled holiday destination and I had returned home with memories that I knew I would cherish forever.
Sunday, March 8, 2009
In Search of Eden and Camelot: The Eden Project and Tintagel
Saturday, March 7, 2009
Cornwall
I slept well last night despite being a little chilly. The double comforter helped—I folded it in half since I was using only one side of my double bed. Waking at 6. 40 am, I was able to write my blog for a bit, then shower and dress and get ready for breakfast, which was served at 8. 30 am. We were antsy as our coach was scheduled to leave at 9 am and there was no way we could eat a full English breakfast in fifteen minutes. Still, after muesli and orange juice, we found space (and time) for scrambled eggs and bacon, sausage and tomato, hash browns and beans and warm buttered toast with coffee—basically, a heart attack on a platter. Why is it that full English breakfasts taste so much better when someone else has cooked and served them up to you? And why is it that we had to hurry through so scrumptious a meal?
Off to Eden:
Well, we did reach the Inn at 9 am and made our way to the coach with our students to start the long ride towards St. Austell to the Eden Project. This is one of the UK’s Millennium projects, the brainchild of Tim Smith who still remains its CEO. It was his plan to demonstrate man’s ability to live in harmony with nature and it took the form of a series of biodomes constructed out of recycled material to look like giant igloos. My view of it from the air as my plane was landing at Newquay will always remain unforgettable especially as you do not spy the domes until you are a mere two minutes away from them.
The biodomes are constructed in a former china clay pit that had long remained disused, demonstrating the fact that waste lands can also be put to practical use. Our coach parked and dropped us off and we were met by Eden Project staff who directed us to the Reception Center where we received stickers to indicate that we were ticket holders.
At this point, we were met by a botanist named Kathryn who conducted a tour for us through the Humid and Tropical Garden which is the largest and most spectacular of the biodomes. She took us around the world in a an hour as each part of the dome grows plants native to specific tropical parts of the world such as Malaysia, Africa, South America (the Rain Forest). The temperature in this part of the biodomes is considerably warmer and within seconds we were peeling off our jackets. Kathryn started with a very comprehensive introduction to the aims and objectives of the Project and once on the tour, stopped by select plants to point out their native requirements and to demonstrate their typical characteristics. A waterfall cascaded through the entire project and as we moved from one part of the world to the next, we climbed ever higher. The incredible design of the region inside the dome which maximizes the use of space was ingenious indeed and spoke very well of the thought and planning and effort that went into its making
One of the more interesting things I saw was a real cacao pod from a cacao tree that was freshly plucked off and then split open by one of the guides who showed us the cocoa butter and the seeds inside. We had a chance to hold it in our hands, smell it and find that it did not smell even remotely of chocolate. A great deal of processing has to be carried out before chocoholics like myself can find cocoa nirvana! We learned that it was in South America that the Incas drank chocolate after mixing it with pounded chilli. Chocolate as solidified in bars are a British invention, however, and for that we are all very grateful indeed! I also saw a Passion Flower for the first time and I have to say that it was strikingly vivid and rare.
For me, of course, taking a tour of the Tropical Forest felt a little bit like visiting India for I saw banana, papaya, cashew and mango trees and a host of herbs and spices that I use in my daily cooking—such as coriander and curry leaf, cardamom, cinnamon and turmeric.
Our tour ended in an hour and we were free to make our way into the Temperate and Mediterranean biodome where the emphasis was on the kind of plants and fruits that are grown in sunny but less intensely humid climes such as in Greece, Italy or Southern California. I saw a giant citrus fruit called a citron which hung from the branches but is not too heavy as it has very little pulp and juice. It is the peel that is mainly used today in cakes when candied peel is called for in a recipe. Lavender, olives, geraniums, etc. were in this area but, having seen the superb quality and variety of the tropical fruits and flowers in the first biodome, I was somewhat disappointed by the second which paled in comparison.
What was also marvelous was the large number of birds that I saw inside the domes though they are almost airtight. They seem to come in when people unwittingly leave doors open or, as Kathryn explained, often through the louvers in the domes that are occasionally opened for ventilation. They were incredibly tame and a robin came and almost ate out of my hand when I was seated in the café. The birdsong, the rushing downpour of the waterfall and the fragrance that surrounds the interior was so authentic as to make me feel as if I was on a cruise along the Amazon in Costa Rica. Truly, the achievement of the Eden Project is little short of brilliant and though I am neither a botanist nor a biologist but merely a humble gardener myself, I know I took back lessons on planting and harvesting techniques that I could easily use in my own cottage garden at home in Connecticut.
Then, it was time to sink into one of the squashy leather sofas in the café and to decide about getting a bite. Despite the fact that I had eaten a huge breakfast, I did not know how long it would be before I had my next meal and not willing to start feeling hungry, I ordered a pork and apple pasty and homemade chips. Just as I sat to eat those, along came Alice and I joined her and David at their table. The lunch was enormously filling though not very tasty and with a slight spray having started to fall, we left the Eden Project, boarded the coach again and set off for our next port of call—Tintagel.
In Search of Camelot—King Arthur’s Castle at Tintagel:
It was understandable that almost everyone in the coach was asleep as it made its way across Cornwall to take us to Tintagel Head and the ruined Castle that is supposed to be the legendary birthplace of King Arthur. I too closed my eyes and within minutes, I was deeply asleep as mist swirling over the fields had reduced visibility considerably.
When I awoke about a half hour later, we were negotiating our way through the narrowest lanes imaginable and we had several hair-raising moments as smaller vehicles had to back all the way out of the roads to make room for us. Indeed, at one point, we were told by a passer-by that our long coach would never make it through a narrow passage ahead. He suggested we turn back and take a wider road even if that meant a longer route. At another point, we almost slammed into a van that stopped suddenly ahead of us as a car in front of him came to a stop in order to make a sharp right turn. I swear that it was only a hair’s breath that separated us from this van as the coach came to a halt several seconds after our driver slammed on the brakes! It was certainly not the most enjoyable of rides and a colleague even commented, “This castle had better be the best one in the world”.
Well, no one could have been disappointed. Though we did arrive at the charming village of Tintagel a little behind schedule and with a light spray still playing over the region, it was quite the most spectacular natural sight I have seen in my yearlong travels. For Tintagel Head juts out into the Atlantic Ocean over a steep promontory that is composed almost entirely of slate. The English Heritage maintains and manages the site and, thanks to some ingenious engineering, a pathway has been cut through the rock escarpment to allow visitors to access the ruins of the castle, the mansion and the little houses that belong to Arthurian Legend.
This site is not for the faint hearted as we needed to make our way down into a very low ravine first to get to the bottom where the Visitors Center in located. At this lowest point itself, the swirling waters of the ocean crash into rocks creating large caves that remain battered by the sea’s fury. The steps are repeatedly lashed by these jade green waves and scaling them takes courage and grit. At one point, you actually cross a bridge that connects the mainland with the tiny rocky island on which the majority of the ruins are to be found. All these locations make superb settings for photography and it is difficult to know where to stop in selecting sights for celluloid. To add to the mystery and the aura of the Arthurian legends, mist swirled softly around the peaks and a light spray from the churning waves cooled us off after the long climb.
Our students bounded along the steps, the setting making them light hearted as they were struck by the remoteness of the crags and the complete isolation of the pathway leading to the peaks. The steps were very high indeed and I had a hard time trying to climb them as strong winds whipped around us. Fortunately, it was not too cold and the climb to the top had served to warm me well. I did reach as far as the mansion of Earl Richard who was supposed to be the brother of King Arthur. I also saw the Great Hall of what would have been his mansion, the gateway leading to it--much of which was reconstructed in the 19th century when the pre-Raphaelites began to paint scenes from the stories of Thomas Malory’s 16th century work Morte D’Arthur which, in turn, led to Tennyson’s collection of Arthur poems called The Idylls of the King.
Of course, even as I surveyed the ruins in their fairy-tale setting, I was conscious of the fact that there is very little we know with historical certainty about King Arthur. Did he really exist? Is he a creation based on several different ancient Cornish kings of England? Very little archaeological evidence exists to answer these questions in any definitive way. What has been found at the site are Mediterranean pottery pieces that suggest strong trading links between England the Middle East in ancient times.
There was a great deal more I could have seen including the ruins of a walled garden and a little church at the very top, but somehow I did not trust my feet to carry me all the way to the peak. In fact, I was more afraid of making my way downhill and since we had a deadline for returning to the coach and I did not want to keep anyone waiting, I began the slow descent to the base reminded constantly, by the remoteness of the venue and the heights we had scaled, of Ireland’s Cliffs of Moher.
At the base, I had the pleasure of watching a film in the Visitors Center that gave some more information about the combination of myth and historical account that has led to the creation of the Arthurian Legends and the industry that they have spawned—if one went by the end-of-daybusiness being carried out in the little shops that comprise the village of Tintagel. I did visit a couple of them to purchase a magnet and some postcards, then poked my head into a bakery selling pasties and a tea room where a few of our students had settled themselves down with Cornish cream teas. I was too full to face the thought of another morsel for a while and looked forward to a good dinner instead, later in the day.
The bus ride back took us on the ‘Atlantic Highway’, a dual carriageway that ran through the length of Central Cornwall passing fairly close to Padstow en route. Back at the coach station at close to 6pm, I parted company with my colleagues and decided that it would be a good idea to stretch out and try to even get a short nap in my room at Sunnyside Hotel before we met in the lobby at 7. 30 pm for dinner.
When 7.30 pm approached, I prepared for dinner and meeting my colleagues in the hotel’s lobby, we decided to eat dinner at The New Harbor Restaurant where we had eaten last night. David and Alice bowed out, having consumed a light dinner earlier in the evening, leaving Valerie and me to find our way to the harbor and to settle ourselves at a table overlooking the boats on the dark and dimly lit waterfront.
A Seafood Dinner to Die For:
I ordered a scrumpy (apple cider) but the restaurant did not carry it. They suggested a pear cider instead made by a Cornish farm named Heany and never having tasted pear cider before, I was up for it. It was absolutely delicious and very refreshing indeed. Valerie had a glass of house white wine and ordered the Crab Trio that she had enjoyed yesterday (salad, bisque and timbale). I went for the Lobster and Prawn Cocktail which was very fresh and very good, crammed full of small prawns and lobster tail in a light mayonnaise dressing. For mains, both of us had the grilled cod with saffron mash and baby spinach in a saffron cream sauce—very fresh, very tasty and very hearty indeed. David joined us just when we were finishing our mains and ordered pudding. Since the sticky toffee pudding that Alice had ordered was so good yesterday, I decided to go with it and indeed it was great—with a generous dollop of Cornish clotted cream served alongside. This melted against the warmth of the pudding and formed a gooey mass in the toffee base. Ah, heavenly!
I was seriously worried that I would be too stuffed to make the long uphill trek to our hotel, but climb it I did and had only enough energy to complete this blog and throw myself on the bed for a good night’s rest.
Cornwall
I slept well last night despite being a little chilly. The double comforter helped—I folded it in half since I was using only one side of my double bed. Waking at 6. 40 am, I was able to write my blog for a bit, then shower and dress and get ready for breakfast, which was served at 8. 30 am. We were antsy as our coach was scheduled to leave at 9 am and there was no way we could eat a full English breakfast in fifteen minutes. Still, after muesli and orange juice, we found space (and time) for scrambled eggs and bacon, sausage and tomato, hash browns and beans and warm buttered toast with coffee—basically, a heart attack on a platter. Why is it that full English breakfasts taste so much better when someone else has cooked and served them up to you? And why is it that we had to hurry through so scrumptious a meal?
