Post Card from Cornwall
Well hello,
Two weeks ago I returned from an escape to Truro , Cornwall the toe of England where I rented an idyllic detached cottage with my other half. Cornwall was bathed in sunshine and god was in his heaven instead of the box I usually keep him in.
The downside of going out of season was good weather, the world and his wife were absent, all the children were at school and car parks and restaurants had plenty of room. There was an abundance of classy cafes with up-to-the-minute coffee making contraptions, extensive wine lists and a variety of food in addition to the compulsory Cornish pasty. The natives were friendly and all spoke perfect English, often without an accent.
Looking at the locals, Esther concluded that there must be a lot of pie shops around. As always, she was not wrong. The beauty of Cornwall is that you are never far from a Cornish pasty, which due to the falling pound is used as currency. Lined up in every shop window, in all shapes and sizes, like their misshapen cottages, they are a symbol of Cornish pride. In St Ives we sat in the sun on one of several benches straining under the weight of dedicated Cornish pasty eaters, eating enormous, hot, award winning steak filled Cornish pasties. Compelled to join in, we cast our inhibitions aside and munched our way into Cornish history.
The next day we visits a small harbor called Mousehole which sold real Cornish ice-cream. Esther’s little tongue plunged in and out of large mounds of the ice-cream as she moaned “it’s so good – it’s soo - good.” I felt redundant and took solace in a nasty habit that has comforted me since childhood. Much to Esther’s disgust I collected fresh winkles from rocks in, to be boiled and nibbled later. We covered many miles on foot visiting cove, crevice and crag. Dragged away from breakfast TV each morning, Esther’s daily route march ensured that the excesses of the holiday did not turn us into Cornish pasties.
The history of the Cornish tin miners is moving. They worked 16 hours a day 6 days a week. They were paid in a currency produced by the mine owners that could only be spent in shops owned by them. The owners became hugely wealthy while the miners lived in poverty. I wondered if the term Tin-pot Dictator had any connection with the set-up.
One morning we tuned in to find the British politician John Prescott being interviewed. He bemoaned the evils of the alleged historic North/South divide, apparently unaware that Cornish miners lived in the South. Stomach resting on his knees he protested that you live 3 years longer just for living in the South.
“People in the South think that us northerners have less television,” he declared. The presenters looked confused. He continued. “Ah, um, yeah, no, I don’t mean television. I meant, err, um, that’s it - intelligence.”
By the time I had finished laughing my legs were almost too weak for the ordeal that lay ahead. After a ten mile trek around a hilly and rugged coast line, inexplicably named The Lizard, we staggered back into the cottage at dusk. Fortunately I had secured a good supply of bottled Tangle-foot beer. As I went to open the medicine, I noticed a label on the bottle neck. It said, Deceptively Drinkable.
It’s beer for Gordon’s sake - where is the deception? It should read Outstandingly Drinkable.” I moaned to Esther.
“Why don’t you just drink it and stop analysing everything?” She advised me.
Ah where would I be without the fragrant Esther to keep me on the straight and narrow? She is able to automatically delete any thoughts that are not essential, leaving her mind free to plan each day's activity with absolute precision while arranging our next holiday at the same time. Multi-tasking at its best! It matters not to Esther why the world is the way it is as long as it provides her with sufficient holidays. I guess she has a different kind of “television” to me, which helped to ensure that we had a great time away.