Off to Eden:
Well, we did reach the Inn at 9 am and made our way to the coach with our students to start the long ride towards St. Austell to the Eden Project. This is one of the UK’s Millennium projects, the brainchild of Tim Smith who still remains its CEO. It was his plan to demonstrate man’s ability to live in harmony with nature and it took the form of a series of biodomes constructed out of recycled material to look like giant igloos. My view of it from the air as my plane was landing at Newquay will always remain unforgettable especially as you do not spy the domes until you are a mere two minutes away from them.
The biodomes are constructed in a former china clay pit that had long remained disused, demonstrating the fact that waste lands can also be put to practical use. Our coach parked and dropped us off and we were met by Eden Project staff who directed us to the Reception Center where we received stickers to indicate that we were ticket holders.
At this point, we were met by a botanist named Kathryn who conducted a tour for us through the Humid and Tropical Garden which is the largest and most spectacular of the biodomes. She took us around the world in a an hour as each part of the dome grows plants native to specific tropical parts of the world such as Malaysia, Africa, South America (the Rain Forest). The temperature in this part of the biodomes is considerably warmer and within seconds we were peeling off our jackets. Kathryn started with a very comprehensive introduction to the aims and objectives of the Project and once on the tour, stopped by select plants to point out their native requirements and to demonstrate their typical characteristics. A waterfall cascaded through the entire project and as we moved from one part of the world to the next, we climbed ever higher. The incredible design of the region inside the dome which maximizes the use of space was ingenious indeed and spoke very well of the thought and planning and effort that went into its making
One of the more interesting things I saw was a real cacao pod from a cacao tree that was freshly plucked off and then split open by one of the guides who showed us the cocoa butter and the seeds inside. We had a chance to hold it in our hands, smell it and find that it did not smell even remotely of chocolate. A great deal of processing has to be carried out before chocoholics like myself can find cocoa nirvana! We learned that it was in South America that the Incas drank chocolate after mixing it with pounded chilli. Chocolate as solidified in bars are a British invention, however, and for that we are all very grateful indeed! I also saw a Passion Flower for the first time and I have to say that it was strikingly vivid and rare.
For me, of course, taking a tour of the Tropical Forest felt a little bit like visiting India for I saw banana, papaya, cashew and mango trees and a host of herbs and spices that I use in my daily cooking—such as coriander and curry leaf, cardamom, cinnamon and turmeric.
Our tour ended in an hour and we were free to make our way into the Temperate and Mediterranean biodome where the emphasis was on the kind of plants and fruits that are grown in sunny but less intensely humid climes such as in Greece, Italy or Southern California. I saw a giant citrus fruit called a citron which hung from the branches but is not too heavy as it has very little pulp and juice. It is the peel that is mainly used today in cakes when candied peel is called for in a recipe. Lavender, olives, geraniums, etc. were in this area but, having seen the superb quality and variety of the tropical fruits and flowers in the first biodome, I was somewhat disappointed by the second which paled in comparison.
What was also marvelous was the large number of birds that I saw inside the domes though they are almost airtight. They seem to come in when people unwittingly leave doors open or, as Kathryn explained, often through the louvers in the domes that are occasionally opened for ventilation. They were incredibly tame and a robin came and almost ate out of my hand when I was seated in the café. The birdsong, the rushing downpour of the waterfall and the fragrance that surrounds the interior was so authentic as to make me feel as if I was on a cruise along the Amazon in Costa Rica. Truly, the achievement of the Eden Project is little short of brilliant and though I am neither a botanist nor a biologist but merely a humble gardener myself, I know I took back lessons on planting and harvesting techniques that I could easily use in my own cottage garden at home in Connecticut.
Then, it was time to sink into one of the squashy leather sofas in the café and to decide about getting a bite. Despite the fact that I had eaten a huge breakfast, I did not know how long it would be before I had my next meal and not willing to start feeling hungry, I ordered a pork and apple pasty and homemade chips. Just as I sat to eat those, along came Alice and I joined her and David at their table. The lunch was enormously filling though not very tasty and with a slight spray having started to fall, we left the Eden Project, boarded the coach again and set off for our next port of call—Tintagel.
In Search of Camelot—King Arthur’s Castle at Tintagel:
It was understandable that almost everyone in the coach was asleep as it made its way across Cornwall to take us to Tintagel Head and the ruined Castle that is supposed to be the legendary birthplace of King Arthur. I too closed my eyes and within minutes, I was deeply asleep as mist swirling over the fields had reduced visibility considerably.
When I awoke about a half hour later, we were negotiating our way through the narrowest lanes imaginable and we had several hair-raising moments as smaller vehicles had to back all the way out of the roads to make room for us. Indeed, at one point, we were told by a passer-by that our long coach would never make it through a narrow passage ahead. He suggested we turn back and take a wider road even if that meant a longer route. At another point, we almost slammed into a van that stopped suddenly ahead of us as a car in front of him came to a stop in order to make a sharp right turn. I swear that it was only a hair’s breath that separated us from this van as the coach came to a halt several seconds after our driver slammed on the brakes! It was certainly not the most enjoyable of rides and a colleague even commented, “This castle had better be the best one in the world”.
Well, no one could have been disappointed. Though we did arrive at the charming village of Tintagel a little behind schedule and with a light spray still playing over the region, it was quite the most spectacular natural sight I have seen in my yearlong travels. For Tintagel Head juts out into the Atlantic Ocean over a steep promontory that is composed almost entirely of slate. The English Heritage maintains and manages the site and, thanks to some ingenious engineering, a pathway has been cut through the rock escarpment to allow visitors to access the ruins of the castle, the mansion and the little houses that belong to Arthurian Legend.
This site is not for the faint hearted as we needed to make our way down into a very low ravine first to get to the bottom where the Visitors Center in located. At this lowest point itself, the swirling waters of the ocean crash into rocks creating large caves that remain battered by the sea’s fury. The steps are repeatedly lashed by these jade green waves and scaling them takes courage and grit. At one point, you actually cross a bridge that connects the mainland with the tiny rocky island on which the majority of the ruins are to be found. All these locations make superb settings for photography and it is difficult to know where to stop in selecting sights for celluloid. To add to the mystery and the aura of the Arthurian legends, mist swirled softly around the peaks and a light spray from the churning waves cooled us off after the long climb.
Our students bounded along the steps, the setting making them light hearted as they were struck by the remoteness of the crags and the complete isolation of the pathway leading to the peaks. The steps were very high indeed and I had a hard time trying to climb them as strong winds whipped around us. Fortunately, it was not too cold and the climb to the top had served to warm me well. I did reach as far as the mansion of Earl Richard who was supposed to be the brother of King Arthur. I also saw the Great Hall of what would have been his mansion, the gateway leading to it--much of which was reconstructed in the 19th century when the pre-Raphaelites began to paint scenes from the stories of Thomas Malory’s 16th century work Morte D’Arthur which, in turn, led to Tennyson’s collection of Arthur poems called The Idylls of the King.
Of course, even as I surveyed the ruins in their fairy-tale setting, I was conscious of the fact that there is very little we know with historical certainty about King Arthur. Did he really exist? Is he a creation based on several different ancient Cornish kings of England? Very little archaeological evidence exists to answer these questions in any definitive way. What has been found at the site are Mediterranean pottery pieces that suggest strong trading links between England the Middle East in ancient times.
There was a great deal more I could have seen including the ruins of a walled garden and a little church at the very top, but somehow I did not trust my feet to carry me all the way to the peak. In fact, I was more afraid of making my way downhill and since we had a deadline for returning to the coach and I did not want to keep anyone waiting, I began the slow descent to the base reminded constantly, by the remoteness of the venue and the heights we had scaled, of Ireland’s Cliffs of Moher.
At the base, I had the pleasure of watching a film in the Visitors Center that gave some more information about the combination of myth and historical account that has led to the creation of the Arthurian Legends and the industry that they have spawned—if one went by the end-of-daybusiness being carried out in the little shops that comprise the village of Tintagel. I did visit a couple of them to purchase a magnet and some postcards, then poked my head into a bakery selling pasties and a tea room where a few of our students had settled themselves down with Cornish cream teas. I was too full to face the thought of another morsel for a while and looked forward to a good dinner instead, later in the day.
The bus ride back took us on the ‘Atlantic Highway’, a dual carriageway that ran through the length of Central Cornwall passing fairly close to Padstow en route. Back at the coach station at close to 6pm, I parted company with my colleagues and decided that it would be a good idea to stretch out and try to even get a short nap in my room at Sunnyside Hotel before we met in the lobby at 7. 30 pm for dinner.
When 7.30 pm approached, I prepared for dinner and meeting my colleagues in the hotel’s lobby, we decided to eat dinner at The New Harbor Restaurant where we had eaten last night. David and Alice bowed out, having consumed a light dinner earlier in the evening, leaving Valerie and me to find our way to the harbor and to settle ourselves at a table overlooking the boats on the dark and dimly lit waterfront.
A Seafood Dinner to Die For:
I ordered a scrumpy (apple cider) but the restaurant did not carry it. They suggested a pear cider instead made by a Cornish farm named Heany and never having tasted pear cider before, I was up for it. It was absolutely delicious and very refreshing indeed. Valerie had a glass of house white wine and ordered the Crab Trio that she had enjoyed yesterday (salad, bisque and timbale). I went for the Lobster and Prawn Cocktail which was very fresh and very good, crammed full of small prawns and lobster tail in a light mayonnaise dressing. For mains, both of us had the grilled cod with saffron mash and baby spinach in a saffron cream sauce—very fresh, very tasty and very hearty indeed. David joined us just when we were finishing our mains and ordered pudding. Since the sticky toffee pudding that Alice had ordered was so good yesterday, I decided to go with it and indeed it was great—with a generous dollop of Cornish clotted cream served alongside. This melted against the warmth of the pudding and formed a gooey mass in the toffee base. Ah, heavenly!
I was seriously worried that I would be too stuffed to make the long uphill trek to our hotel, but climb it I did and had only enough energy to complete this blog and throw myself on the bed for a good night’s rest.
In Fowey and Padstow--Cornwall's Famous Villages
Friday, March 6, 2009
Cornwall
The view from my window stunned me anew when I awoke this morning at 6. 30 to watch dawn break over the Newquay sky that was tinged a startling pink. Immense cloud cover made it difficult for the sun to break through and the solitary figure walking towards the ocean was a dark silhouette at that early morning hour as he treaded water for a few paces, and then plunged into the foaming waves. I know that I will never again have so breathtaking a view from a hostel window and I want to keep this one preserved forever in my memory.
Devoting a Day to Writers:
Packing and unpacking, washing and dressing and getting ready to meet the day took the next half hour. I found the time to read up a bit of Cornwall tourist literature and discovered that the area on the opposite shore around the town of Fowey (pronounced ‘Foy’) would be a good place to explore. It is also rich with literary associations and it turned out that my day was devoted to following in the footsteps of some of England’s best known writers as I attempted to discover their favorite haunts.
In Search of Daphne du Maurier:
Daphne du Maurier, to whom I became introduced as a teenager, owing to my mother’s passion for her novels, spent a good deal of time in Southern Cornwall and used it as the setting of so many of her works. Jamaica Inn, the title of one of her novels, for instance, still exists in the region of Bodmin Moor but I wasn’t going to travel so far just to see in. Instead, I decided to take the Western Greyhound (“Green” Bus, as it is locally known) to St. Austell from where I was required to connect to another bus that would take me to Fowey.
Menabilly is the name of the town close by in which stands a huge mansion, which the du Mauriers had rented when they lived in Cornwall for a while. This would became the famous Mandalay of her best-known novel Rebecca. Who can ever forget that novel’s haunting first sentence? “Last night I dreamed I was at Mandalay again”. Just typing it gives me goose bumps and my reaction is based not on reading the novel alone but on the many movie versions of it that I have seen. The earliest was made by Alfred Hitchcock starring Laurence Olivier and Joan Fontaine and the most recent that I saw only a few months ago starred Charles Dance (whose work I have enjoyed and followed ever since I saw him play a very young British officer in The Jewel in the Crown many many years ago) and Emily Fox who is one of Britain’s best-loved actors with the inimitable Diana Rigg playing the chilly Miss Danvers.
So, I was keen to go to Menabilly to see Mandalay for myself. Only, when I arrived at Fowey and made my way down the steep hill that led to the harbor where most of the shops are clustered, I discovered at the Daphne du Maurier Literary Center (yes, there really is such a place!), that the Mandalay of the novel is a private residence and not open to the public. One cannot even catch a glimpse of it from the outside. The village of Menabilly does not have any associations with the author except for some shops that are named after her best-known characters. To get to Menabilly, I would have to walk about 4 to 5 miles as no public buses went to the area in the off-season.
Feeling Homesick in Fowey:
Abandoning my plans to get to Mandalay, I focused on Fowey instead and was left feeling deeply homesick for my beloved Southport. For Fowey reminded me so much of my little village in Connecticut. It shares a similar topography in that the river Fowey runs through the town and empties into the English Channel in the same way that the Mill River runs through Southport and empties into Long Island Sound. On both banks of the river are pretty houses rising in steep tiers along very narrow streets. You have to literally flatten yourself against a wall when a car passes by, as there isn’t enough room for both human and vehicle along the same street in Fowey! I realized all this, of course, only after I arrived at the waterside or what they call the Harbor (we call it the ‘Marina’ at home) where the beautifully sunny day had drawn anglers and sailors alike to the quay to keep them busy at their pursuits.
Along the street leading to the harbor were souvenir stores, bakeries selling the region’s specialty—saffron buns—books and card shops, chocolatiers, exclusive designer boutiques and jewelry showrooms and lots of places selling knick-knacks. I took pictures of the harbor because I wanted to show Llew and Chirselle how similar our lovely Southport is to an English seaside resort. I have said for years that Southport is the closest one can come to an English village in coastal Connecticut and the similarity between Fowey and Southport confirmed those impressions.
Like Southport, Fowey is dominated by the square tower of its local stone church with its gold clock face. Southport, of course, has two landmark churches—the Trinity Episcopal Church and the Congregation Church. Here too, in Fowey, stained glass windows in a Pre-Raphaelite style were visible as I passed by the steep path running along its side. But unlike Southport, Fowey can also boast what looks like a castle with its square turrets rising sharply against the bluest skies. It was only later, at the bus stop when I got into conversation with a local resident that I discovered that it wasn’t a castle at all but a private house—one that had remained in the same family, that of the Trefoys, not just for centuries, but maybe for a millennium! The lady’s son happened to be a stonemason who was at work on the house as keeping it up to snuff after all these years does take a lot of skilled local labor.
She lamented the fact that wages are so low in this part of the UK, that despite having been born in Cornwall and living there all their lives, none of her four children can afford to buy a home in the town which has been taken over by “holiday homes”—meaning seasonal houses that are rented to holiday-makers during the summer.
“I have no neighbors”, the lady lamented, “as the houses next door to me remain shut all year except for the three months of summer. I live alone and if something ever happened to me, no one would know. It’s awful!” she said.
Then, she continued: “My God, things have changed beyond recognition since I was a little girl growing up here. When I was a teenager, if I got into any kind of trouble, before I got home, you could be sure that mother already knew about it as a hundred eyes were watching my every move. Every one knew every one else in those days in the village of Fowey. I could not possibly expect that today—the place is full of strangers".
And still later: "You don’t want to be here in the summer. It’s just crawling with city folk splashing around their money. It’s awful!”
She wasn’t quite done. “And you should see how much they are building here! Who do they expect to buy all these places? Why don’t they try to fill up the empty houses first instead of eating into more parcels of green?”
So there I was getting a lesson on the changing face of Cornwall from someone who certainly knew the area intimately. And this again is similar to Southport, isn’t it, I thought? There were all those condos being built by developers out to make a buck during the real estate boom only to lie untouched. All that lovely unspoiled Southport scenery forever altered by the arrival of those condominium colonies. It’s truly a travesty, I thought. All over the world, the same story…
Back on the bus, I arrived at St. Austell, then connected to another bus to Newquay, but not before I popped down another steep winding road into the town to buy a Mince Pasty from Nile’s Bakery as it was close to lunchtime and I was hungry. I have to say that I have become a convert to the Cornish pasty—probably because they are so much more satisfying and delicious than the ones I have tasted in London through the Cornish Pasty Company and other similar chains. This one was filled with thinly sliced potato and ground beef, the two flavors melded perfectly to make a very delicious lunch indeed.
In the bus, I enjoyed both the passing landscape and my travel companions. Many knew each other and cheery greetings were often exchanged as the bus passed through a village. Some had amusing names such as High Street and Higher Bugle! Many of the little villages had names that started with the letters “Tre’ as a kind of prefix and I believe it has something to do with some ancient language of the region. Women got on with their shopping strolleys to take a bus ride to the nearest Morrisons or closest town. The village houses were small with very modest gardens that were slowly coming into their own for the new growing season. I saw daffodils everywhere in places that made me believe they were wild—though I have always believed that since daffodils grow from bulbs they have to be planted and do not seed spontaneously as wild flowers do.
Back at Newquay, I had only enough time to browse in some of the shops on the main road before it was time for me to catch another bus—this one going to Padstow.
Padding Around Padstow:
Padstow, it is said, would have remained just another small Cornish fishing village were it not for the arrival of TV chef Rick Stein who put it firmly on the country’s culinary map and created a mini-empire in the process. His presence in the town is so ubiquitous that folks something jocularly refer to the village as Padstein. Of course, being a foodie, I was keen to eat in one of his restaurants, but since I never enter restaurants when I am traveling alone, I did not think that this would be a possibility.
In Search of Sir John Betjeman:
Apart from Stein’s celebrity, the town is renowned for the presence of another great literary figure—the poet John Betjeman whose work I have loved for years and with whom I also have a personal connection—many many years ago, when I was but a young teenager in India, I had run into his wife, Lady Penelope Chetwode, in Simla, in Northern India, and ever since then, I had followed his career with interest. Betjeman, of course, passed away a few years ago, but he lies buried in the village of Trebeterick in the graveyard at St. Enodoc Church where his tombstone is engraved with some of his most haunting lines celebrating the beauty of and his fondness for this part of Cornwall which he had made his home for most of his life. I hoped very much to see his grave and make a pilgrimage of sorts to one of my favorite poet’s worlds.
Meanwhile, I walked along the path leading from the harbor to the town where colorful sailing boats bobbed in the water surrounded by a number of equally colorful shop fronts. A visit to the Tourist Information Center told me that my wish would not be fulfilled as Trebeterick lay across the shallow waters of Padstow Bay and I needed to take a ferry to get to the other side. Once on the opposite bank, I would need to cross a golf course and then make my way into the churchyard to see the gravesite. Though the walk would take me less than 20 minutes, once I was on the other side, the ferry had stopped plying for the day at 4.30 pm and I would have to return on the morrow. I could see the general area, however, in which Betjeman lies buried and I have to say that this sight served to satisfy my deepest longings to pay my personal respects to the man that a recent poll named Britain's Favorite Poet. As I gazed upon the tranquil land in which he lies buried, I thought of his own words:
"Lark songs and sea sounds in the air
And splendour, splendour everywhere".
Prideux Place:
Instead, I walked through the little coastal town and on seeing signs for Prideux Place decided to climb the steep hill that led to it. My guide book had informed me that this old pile is a favorite haunt of directors of period films and TV shows as it has all the correct atmospheric details to authenticate a location.
When I did get there, passing through a jumble of narrow winding streets with modest homes whose front doors were painted in strong primary colors, I arrived at a gray granite mass complete with square turrets and a forbidding gateway. There was a sign that informed me that the place was open to visitors only after Easter (I love how Easter is used here as the equivalent of a date though it changes every year depending on the Lenten calendar!)
Right opposite the mansion is a deer park and, as luck would have it, the herds of deer for which the park is known were obligingly close at hand. A few photographs later, I wound my way own the hill, once again, pulling my cashmere scarf closer around my throat for I had begun to feel the damp chill that sudden bouts of rain can bring.
Padstow's Pleasures:
I did not see Padstow at its best. Indeed, the rain clouds that had been swirling all morning finally dropped their moisture as my bus had woven through the narrowest country lanes from Newquay to bring me to this seaside settlement. I had a few hairy moments on the front seat of a double decker as it speeded on the single lane roads occasionally coming upon a car headed in the opposite direction.
In the baffling code of etiquette that exists among drivers on these single-lane country roads, the car backed up for quite a while, as my heart remained caught in my throat, until it found a tiny space in which to wedge itself before the bus that had advanced menacingly upon it, found enough room to squeeze through. This is not the first time that I have been witness to such a happening. Indeed, when Llew has been behind the wheel of tiny rented English cars on our many holidays in this part of the world, we have encountered the same occurrence on a couple of occasions. But never have I watched the spectacle from a double-decker bus—and believe me, I felt as if I were witnessing the denouement of a hair raising drama.
Pasdstow’s lanes weave in and out of little squares each one punctuated with another one of the cafes, delis, gourmet food stores, patisseries and restaurants that comprise the Stein empire. Many of them were winding down for the day as it was close to 5 pm. I keep forgetting that in this country, as a rule, shops still close at five, though Londoners might be used to later closings. Once the shutters come down and the cleaning begins inside, towns suddenly become shrouded in mourning for all the gusto goes out of them like a balloon that has been suddenly pierced. Apart from the suddenness with which evening descended upon Padstow in this manner, I was also conscious of the fact that last bus out to Newquay was scheduled to leave at 6. 35 pm from the harbor. Not wanting to miss it, I made my way back towards Rick Stein’s Fish and Chips Restaurant and finding that it was almost as casual as a fast food place, I made an exception to my rule and decided to dine alone.
The Stein Empire:
As soon as our bus had disgorged its passengers on to the quayside at Padstow, the presence of Rick Stein was everywhere. Rick Stein’s Fish and Chips is on the harbor front and you cannot miss it despite its very modest exterior. Since it only opened at 5 pm, I resolved to return there and have my dinner inside.
When I did get there, I foudn that the restaurant had opened fifteen minutes earlier at 5 pm and already had a few early diners seated within. Done entirely in white subway tile (as it is known in New York) with occasional touches of navy blue as in the fish tiles that march around the restaurant, the interior is simplicity at its most classy.
I settled myself down at a wooden bench and awaited a waitress who brought me a menu. I had decided to have what everyone else was having—the Winter Special Cod and Chips with bread and butter and a pot of tea—I chose peppermint—all for 6. 40 pounds. Nothing could have been more welcome for Padstow had been an overall chilly experience for me and my insides craved the warmth of good food and drink.
They were not disappointed. When my meal arrived, in a thick paper container, I found a fillet of cod superbly fried in the lightest, crispest batter I had ever seen or tasted. It simply melted in my mouth. Indeed, it was so good that I did not even need to request tartar sauce. My chips, however, were sorely disappointing. I had, quite obviously, been given the last scraping from a batch for I received nothing but a handful of tiny fried crispy bits and but for three or four real chips, i.e. chewy meaty larger fries, the chips were a disaster.
I debated whether or not I should point this out to the waitress and then, being accustomed to American ways, I could not resist it, and showed them to her. She shrugged and appeared unable to deal with my complaint. The fish was hearty, however, and the few chips that I had eaten, had filled me up.
Then I saw her approach the chef and have a word with him and, a few minutes later, she returned to my table to say, “Chef would like to know if you’d like another small portion of chips”. I thanked her for the offer but declined as I was already too full and there was still my steaming tea to be drunk. In the end, I was grateful that though she did not apologize to me for what was obviously a huge culinary faux-pas, especially in a restaurant of such an acclaimed celebrity chef, she did at least try to address my complaint and make amends.
I did board the 6. 35 pm bus and was the sole passenger in it for almost the entire ride. When we arrived at Watergate Bay, another part of Cornwall associated with a TV celebrity chef—Jamie Oliver’s Fifteen Cornwall is located here--I looked everywhere for it but saw no signs. When I asked the driver if he had an idea where it might be, he responded with the kind of candor that is characteristic only of the English.
“Would you happen to know where Jamie Oliver’s restaurant is?”
“’Fraid not. Not the kind of place I could afford”.
So, while I was still mulling over his answer, the bus swung upwards along the cliffs and in just a little while deposited me at the Newquay bus stop. When I finally did find a strong enough signal, I had made telephonic contact with Alice of NYU who informed me that our student coaches had arrived there at 4 pm, leaving them with ample time to explore Towan Beach.
We made plans to meet at St. Christopher’s Inn and when I did get there at 8pm she arrived soon enough and led me down to The New Harbor Restaurant located at the water’s edge. There, I joined more colleagues, David Crout and Valerie Wells, who had just ordered a bottle of wine and were nibbling on some bread. They did ask me to order as well but I was still stuffed with my own dinner and decided to sip on a glass of white Bordeaux instead and then join them for dessert.
I wished I hadn’t eaten already when I saw their offerings which were simply enormous and superbly presented. Over fresh seafood (cod and plaice and crab for starters), they had a lovely meal while I looked on. When it came time for dessert, however, I caved in. It was close to 10 pm anyway and I had eaten at 5, so I was ready for some ‘pudding’. I chose a creamy dreamy Irish Coffee Crème Brulee which was exceptional—the brown sugar crust concealing a scrumptious custard that was delicately flavored with Irish whisky. I have to say that I have never tasted so novel a creme brulee and I thought so much of Chriselle as crème brulee is her favorite dessert!
When I did make my way up the hill to St. Christopher’s Inn to retrieve my bag, I was ready to wind down for the day. I checked in with the rest of the group at Sunnyside Hotel which overlooked the beach—though, sadly, I no longer had the stunning view of the last couple of days. My room was freezing and it was only after I fiddled around with the controls on the radiator that it started to feel better.
On a last literary note I wrote this blog and fell asleep after midnight, mindful of the fact that we had decided to meet at Pistachio Restaurant located on the ground floor of the hotel for a full English breakfast at 8. 15 am.
Cornwall
The view from my window stunned me anew when I awoke this morning at 6. 30 to watch dawn break over the Newquay sky that was tinged a startling pink. Immense cloud cover made it difficult for the sun to break through and the solitary figure walking towards the ocean was a dark silhouette at that early morning hour as he treaded water for a few paces, and then plunged into the foaming waves. I know that I will never again have so breathtaking a view from a hostel window and I want to keep this one preserved forever in my memory.
Devoting a Day to Writers:
Packing and unpacking, washing and dressing and getting ready to meet the day took the next half hour. I found the time to read up a bit of Cornwall tourist literature and discovered that the area on the opposite shore around the town of Fowey (pronounced ‘Foy’) would be a good place to explore. It is also rich with literary associations and it turned out that my day was devoted to following in the footsteps of some of England’s best known writers as I attempted to discover their favorite haunts.
In Search of Daphne du Maurier:
Daphne du Maurier, to whom I became introduced as a teenager, owing to my mother’s passion for her novels, spent a good deal of time in Southern Cornwall and used it as the setting of so many of her works. Jamaica Inn, the title of one of her novels, for instance, still exists in the region of Bodmin Moor but I wasn’t going to travel so far just to see in. Instead, I decided to take the Western Greyhound (“Green” Bus, as it is locally known) to St. Austell from where I was required to connect to another bus that would take me to Fowey.
Menabilly is the name of the town close by in which stands a huge mansion, which the du Mauriers had rented when they lived in Cornwall for a while. This would became the famous Mandalay of her best-known novel Rebecca. Who can ever forget that novel’s haunting first sentence? “Last night I dreamed I was at Mandalay again”. Just typing it gives me goose bumps and my reaction is based not on reading the novel alone but on the many movie versions of it that I have seen. The earliest was made by Alfred Hitchcock starring Laurence Olivier and Joan Fontaine and the most recent that I saw only a few months ago starred Charles Dance (whose work I have enjoyed and followed ever since I saw him play a very young British officer in The Jewel in the Crown many many years ago) and Emily Fox who is one of Britain’s best-loved actors with the inimitable Diana Rigg playing the chilly Miss Danvers.
So, I was keen to go to Menabilly to see Mandalay for myself. Only, when I arrived at Fowey and made my way down the steep hill that led to the harbor where most of the shops are clustered, I discovered at the Daphne du Maurier Literary Center (yes, there really is such a place!), that the Mandalay of the novel is a private residence and not open to the public. One cannot even catch a glimpse of it from the outside. The village of Menabilly does not have any associations with the author except for some shops that are named after her best-known characters. To get to Menabilly, I would have to walk about 4 to 5 miles as no public buses went to the area in the off-season.
Feeling Homesick in Fowey:
Abandoning my plans to get to Mandalay, I focused on Fowey instead and was left feeling deeply homesick for my beloved Southport. For Fowey reminded me so much of my little village in Connecticut. It shares a similar topography in that the river Fowey runs through the town and empties into the English Channel in the same way that the Mill River runs through Southport and empties into Long Island Sound. On both banks of the river are pretty houses rising in steep tiers along very narrow streets. You have to literally flatten yourself against a wall when a car passes by, as there isn’t enough room for both human and vehicle along the same street in Fowey! I realized all this, of course, only after I arrived at the waterside or what they call the Harbor (we call it the ‘Marina’ at home) where the beautifully sunny day had drawn anglers and sailors alike to the quay to keep them busy at their pursuits.
Along the street leading to the harbor were souvenir stores, bakeries selling the region’s specialty—saffron buns—books and card shops, chocolatiers, exclusive designer boutiques and jewelry showrooms and lots of places selling knick-knacks. I took pictures of the harbor because I wanted to show Llew and Chirselle how similar our lovely Southport is to an English seaside resort. I have said for years that Southport is the closest one can come to an English village in coastal Connecticut and the similarity between Fowey and Southport confirmed those impressions.
Like Southport, Fowey is dominated by the square tower of its local stone church with its gold clock face. Southport, of course, has two landmark churches—the Trinity Episcopal Church and the Congregation Church. Here too, in Fowey, stained glass windows in a Pre-Raphaelite style were visible as I passed by the steep path running along its side. But unlike Southport, Fowey can also boast what looks like a castle with its square turrets rising sharply against the bluest skies. It was only later, at the bus stop when I got into conversation with a local resident that I discovered that it wasn’t a castle at all but a private house—one that had remained in the same family, that of the Trefoys, not just for centuries, but maybe for a millennium! The lady’s son happened to be a stonemason who was at work on the house as keeping it up to snuff after all these years does take a lot of skilled local labor.
She lamented the fact that wages are so low in this part of the UK, that despite having been born in Cornwall and living there all their lives, none of her four children can afford to buy a home in the town which has been taken over by “holiday homes”—meaning seasonal houses that are rented to holiday-makers during the summer.
“I have no neighbors”, the lady lamented, “as the houses next door to me remain shut all year except for the three months of summer. I live alone and if something ever happened to me, no one would know. It’s awful!” she said.
Then, she continued: “My God, things have changed beyond recognition since I was a little girl growing up here. When I was a teenager, if I got into any kind of trouble, before I got home, you could be sure that mother already knew about it as a hundred eyes were watching my every move. Every one knew every one else in those days in the village of Fowey. I could not possibly expect that today—the place is full of strangers".
And still later: "You don’t want to be here in the summer. It’s just crawling with city folk splashing around their money. It’s awful!”
She wasn’t quite done. “And you should see how much they are building here! Who do they expect to buy all these places? Why don’t they try to fill up the empty houses first instead of eating into more parcels of green?”
So there I was getting a lesson on the changing face of Cornwall from someone who certainly knew the area intimately. And this again is similar to Southport, isn’t it, I thought? There were all those condos being built by developers out to make a buck during the real estate boom only to lie untouched. All that lovely unspoiled Southport scenery forever altered by the arrival of those condominium colonies. It’s truly a travesty, I thought. All over the world, the same story…
Back on the bus, I arrived at St. Austell, then connected to another bus to Newquay, but not before I popped down another steep winding road into the town to buy a Mince Pasty from Nile’s Bakery as it was close to lunchtime and I was hungry. I have to say that I have become a convert to the Cornish pasty—probably because they are so much more satisfying and delicious than the ones I have tasted in London through the Cornish Pasty Company and other similar chains. This one was filled with thinly sliced potato and ground beef, the two flavors melded perfectly to make a very delicious lunch indeed.
In the bus, I enjoyed both the passing landscape and my travel companions. Many knew each other and cheery greetings were often exchanged as the bus passed through a village. Some had amusing names such as High Street and Higher Bugle! Many of the little villages had names that started with the letters “Tre’ as a kind of prefix and I believe it has something to do with some ancient language of the region. Women got on with their shopping strolleys to take a bus ride to the nearest Morrisons or closest town. The village houses were small with very modest gardens that were slowly coming into their own for the new growing season. I saw daffodils everywhere in places that made me believe they were wild—though I have always believed that since daffodils grow from bulbs they have to be planted and do not seed spontaneously as wild flowers do.
Back at Newquay, I had only enough time to browse in some of the shops on the main road before it was time for me to catch another bus—this one going to Padstow.
Padding Around Padstow:
Padstow, it is said, would have remained just another small Cornish fishing village were it not for the arrival of TV chef Rick Stein who put it firmly on the country’s culinary map and created a mini-empire in the process. His presence in the town is so ubiquitous that folks something jocularly refer to the village as Padstein. Of course, being a foodie, I was keen to eat in one of his restaurants, but since I never enter restaurants when I am traveling alone, I did not think that this would be a possibility.
In Search of Sir John Betjeman:
Apart from Stein’s celebrity, the town is renowned for the presence of another great literary figure—the poet John Betjeman whose work I have loved for years and with whom I also have a personal connection—many many years ago, when I was but a young teenager in India, I had run into his wife, Lady Penelope Chetwode, in Simla, in Northern India, and ever since then, I had followed his career with interest. Betjeman, of course, passed away a few years ago, but he lies buried in the village of Trebeterick in the graveyard at St. Enodoc Church where his tombstone is engraved with some of his most haunting lines celebrating the beauty of and his fondness for this part of Cornwall which he had made his home for most of his life. I hoped very much to see his grave and make a pilgrimage of sorts to one of my favorite poet’s worlds.
Meanwhile, I walked along the path leading from the harbor to the town where colorful sailing boats bobbed in the water surrounded by a number of equally colorful shop fronts. A visit to the Tourist Information Center told me that my wish would not be fulfilled as Trebeterick lay across the shallow waters of Padstow Bay and I needed to take a ferry to get to the other side. Once on the opposite bank, I would need to cross a golf course and then make my way into the churchyard to see the gravesite. Though the walk would take me less than 20 minutes, once I was on the other side, the ferry had stopped plying for the day at 4.30 pm and I would have to return on the morrow. I could see the general area, however, in which Betjeman lies buried and I have to say that this sight served to satisfy my deepest longings to pay my personal respects to the man that a recent poll named Britain's Favorite Poet. As I gazed upon the tranquil land in which he lies buried, I thought of his own words:
"Lark songs and sea sounds in the air
And splendour, splendour everywhere".
Prideux Place:
Instead, I walked through the little coastal town and on seeing signs for Prideux Place decided to climb the steep hill that led to it. My guide book had informed me that this old pile is a favorite haunt of directors of period films and TV shows as it has all the correct atmospheric details to authenticate a location.
When I did get there, passing through a jumble of narrow winding streets with modest homes whose front doors were painted in strong primary colors, I arrived at a gray granite mass complete with square turrets and a forbidding gateway. There was a sign that informed me that the place was open to visitors only after Easter (I love how Easter is used here as the equivalent of a date though it changes every year depending on the Lenten calendar!)
Right opposite the mansion is a deer park and, as luck would have it, the herds of deer for which the park is known were obligingly close at hand. A few photographs later, I wound my way own the hill, once again, pulling my cashmere scarf closer around my throat for I had begun to feel the damp chill that sudden bouts of rain can bring.
Padstow's Pleasures:
I did not see Padstow at its best. Indeed, the rain clouds that had been swirling all morning finally dropped their moisture as my bus had woven through the narrowest country lanes from Newquay to bring me to this seaside settlement. I had a few hairy moments on the front seat of a double decker as it speeded on the single lane roads occasionally coming upon a car headed in the opposite direction.
In the baffling code of etiquette that exists among drivers on these single-lane country roads, the car backed up for quite a while, as my heart remained caught in my throat, until it found a tiny space in which to wedge itself before the bus that had advanced menacingly upon it, found enough room to squeeze through. This is not the first time that I have been witness to such a happening. Indeed, when Llew has been behind the wheel of tiny rented English cars on our many holidays in this part of the world, we have encountered the same occurrence on a couple of occasions. But never have I watched the spectacle from a double-decker bus—and believe me, I felt as if I were witnessing the denouement of a hair raising drama.
Pasdstow’s lanes weave in and out of little squares each one punctuated with another one of the cafes, delis, gourmet food stores, patisseries and restaurants that comprise the Stein empire. Many of them were winding down for the day as it was close to 5 pm. I keep forgetting that in this country, as a rule, shops still close at five, though Londoners might be used to later closings. Once the shutters come down and the cleaning begins inside, towns suddenly become shrouded in mourning for all the gusto goes out of them like a balloon that has been suddenly pierced. Apart from the suddenness with which evening descended upon Padstow in this manner, I was also conscious of the fact that last bus out to Newquay was scheduled to leave at 6. 35 pm from the harbor. Not wanting to miss it, I made my way back towards Rick Stein’s Fish and Chips Restaurant and finding that it was almost as casual as a fast food place, I made an exception to my rule and decided to dine alone.
The Stein Empire:
As soon as our bus had disgorged its passengers on to the quayside at Padstow, the presence of Rick Stein was everywhere. Rick Stein’s Fish and Chips is on the harbor front and you cannot miss it despite its very modest exterior. Since it only opened at 5 pm, I resolved to return there and have my dinner inside.
When I did get there, I foudn that the restaurant had opened fifteen minutes earlier at 5 pm and already had a few early diners seated within. Done entirely in white subway tile (as it is known in New York) with occasional touches of navy blue as in the fish tiles that march around the restaurant, the interior is simplicity at its most classy.
I settled myself down at a wooden bench and awaited a waitress who brought me a menu. I had decided to have what everyone else was having—the Winter Special Cod and Chips with bread and butter and a pot of tea—I chose peppermint—all for 6. 40 pounds. Nothing could have been more welcome for Padstow had been an overall chilly experience for me and my insides craved the warmth of good food and drink.
They were not disappointed. When my meal arrived, in a thick paper container, I found a fillet of cod superbly fried in the lightest, crispest batter I had ever seen or tasted. It simply melted in my mouth. Indeed, it was so good that I did not even need to request tartar sauce. My chips, however, were sorely disappointing. I had, quite obviously, been given the last scraping from a batch for I received nothing but a handful of tiny fried crispy bits and but for three or four real chips, i.e. chewy meaty larger fries, the chips were a disaster.
I debated whether or not I should point this out to the waitress and then, being accustomed to American ways, I could not resist it, and showed them to her. She shrugged and appeared unable to deal with my complaint. The fish was hearty, however, and the few chips that I had eaten, had filled me up.
Then I saw her approach the chef and have a word with him and, a few minutes later, she returned to my table to say, “Chef would like to know if you’d like another small portion of chips”. I thanked her for the offer but declined as I was already too full and there was still my steaming tea to be drunk. In the end, I was grateful that though she did not apologize to me for what was obviously a huge culinary faux-pas, especially in a restaurant of such an acclaimed celebrity chef, she did at least try to address my complaint and make amends.
I did board the 6. 35 pm bus and was the sole passenger in it for almost the entire ride. When we arrived at Watergate Bay, another part of Cornwall associated with a TV celebrity chef—Jamie Oliver’s Fifteen Cornwall is located here--I looked everywhere for it but saw no signs. When I asked the driver if he had an idea where it might be, he responded with the kind of candor that is characteristic only of the English.
“Would you happen to know where Jamie Oliver’s restaurant is?”
“’Fraid not. Not the kind of place I could afford”.
So, while I was still mulling over his answer, the bus swung upwards along the cliffs and in just a little while deposited me at the Newquay bus stop. When I finally did find a strong enough signal, I had made telephonic contact with Alice of NYU who informed me that our student coaches had arrived there at 4 pm, leaving them with ample time to explore Towan Beach.
We made plans to meet at St. Christopher’s Inn and when I did get there at 8pm she arrived soon enough and led me down to The New Harbor Restaurant located at the water’s edge. There, I joined more colleagues, David Crout and Valerie Wells, who had just ordered a bottle of wine and were nibbling on some bread. They did ask me to order as well but I was still stuffed with my own dinner and decided to sip on a glass of white Bordeaux instead and then join them for dessert.
I wished I hadn’t eaten already when I saw their offerings which were simply enormous and superbly presented. Over fresh seafood (cod and plaice and crab for starters), they had a lovely meal while I looked on. When it came time for dessert, however, I caved in. It was close to 10 pm anyway and I had eaten at 5, so I was ready for some ‘pudding’. I chose a creamy dreamy Irish Coffee Crème Brulee which was exceptional—the brown sugar crust concealing a scrumptious custard that was delicately flavored with Irish whisky. I have to say that I have never tasted so novel a creme brulee and I thought so much of Chriselle as crème brulee is her favorite dessert!
When I did make my way up the hill to St. Christopher’s Inn to retrieve my bag, I was ready to wind down for the day. I checked in with the rest of the group at Sunnyside Hotel which overlooked the beach—though, sadly, I no longer had the stunning view of the last couple of days. My room was freezing and it was only after I fiddled around with the controls on the radiator that it started to feel better.
On a last literary note I wrote this blog and fell asleep after midnight, mindful of the fact that we had decided to meet at Pistachio Restaurant located on the ground floor of the hotel for a full English breakfast at 8. 15 am.
In Western Cornwall—Penzance, Mousehole and St. Michael’s Mount.
Thursday, March 5, 2009
Cornwall
I had a rather restless night. High winds blew fiercely against my windowpane and I was very cold. Grabbing another comforter from a neighboring bed at the hostel, I tucked it around me and tried to return to sleep. It is a relief to have the 10-bedded dorm room with en suite bathroom entirely to myself. This is the sort of luxury for which you pay pennies and get massive returns.
Room with a View:
The sounds of the Atlantic’s breakers reached my ears and when I sat up in bed and turned slightly to take in the view, I was dumbstruck. Dawn was just breaking over the eastern skies that were tinged a pale orange. Soft jade waves lightly bordered with creamy surf flowed lazily towards shore. I could have gazed upon this scene without moving a muscle for hours. But though it was only 6.45 am, I decided to get ready to face my day as I had a lot of ground to cover.
Breakfast was a delightful affair as the sea kept me company outside my window. Over muesli, toast with butter and apricot jam and instant coffee (the only discordant note), I de-stressed as I watched the relentless waves make their journey to the sand-covered rocks of the cove. I took it really easy, savoring each bite, relishing each sip, but all too soon, it was time to pick up my backpack and rain slicker and leave for the bus station to start my long journey to Penzance.
Off to Penance:
I caught the bus an hour earlier today (at 8. 55 am) after purchasing an Explorer ticket for 6. 50 pounds. The journey to Truro was the same as yesterday’s except that the sun was out, shining full and glorious upon Cornwall, and bringing into sharp focus the lone stray horses in pasture, so similar to the ones I had seen in Ben Nicholson’s paintings in the Tate St. Ives yesterday—and I understood afresh the sources of his inspiration.
Exploring Truro:
When we arrived in Truro, I decided to explore the town a bit and my rambles took me towards the lovely Cathedral with its five spires. I got some beautiful shots of it from a bridge that forded a shallow stream en route to an antiques store in which I browsed. A flea market selling vintage items also caught my attention, and then it was time to catch the 10. 35 bus for the long ride to Penzance.
I enjoyed observing my traveling companions en route for they spanned many decades. The high school kids and the college students (most from Truro College) gave way to the elderly (loads of them) out on shopping jaunts into the bigger cities from their tiny pastoral villages. There is a uniformly polite interaction between them and the driver (Pleases and Thank yous every single time) and a tremendous patience as the driver waits for them to hop on and alight—the likes of which would be unseen in London where life is so much quicker paced. I got talking to a nice man who summed it up when he told me that in Cornwall everything can be achieved tomorrow and he said that when you have lived in such a place for a while, you grow accustomed to its lifestyle.
The Fabled Cornish Landscape:
I found the passing scene outside my window so fascinating that not for a moment did I doze off. Indeed, I can say that I saw Cornwall from a double decker bus and a better way to see it would be tough to find. The buses take rural routes that pass by villages that Time forgot. You see fields lying in fallow, daffodils blooming along wayside hedges (surely they can’t be wild, can they?), horses in pasture, the remnants of tin mines and their smoke stacks, occasional towns with their familiar high street retailers and everywhere the inevitable bakeries selling Cornish pasties and luxurious cream teas. This is the quintessential Cornish countryside and viewing it in this fashion was a dream come true for me. And then, of course, there is the sea that is never too far away. It is like being on New York's Long Island where you are always just a stone’s throw away from the North or South shores.
First Glimpse of St. Michael's Mount:
And so it was that we turned a corner en route to Penzance and there was Mount St. Michael looking for all the world like its French counterpart--Mont St. Michel--that sits in the English Channel just off the coast of Brittany. Llew and I had been there many years ago in the company of our friend Patrick LeClerc and the memory of that sunny day was strongly with me as we approached the bustling township of Penzance made famous by Gilbert and Sullivan through their opera The Pirates of Penzance.
On to Mousehole:
But I did not linger long in this area deciding instead to take the bus to Mousehole (pronounced 'Mowzall'). Of course, by this time, it was 12. 40 and I had spent the entire morning on a bus…but what better way to see Cornwall on a relentlessly windy day than through the heated interior of a comfortable bus? I mean the sun was gorgeous but the wind made me miserable as it whipped around me in icy gusts flinging my hair all over my face and tugging on my hat. When I realized that a bus to Mousehole would follow not too much later, I decided to board it and off I went.
None of the books I had read had mentioned anything about the drive along the coastal road from Penzance westwards to Mousehole; but though short and brief, I would rate it as one of the best I have ever taken and in this category I include such world-famous rides as the one along the Italian Amalfi Coast from Naples to Sorrento, the Pacific Coast Highway from San Francisco to San Diego and along the Hanna Coast on the island of Kauai in Hawaii. I mean it was breathtakingly staggering. The sea was a much deeper blue--almost aquamarine--than it was at Newquay and I understood for the first time why they call it the Cornish Riviera; for the blue of the water was as startling as that of France’s Cote d’Azur at Cannes or Nice!
I could not get enough of it as I kept my eyes peeled. The bus wound slowly along the low-lying hills past neat sea-facing cottages but each was more modest than the next and there was nothing showy or ostentatious about these homes that hugged the waterside as might have been expected of similar homes in Malibu or Carmel in California.
Along the way, we passed by the town of Newlyn, almost as famous as St. Ives for its own artists’ colony that led to the creation of the Newlyn Artists’ Circle. Their works are also on display in the renowned museum in the town whose cove is full of colorful fishing boats that bring in the famed Cornish seafood.
Within twenty minutes, we were in Mousehole, the tiny village in which the Welsh poet Dylan Thomas (“Do not go gentle into that good night, Old age should burn and rave at close of day; Rage, rage against the dying of the light.”) spent his honeymoon and called ‘the loveliest village in England’. Now I know that a lot of English villages claim this distinction. My own particular favorite still continues to be Castle Combe in Wiltshire. Thomas' new marriage must certainly have lent enchantment to his view! Though undoubtedly pretty, in that it clings to the softly rising hills in tiers and overlooks a jeweled ocean, I cannot imagine why Thomas was so taken by this place. It is very similar to all the Cornish villages I had traveled through all morning and can boast nothing to distinguish it so spectacularly from the rest.
Still, I decided to stroll at random through its ‘town’ and discovered that there wasn’t much of a town to explore. The few stores that dotted its narrow winding streets were mostly closed. At Jessie’s Dairy, I bought a take-out Steak and Potatoes Pasty for 2. 60 pounds that was made to Grandma’s recipe and was scrumptious. Not only was it gigantic but also it was stuffed to the gills with a very tasty stew-like stuffing that was hot and peppery and very satisfying. I felt so invigorated that I almost walked along the Cornish coastal pathway from Mousehole back to Penzance but then decided that I would save time and take the bus to allow myself to get in good time to my next destination—the village of Marazion from where I intended to reach St. Michael’s Mount. Already I could see it in the distance in Mount’s Bay and my desire to get there was suddenly fierce.
So I hopped on to the 1.25 bus and was back in Penzance at 2.00, which left me enough time to buy a few souvenir postcards and find my way down the High Street back to the Bus station for the 2. 15 bus to Marazion.
Marazion and Mount St. Michael:
The bus arrived at Marazion at exactly 2. 30 pm. I had stopped briefly in the Tourist Information Center in Penzance, obtained a map and was told that the Causeway that linked the island with the mainland and would allow me to walk across Mount’s Bay to get to where the castle and the Cathedral of Saint Michael were perched would be accessible by foot only after 3.30 pm when the tide receded. Not to be daunted, I boarded the bus and enjoyed the uninhibited view of a rainbow that painted itself magnificently against the cloud- filled sky. A passing storm had generated this natural wonder; but then the clouds had parted leaving the rainbow to stain the sky as the sun bore down upon us again dispelling the awful feeling of discomfort which the wind continued to create.
Marazion is tiny, a very small one-horse town (if that). At Marazion Square, I tried to find a few stores that would allow me to while away the time until 3. 30 (for I did want to give walking across to the Mount a try) but there were none. It seemed sensible to make my way down to the waterfront and finding a few stone steps very conveniently located, I began my slow descent to the pebbly beach, much in the manner of Louisa in Jane Austen’s Mansfield Park. The wind did not stop whipping itself around me, much to my annoyance.
I climbed a small rock called Chapel Rock and kept waiting for the tide to recede. It was almost
3 pm and I wondered whether I really ought to chance it and try to ford the chasm between mainland and rocky island. What kept me dithering was the fact that the entire island was closed (it being the off-season, it is only open to the public on Tuesdays and Fridays). I wondered if it was worth making the trip only to have to walk along the quay on the other side and do nothing more exciting.
While I was debating my options, I sat down on the rocks and enjoyed the mild afternoon sunshine and the cries of the seagulls. This was the Cornwall for which thousands of tourists descend upon this southwestern corner of England each year. And here I was--having the panorama all to myself. I hugged the scene closely to my heart and stored it in my memory...St. Michael’s Mount rising sharply not a few hundred meters in front of me, a couple of children playing with their dad on the shore, a black Labrador chasing a ball obligingly for its owner and those perpetually encircling seagulls whooping lustily at the sky. I soaked it all in as I sat in tranquil meditation thinking how fortunate I had been to undertake this journey and to arrive at so enchanting a destination.
Then, it was almost 3. 30 pm and I decided against the walk to the island—not because I was tired but because I felt that being unable to climb to the cathedral or the castle made the entire excursion pointless. I nipped into the Post Office instead, back at the bus stop, where I found postcards and a Cornwall magnet (featuring a Cornish cream tea!), then hopped on to the 4. 05 bus and made it back to Penzance in time to catch my 4. 20 pm Bus Number 18 back to Truro.
Savoring Cornwall:
It had been an amazing day, filled with sights that would stay with me, I was sure, for the rest of my life. In the summer, humanity must be converging upon this part of the country in a manner than can only be oppressive. So, I was grateful to be able to savor these spaces when I had them entirely to myself. For me, these spots are not just venues that I have visited, but stops on a journey that have served to make me conscious and appreciative of life’s simplest blessings.
Along the long ride to Truro, I continued to enjoy the Cornish countryside. After a ten-minute wait, I caught Bus Number 90 back to Newquay that entwined itself around tiny villages as we lost light rapidly. I was at the Newquay bus station by 7 pm and I spent the evening transcribing an interview (I knew I would use my laptop after all and get some work done) as I sipped Cornish cider in my room, munched Thai sweet red chilli crisps and then hammered out this blog as I relived my day.
The sound of the Atlantic’s breakers still echo in my ear as I get ready for bed. I can think of no better location for a writer than a room that overlooks the Atlantic in this most idyllic of fashions and I felt blessed that, for a few days at least, this was my room with a view!
Cornwall
I had a rather restless night. High winds blew fiercely against my windowpane and I was very cold. Grabbing another comforter from a neighboring bed at the hostel, I tucked it around me and tried to return to sleep. It is a relief to have the 10-bedded dorm room with en suite bathroom entirely to myself. This is the sort of luxury for which you pay pennies and get massive returns.
Room with a View:
The sounds of the Atlantic’s breakers reached my ears and when I sat up in bed and turned slightly to take in the view, I was dumbstruck. Dawn was just breaking over the eastern skies that were tinged a pale orange. Soft jade waves lightly bordered with creamy surf flowed lazily towards shore. I could have gazed upon this scene without moving a muscle for hours. But though it was only 6.45 am, I decided to get ready to face my day as I had a lot of ground to cover.
Breakfast was a delightful affair as the sea kept me company outside my window. Over muesli, toast with butter and apricot jam and instant coffee (the only discordant note), I de-stressed as I watched the relentless waves make their journey to the sand-covered rocks of the cove. I took it really easy, savoring each bite, relishing each sip, but all too soon, it was time to pick up my backpack and rain slicker and leave for the bus station to start my long journey to Penzance.
Off to Penance:
I caught the bus an hour earlier today (at 8. 55 am) after purchasing an Explorer ticket for 6. 50 pounds. The journey to Truro was the same as yesterday’s except that the sun was out, shining full and glorious upon Cornwall, and bringing into sharp focus the lone stray horses in pasture, so similar to the ones I had seen in Ben Nicholson’s paintings in the Tate St. Ives yesterday—and I understood afresh the sources of his inspiration.
Exploring Truro:
When we arrived in Truro, I decided to explore the town a bit and my rambles took me towards the lovely Cathedral with its five spires. I got some beautiful shots of it from a bridge that forded a shallow stream en route to an antiques store in which I browsed. A flea market selling vintage items also caught my attention, and then it was time to catch the 10. 35 bus for the long ride to Penzance.
I enjoyed observing my traveling companions en route for they spanned many decades. The high school kids and the college students (most from Truro College) gave way to the elderly (loads of them) out on shopping jaunts into the bigger cities from their tiny pastoral villages. There is a uniformly polite interaction between them and the driver (Pleases and Thank yous every single time) and a tremendous patience as the driver waits for them to hop on and alight—the likes of which would be unseen in London where life is so much quicker paced. I got talking to a nice man who summed it up when he told me that in Cornwall everything can be achieved tomorrow and he said that when you have lived in such a place for a while, you grow accustomed to its lifestyle.
The Fabled Cornish Landscape:
I found the passing scene outside my window so fascinating that not for a moment did I doze off. Indeed, I can say that I saw Cornwall from a double decker bus and a better way to see it would be tough to find. The buses take rural routes that pass by villages that Time forgot. You see fields lying in fallow, daffodils blooming along wayside hedges (surely they can’t be wild, can they?), horses in pasture, the remnants of tin mines and their smoke stacks, occasional towns with their familiar high street retailers and everywhere the inevitable bakeries selling Cornish pasties and luxurious cream teas. This is the quintessential Cornish countryside and viewing it in this fashion was a dream come true for me. And then, of course, there is the sea that is never too far away. It is like being on New York's Long Island where you are always just a stone’s throw away from the North or South shores.
First Glimpse of St. Michael's Mount:
And so it was that we turned a corner en route to Penzance and there was Mount St. Michael looking for all the world like its French counterpart--Mont St. Michel--that sits in the English Channel just off the coast of Brittany. Llew and I had been there many years ago in the company of our friend Patrick LeClerc and the memory of that sunny day was strongly with me as we approached the bustling township of Penzance made famous by Gilbert and Sullivan through their opera The Pirates of Penzance.
On to Mousehole:
But I did not linger long in this area deciding instead to take the bus to Mousehole (pronounced 'Mowzall'). Of course, by this time, it was 12. 40 and I had spent the entire morning on a bus…but what better way to see Cornwall on a relentlessly windy day than through the heated interior of a comfortable bus? I mean the sun was gorgeous but the wind made me miserable as it whipped around me in icy gusts flinging my hair all over my face and tugging on my hat. When I realized that a bus to Mousehole would follow not too much later, I decided to board it and off I went.
None of the books I had read had mentioned anything about the drive along the coastal road from Penzance westwards to Mousehole; but though short and brief, I would rate it as one of the best I have ever taken and in this category I include such world-famous rides as the one along the Italian Amalfi Coast from Naples to Sorrento, the Pacific Coast Highway from San Francisco to San Diego and along the Hanna Coast on the island of Kauai in Hawaii. I mean it was breathtakingly staggering. The sea was a much deeper blue--almost aquamarine--than it was at Newquay and I understood for the first time why they call it the Cornish Riviera; for the blue of the water was as startling as that of France’s Cote d’Azur at Cannes or Nice!
I could not get enough of it as I kept my eyes peeled. The bus wound slowly along the low-lying hills past neat sea-facing cottages but each was more modest than the next and there was nothing showy or ostentatious about these homes that hugged the waterside as might have been expected of similar homes in Malibu or Carmel in California.
Along the way, we passed by the town of Newlyn, almost as famous as St. Ives for its own artists’ colony that led to the creation of the Newlyn Artists’ Circle. Their works are also on display in the renowned museum in the town whose cove is full of colorful fishing boats that bring in the famed Cornish seafood.
Within twenty minutes, we were in Mousehole, the tiny village in which the Welsh poet Dylan Thomas (“Do not go gentle into that good night, Old age should burn and rave at close of day; Rage, rage against the dying of the light.”) spent his honeymoon and called ‘the loveliest village in England’. Now I know that a lot of English villages claim this distinction. My own particular favorite still continues to be Castle Combe in Wiltshire. Thomas' new marriage must certainly have lent enchantment to his view! Though undoubtedly pretty, in that it clings to the softly rising hills in tiers and overlooks a jeweled ocean, I cannot imagine why Thomas was so taken by this place. It is very similar to all the Cornish villages I had traveled through all morning and can boast nothing to distinguish it so spectacularly from the rest.
Still, I decided to stroll at random through its ‘town’ and discovered that there wasn’t much of a town to explore. The few stores that dotted its narrow winding streets were mostly closed. At Jessie’s Dairy, I bought a take-out Steak and Potatoes Pasty for 2. 60 pounds that was made to Grandma’s recipe and was scrumptious. Not only was it gigantic but also it was stuffed to the gills with a very tasty stew-like stuffing that was hot and peppery and very satisfying. I felt so invigorated that I almost walked along the Cornish coastal pathway from Mousehole back to Penzance but then decided that I would save time and take the bus to allow myself to get in good time to my next destination—the village of Marazion from where I intended to reach St. Michael’s Mount. Already I could see it in the distance in Mount’s Bay and my desire to get there was suddenly fierce.
So I hopped on to the 1.25 bus and was back in Penzance at 2.00, which left me enough time to buy a few souvenir postcards and find my way down the High Street back to the Bus station for the 2. 15 bus to Marazion.
Marazion and Mount St. Michael:
The bus arrived at Marazion at exactly 2. 30 pm. I had stopped briefly in the Tourist Information Center in Penzance, obtained a map and was told that the Causeway that linked the island with the mainland and would allow me to walk across Mount’s Bay to get to where the castle and the Cathedral of Saint Michael were perched would be accessible by foot only after 3.30 pm when the tide receded. Not to be daunted, I boarded the bus and enjoyed the uninhibited view of a rainbow that painted itself magnificently against the cloud- filled sky. A passing storm had generated this natural wonder; but then the clouds had parted leaving the rainbow to stain the sky as the sun bore down upon us again dispelling the awful feeling of discomfort which the wind continued to create.
Marazion is tiny, a very small one-horse town (if that). At Marazion Square, I tried to find a few stores that would allow me to while away the time until 3. 30 (for I did want to give walking across to the Mount a try) but there were none. It seemed sensible to make my way down to the waterfront and finding a few stone steps very conveniently located, I began my slow descent to the pebbly beach, much in the manner of Louisa in Jane Austen’s Mansfield Park. The wind did not stop whipping itself around me, much to my annoyance.
I climbed a small rock called Chapel Rock and kept waiting for the tide to recede. It was almost
3 pm and I wondered whether I really ought to chance it and try to ford the chasm between mainland and rocky island. What kept me dithering was the fact that the entire island was closed (it being the off-season, it is only open to the public on Tuesdays and Fridays). I wondered if it was worth making the trip only to have to walk along the quay on the other side and do nothing more exciting.
While I was debating my options, I sat down on the rocks and enjoyed the mild afternoon sunshine and the cries of the seagulls. This was the Cornwall for which thousands of tourists descend upon this southwestern corner of England each year. And here I was--having the panorama all to myself. I hugged the scene closely to my heart and stored it in my memory...St. Michael’s Mount rising sharply not a few hundred meters in front of me, a couple of children playing with their dad on the shore, a black Labrador chasing a ball obligingly for its owner and those perpetually encircling seagulls whooping lustily at the sky. I soaked it all in as I sat in tranquil meditation thinking how fortunate I had been to undertake this journey and to arrive at so enchanting a destination.
Then, it was almost 3. 30 pm and I decided against the walk to the island—not because I was tired but because I felt that being unable to climb to the cathedral or the castle made the entire excursion pointless. I nipped into the Post Office instead, back at the bus stop, where I found postcards and a Cornwall magnet (featuring a Cornish cream tea!), then hopped on to the 4. 05 bus and made it back to Penzance in time to catch my 4. 20 pm Bus Number 18 back to Truro.
Savoring Cornwall:
It had been an amazing day, filled with sights that would stay with me, I was sure, for the rest of my life. In the summer, humanity must be converging upon this part of the country in a manner than can only be oppressive. So, I was grateful to be able to savor these spaces when I had them entirely to myself. For me, these spots are not just venues that I have visited, but stops on a journey that have served to make me conscious and appreciative of life’s simplest blessings.
Along the long ride to Truro, I continued to enjoy the Cornish countryside. After a ten-minute wait, I caught Bus Number 90 back to Newquay that entwined itself around tiny villages as we lost light rapidly. I was at the Newquay bus station by 7 pm and I spent the evening transcribing an interview (I knew I would use my laptop after all and get some work done) as I sipped Cornish cider in my room, munched Thai sweet red chilli crisps and then hammered out this blog as I relived my day.
The sound of the Atlantic’s breakers still echo in my ear as I get ready for bed. I can think of no better location for a writer than a room that overlooks the Atlantic in this most idyllic of fashions and I felt blessed that, for a few days at least, this was my room with a view!
Captivated by Cornwall--Discovering St. Ives
Wednesday, March 4, 2009
St. Ives, Cornwall
Departure for Cornwall:
As always happens when I have to awake in the middle of the night, I slept sporadically throughout and awoke spontaneously at 2 am. It was I who called Llew to tell him not to bother to call me as I had awoken already. We chatted for a bit. He worried at the thought of my going out into the London night at 2. 30 am but I reassured him that the city is buzzing all night long. I got out of my building at 2.45 only when I saw the N8 bus a few meters away. This allowed me to cross the street and hop right into it without having to wait alone on High Holborn at that hour.
At Victoria, there were late-night commuters hauling their strolleys behind them all along the street leading to the Easybus stand where an older couple were already ahead of me waiting for our coach which arrived at 3. 30 am. Because there was no traffic at all, we reached Stanstead at 4. 48 and within minutes, I was all checked-in and waiting at the gate for my 6. 30 am flight to Newquay.
Touch Down in Cornwall:
Dawn had already broken over Southwestern England as our aircraft lost height on its descent into Cornwall. I was so pleased to be able to spy the biodomes of the Eden Project from the air. Indeed, though the sky was thickly overcast, Cornwall looked bright green at that early hour though I did discern some patches of leftover snow especially over Bodmin Moor. The landscape was crisscrossed with tarred roads that ran through it like narrow black ribbons and occasional traffic was easily visible on them. Then, we were touching down into the wilderness of Newquay airport (at exactly 7. 30 am) and since my bus to the City Center was not for another half hour, I sat in the airport lobby and waited.
It was horribly cold outside today and my expectations of mild Cornish weather were shattered as the icy wind whipped around me. I was so grateful for my warm layered clothing and was thrilled to be able to settle down in the heated coach that took me to Newquay Bus Station from where I followed directions on the five-minute walk to St. Christopher’s Inn where I had a reservation. The sound of the thundering Atlantic waves reached my ears and when I caught my first glimpse of the sea, I also caught my breath, as the pale jade expanse was startlingly beautiful.
At St. Christopher’s Inn, I discovered that check-in time was 2 pm. I could leave my bag there, however, and after extracting my camera and the few essentials I would need for the day, I left it in the care of a young staff attendant to look for the Tourist Information Office as it had just gone 9 am. However, when I did find the Office, I realized that they were closed. It is still off-season in Cornwall and many seasonal businesses remained shut.
A lovely man named Allan in the next-door Council Office did, however, go online to help me find bus schedules and other information. It was not long before I was seated on the bus making my way to Truro, a junction of sorts, from which I needed to connect to another bus. All along the way, I enjoyed the Cornish landscape. Our bus wove lazily through tiny villages somewhat pretentiously and amusingly named High Street and Higher Bugle! Fields with lone horses and new-born black lambs prancing in the early spring sunshine passed outside my window. For indeed Spring had arrived in Cornwall and daffodils were everywhere. Leaving the built-in recesses of Newquay behind with its garish casinos, amusement arcades and surfer's supplies stores was a relief for rural Cornwall was serene and spiritual and a salve to my travel-weary senses. It wasn't long before we arrived in Truro and I was able to get a quick look around the market.
Stopping in Truro:
Truro is a bustling town with a cathedral whose spires reach out above the rooftops of uniformly built houses. In the market square, as I was browsing around the stalls, it suddenly came down again ferociously, but just as suddenly, the rain stopped and it was then that I realized that it wasn’t rain at all but hailstones the size of small peas. No wonder the local folk were shaking their heads in bewilderment. It appears that such occurrences are rather rare in these parts and they were quite perplexed by the strangeness of the weather.
Arrival at St. Ives:
Back on the bus to St. Ives, I enjoyed the sun once again—in fact, I have rarely seen such mood swings in the people as impacted by the weather! When we finally reached the town of St. Ives, the sun had disappeared behind a dark cloud and it looked as if it would pour again any second. I decided that it would be a perfect time to closet myself inside the Tate St. Ives which, at any rate, is the chief attraction of the town other than its beaches. Within five minutes, I was at the waterfront and there was Porthmeor Beach with the fierce waves bringing froth and foam to the sand’s edge. The setting of the museum is indeed stunning--a very futuristic space built in 1993. I was grateful for my Metropolitan Museum connections that got me in for free and saved me the 12. 50 pounds that it would have cost to see both the Tate St. Ives and the Barbara Hepworth House and Garden for which a joint ticket is issued.
Exploring Tate St. Ives and the Barbara Hepworth Museums:
The Tate St.Ives does not have a permanent collection. Though created to showcase the work of the Cornish artists who made the area their home and set up an artists’ colony there as early as the 40s, it specializes in setting up periodic exhibitions that focus on the work of the major figures who contributed to the area’s development as a significant artistic Mecca. Leading this movement was Hepworth herself and her husband Ben Nicholson as well as other artists such as Luke Frost and Bernard Leach and it was the work of some of these artists that I saw for the first time today. Apart from their very abstract canvasses, the museum boasts a really singular design and a charming café on the top floor whose picture windows afford some of the most stunning views of the ocean and the lands that embrace it on this sheltered cove.
When I had taken my fill of photographs from this vantage point, I went out in search of Barbara Hepworth’s Studio and Garden and spent the next half hour taking in the individualistic vision that led to her arresting body of work. Ranging in size from small tabletop pieces to gigantic compositions that grace the garden that she personally designed and planted, it was interesting to see her workspace and the tools she used to accomplish her unique designs. Without the use of any machines, she was able to fashion abstract shapes and forms and give them depth and a character that was entirely her own. I shuddered to learn that she passed away in a fire that engulfed her home. Apparently, she was asleep while it broke out leaving her oblivious to it.
Becoming a Beach Bum:
Then, I was out on the cobbled streets of St. Ives enjoying the seaside ambience of this renowned beach resort, checking out its stores, enjoying the ‘tasters’ passed out by the old-fashioned chocolate shops and honey and marmalade stores, buying myself a genuine Cornish pasty from a small bakery that the locals patronized (I ordered a “Premier Steak” because that’s what I heard a regular Cornish customer order) and enjoying its warmth, the crispness of its crust, the flavor of its filling and thinking of the origin of this most regional of foods—the need for Cornish miners to fix themselves a meal that could be eaten underground without silverware. In fact, I remembered that in one of her recent novels, Anita Desai had talked about the Mexican empanada having originated when Cornish miners moved from the tin mines of Cornwall to the silver mines of Mexico in search of work taking the pasty with them and indigenizing it for local consumption.
Be that as it may, the town was a delight to stroll through and I was charmed by everything I saw. Best of all, I had it to myself. Though many of the restaurants were still closed, there was enough of a buzz to make the place feel lived in without becoming overwhelming. I had seagulls for company along the railings that separate rock and cliff from foaming breakers. I spied Godrevy Lighthouse on an island in the distance—the lighthouse that inspired Virginia Woolf’s stream-of-consciousness novel To The Lighthouse. I took pictures galore, trying to capture, as the artists had done through their paints and canvases, the light, the angles of the rooftops and the colors of the sand, the ocean and the sky in that particular brightness which only Cornwall seems to possess.
I walked through the entire curve of the harbor, stopping to buy postcards and searching for magnets (but finding none that took my fancy). I knocked around narrow cobbled streets that were reminiscent of Mykonnos’ ‘chora’ (Old Town) for me with its winding roads, small picturesque balconies and shop windows. I guess all beach resorts have the same laid back ambience, the same combination of bleached sea whiteness with the shocking dashes of color that come from kites and inflatable toys and beach wear. All of it was delightful and I soaked it in, glad to find myself finally in Cornwall where I have often dreamed of being.
Missing the Sea:
I realized, with a sudden pang, that the ocean took me sharply home to Southport and my beloved Connecticut coastline, for I have indeed missed the sea and my close proximity to it in the landlocked environs of London. All my life, I have lived close to the sea-side. In the Bombay suburb of Bandra where I grew up, I could walk to the promenade of the Arabian Sea in three minutes and in Southport, the harbor and the marina of Long Island Sound are similarly close at hand. The salt tang of the Atlantic and the waves that licked the St. Ives’ shores reminded me that these same ones had originated in the same ocean not too far from my permanent home in America and on that nostalgic and very sentimental mode of contemplation, I passed the rest of the afternoon.
A Commuting Faux-Pas:
Then, at close to five, after I had passed by a stone church and its adjoining Memorial Gardens filled with more vivid primroses and daffodils, I climbed uphill towards the bus station and caught the 5 pm bus to Truro where I arrived at 6.30. I had a half hour wait before I made my connection at 7 pm for a bus back to Newquay but that was where I wasn’t thinking right. I waited at the same place where I had alighted from St. Ives instead of at the gate where my bus to Newquay would depart. This meant that I missed the last bus and had to take one run by the Western Greyhound bus service, which did not leave for another 45 minutes. It had grown uncomfortably cold by this time and all the major stores had closed down leaving me with no place to shelter in while I awaited the bus.
Finally, I found the foyer of a hotel called Manning’s and there I settled for 20 minutes before the coach did trundle along and take it with me. I nodded off for a bit and arrived at Newquay at 9 pm and made my way to the inn where the bar was lively with youngsters.
I, however, was pooped and settling into my room, I wrote this blog and went straight to bed.
St. Ives, Cornwall
Departure for Cornwall:
As always happens when I have to awake in the middle of the night, I slept sporadically throughout and awoke spontaneously at 2 am. It was I who called Llew to tell him not to bother to call me as I had awoken already. We chatted for a bit. He worried at the thought of my going out into the London night at 2. 30 am but I reassured him that the city is buzzing all night long. I got out of my building at 2.45 only when I saw the N8 bus a few meters away. This allowed me to cross the street and hop right into it without having to wait alone on High Holborn at that hour.
At Victoria, there were late-night commuters hauling their strolleys behind them all along the street leading to the Easybus stand where an older couple were already ahead of me waiting for our coach which arrived at 3. 30 am. Because there was no traffic at all, we reached Stanstead at 4. 48 and within minutes, I was all checked-in and waiting at the gate for my 6. 30 am flight to Newquay.
Touch Down in Cornwall:
Dawn had already broken over Southwestern England as our aircraft lost height on its descent into Cornwall. I was so pleased to be able to spy the biodomes of the Eden Project from the air. Indeed, though the sky was thickly overcast, Cornwall looked bright green at that early hour though I did discern some patches of leftover snow especially over Bodmin Moor. The landscape was crisscrossed with tarred roads that ran through it like narrow black ribbons and occasional traffic was easily visible on them. Then, we were touching down into the wilderness of Newquay airport (at exactly 7. 30 am) and since my bus to the City Center was not for another half hour, I sat in the airport lobby and waited.
It was horribly cold outside today and my expectations of mild Cornish weather were shattered as the icy wind whipped around me. I was so grateful for my warm layered clothing and was thrilled to be able to settle down in the heated coach that took me to Newquay Bus Station from where I followed directions on the five-minute walk to St. Christopher’s Inn where I had a reservation. The sound of the thundering Atlantic waves reached my ears and when I caught my first glimpse of the sea, I also caught my breath, as the pale jade expanse was startlingly beautiful.
At St. Christopher’s Inn, I discovered that check-in time was 2 pm. I could leave my bag there, however, and after extracting my camera and the few essentials I would need for the day, I left it in the care of a young staff attendant to look for the Tourist Information Office as it had just gone 9 am. However, when I did find the Office, I realized that they were closed. It is still off-season in Cornwall and many seasonal businesses remained shut.
A lovely man named Allan in the next-door Council Office did, however, go online to help me find bus schedules and other information. It was not long before I was seated on the bus making my way to Truro, a junction of sorts, from which I needed to connect to another bus. All along the way, I enjoyed the Cornish landscape. Our bus wove lazily through tiny villages somewhat pretentiously and amusingly named High Street and Higher Bugle! Fields with lone horses and new-born black lambs prancing in the early spring sunshine passed outside my window. For indeed Spring had arrived in Cornwall and daffodils were everywhere. Leaving the built-in recesses of Newquay behind with its garish casinos, amusement arcades and surfer's supplies stores was a relief for rural Cornwall was serene and spiritual and a salve to my travel-weary senses. It wasn't long before we arrived in Truro and I was able to get a quick look around the market.
Stopping in Truro:
Truro is a bustling town with a cathedral whose spires reach out above the rooftops of uniformly built houses. In the market square, as I was browsing around the stalls, it suddenly came down again ferociously, but just as suddenly, the rain stopped and it was then that I realized that it wasn’t rain at all but hailstones the size of small peas. No wonder the local folk were shaking their heads in bewilderment. It appears that such occurrences are rather rare in these parts and they were quite perplexed by the strangeness of the weather.
Arrival at St. Ives:
Back on the bus to St. Ives, I enjoyed the sun once again—in fact, I have rarely seen such mood swings in the people as impacted by the weather! When we finally reached the town of St. Ives, the sun had disappeared behind a dark cloud and it looked as if it would pour again any second. I decided that it would be a perfect time to closet myself inside the Tate St. Ives which, at any rate, is the chief attraction of the town other than its beaches. Within five minutes, I was at the waterfront and there was Porthmeor Beach with the fierce waves bringing froth and foam to the sand’s edge. The setting of the museum is indeed stunning--a very futuristic space built in 1993. I was grateful for my Metropolitan Museum connections that got me in for free and saved me the 12. 50 pounds that it would have cost to see both the Tate St. Ives and the Barbara Hepworth House and Garden for which a joint ticket is issued.
Exploring Tate St. Ives and the Barbara Hepworth Museums:
The Tate St.Ives does not have a permanent collection. Though created to showcase the work of the Cornish artists who made the area their home and set up an artists’ colony there as early as the 40s, it specializes in setting up periodic exhibitions that focus on the work of the major figures who contributed to the area’s development as a significant artistic Mecca. Leading this movement was Hepworth herself and her husband Ben Nicholson as well as other artists such as Luke Frost and Bernard Leach and it was the work of some of these artists that I saw for the first time today. Apart from their very abstract canvasses, the museum boasts a really singular design and a charming café on the top floor whose picture windows afford some of the most stunning views of the ocean and the lands that embrace it on this sheltered cove.
When I had taken my fill of photographs from this vantage point, I went out in search of Barbara Hepworth’s Studio and Garden and spent the next half hour taking in the individualistic vision that led to her arresting body of work. Ranging in size from small tabletop pieces to gigantic compositions that grace the garden that she personally designed and planted, it was interesting to see her workspace and the tools she used to accomplish her unique designs. Without the use of any machines, she was able to fashion abstract shapes and forms and give them depth and a character that was entirely her own. I shuddered to learn that she passed away in a fire that engulfed her home. Apparently, she was asleep while it broke out leaving her oblivious to it.
Becoming a Beach Bum:
Then, I was out on the cobbled streets of St. Ives enjoying the seaside ambience of this renowned beach resort, checking out its stores, enjoying the ‘tasters’ passed out by the old-fashioned chocolate shops and honey and marmalade stores, buying myself a genuine Cornish pasty from a small bakery that the locals patronized (I ordered a “Premier Steak” because that’s what I heard a regular Cornish customer order) and enjoying its warmth, the crispness of its crust, the flavor of its filling and thinking of the origin of this most regional of foods—the need for Cornish miners to fix themselves a meal that could be eaten underground without silverware. In fact, I remembered that in one of her recent novels, Anita Desai had talked about the Mexican empanada having originated when Cornish miners moved from the tin mines of Cornwall to the silver mines of Mexico in search of work taking the pasty with them and indigenizing it for local consumption.
Be that as it may, the town was a delight to stroll through and I was charmed by everything I saw. Best of all, I had it to myself. Though many of the restaurants were still closed, there was enough of a buzz to make the place feel lived in without becoming overwhelming. I had seagulls for company along the railings that separate rock and cliff from foaming breakers. I spied Godrevy Lighthouse on an island in the distance—the lighthouse that inspired Virginia Woolf’s stream-of-consciousness novel To The Lighthouse. I took pictures galore, trying to capture, as the artists had done through their paints and canvases, the light, the angles of the rooftops and the colors of the sand, the ocean and the sky in that particular brightness which only Cornwall seems to possess.
I walked through the entire curve of the harbor, stopping to buy postcards and searching for magnets (but finding none that took my fancy). I knocked around narrow cobbled streets that were reminiscent of Mykonnos’ ‘chora’ (Old Town) for me with its winding roads, small picturesque balconies and shop windows. I guess all beach resorts have the same laid back ambience, the same combination of bleached sea whiteness with the shocking dashes of color that come from kites and inflatable toys and beach wear. All of it was delightful and I soaked it in, glad to find myself finally in Cornwall where I have often dreamed of being.
Missing the Sea:
I realized, with a sudden pang, that the ocean took me sharply home to Southport and my beloved Connecticut coastline, for I have indeed missed the sea and my close proximity to it in the landlocked environs of London. All my life, I have lived close to the sea-side. In the Bombay suburb of Bandra where I grew up, I could walk to the promenade of the Arabian Sea in three minutes and in Southport, the harbor and the marina of Long Island Sound are similarly close at hand. The salt tang of the Atlantic and the waves that licked the St. Ives’ shores reminded me that these same ones had originated in the same ocean not too far from my permanent home in America and on that nostalgic and very sentimental mode of contemplation, I passed the rest of the afternoon.
A Commuting Faux-Pas:
Then, at close to five, after I had passed by a stone church and its adjoining Memorial Gardens filled with more vivid primroses and daffodils, I climbed uphill towards the bus station and caught the 5 pm bus to Truro where I arrived at 6.30. I had a half hour wait before I made my connection at 7 pm for a bus back to Newquay but that was where I wasn’t thinking right. I waited at the same place where I had alighted from St. Ives instead of at the gate where my bus to Newquay would depart. This meant that I missed the last bus and had to take one run by the Western Greyhound bus service, which did not leave for another 45 minutes. It had grown uncomfortably cold by this time and all the major stores had closed down leaving me with no place to shelter in while I awaited the bus.
Finally, I found the foyer of a hotel called Manning’s and there I settled for 20 minutes before the coach did trundle along and take it with me. I nodded off for a bit and arrived at Newquay at 9 pm and made my way to the inn where the bar was lively with youngsters.
I, however, was pooped and settling into my room, I wrote this blog and went straight to bed.
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