The Government tap-tap

 Approaching Rosamunde's House

What did I do? How did I spend my last day? Mostly jumping through hoops.

I had tried to forget about those, while living my best life here in Cornwall. But then a few days ago I started hearing the tap tap tap of the government pin-ball machine that is any traveler's life these days. 

"Did you take your 'test to depart' covid test?" (ping!) 

"Did you fill out the Attestaton form?"  (pong!)

"Have you uploaded (or is it downloaded?) your proof of a negative covid test?"  (ping!)

"Don't forget your passport. Not the vaccine passport, your real one."  (pong!)

But what about my vaccine passport? Don't they need to see that? Well, apparently not since for you to even be over here at all, you had to be double vaccinated, so they don't need to see it anymore.

And finally, "Don't forget your boarding pass." At last, something I understand! Like the way it used to be Back In The Day when you only needed your passport and a boarding pass. We'll be needing a grocery cart one of these days to drag in all the junk they'll think up for you to lay at the altar. Just you wait.

It soon became obvious that a printer would be needed. I, of course, did not have a printer, as I, of course, am 'on holiday'. People 'on holiday' don't bring along their printers. So I found that the Library had one. But when I got there, the Library printers were powered by PC and my laptop by Apple and so they didn't like each other and certainly didn't speak the same language. It was the age-old Mac vs PC advert all over again. The Librarian was very nice about it but this language problem between our two computers? It didn't end there. We didn't understand each other either!

Now I am utterly sprawled out in front of the television and watching some very decent British detective shows. The Brits are good at that, and I am going to miss it. And the British Bakeoff show. And The Repair Shop. And Marriage At First Sight. And Love Island. Wow! How does anyone over here ever get anything done, with all these shows to get through each night? 

I'm going to sign off, now that VERA is over. I'm exhausted from all the rigamarole. But I did promise you last month to tell you if the trip was worth doing all that. Was the rigamarole enough to put me off coming back here? Not on your life! It made things harder, for part of the time; and it made things more complicated. But It was, besides that, absolutely lovely. I've even seen some new cottages on offer from Aspects Holidays that look promising. And The Cottage Boutique. And St Ives Holidays... and...

See you along the way!

the SconeLady

Barnoon Cemetery 

The Beginning of Goodbyes

 

Today I saw sweet Jean, up the hill and along Polwithen Drive. My arrival was greeted with enthusiastic smiles of welcome by Jean and her daughters; but really, the honors must go to the doggies, for they really could not quite get over me. All down the street (and it is a long street) everyone but the utterly deaf knew I had arrived. 

But lest you get the impression that they barked throughout the entire visit, they did not. It was only the first 5 minutes. Then the smaller one, Jack, leaned on my foot and went to sleep on it. Then we were able to talk, and many subjects were enthusiastically covered. In a while, I glanced over at Jean and saw she was glancing at me. We smiled. It was a busy conversation, and more perhaps than she could cope with. What I really wanted to have was a quiet moment with just her, a 'how are you really doing?' moment. I could tell she wanted the same. Just knowing this made me feel better.

After the treats, and cups of tea, and one foot falling to sleep under the doggie, it was time to go and let sweet Jean rest. We couldn't hug, it would be too risky, but we said goodbye from a little distance.

"Oh, God bless you!" she said, from her comfortable chair by the window. "See you next year.." I went out, and started walking, then stopped.

Jean's daughter was watching. "Do you want to stand outside her window?" And I did, as you can sort of see below. Jean's head is hovering there, toward the left and next to my reflection. This is her special window where friends can come and talk to her through it. It is where the doggies do their cacophonic barks. And it is where Jean can watch the birds who come to her feeder. I felt like one of them today, another little bird coming to her feeder. It gave me a different feeling toward the word 'elderly'.

And in other news, dear Readers, I am one step closer to home, and cleared for takeoff. The SconeLady is Covid Negative!

That result marks the beginning of my goodbyes, though, as I turn from Cornwall and head west. But there is no sorrow in my going - far from it. 

There is a time for everything, as you know...under the sun.

See you along the way!

the SconeLady

St Ives Harbor, under the sun

Last Rehearsal

I almost didn't go, and that would have been a mistake. 'M' was all set to collect me in front of the Royal Cinema (inside of which the new James Bond movie is playing!), and I was all set to be collected. It took 20 minutes just to get ready, because it was raining so hard that all possible layers must be utilized, especially the huge white London Bus Company poncho. Even with all that, it was not enough. Walking to the cinema, the rain seemed to be coming from the ground up, and from the sky down! Wet isn't half the word.

I stood conspicuously in the porched area of a nearby store, shivering and being splashed by the passing traffic. The thought of a new Bond film so near and so accessible, gave me pause. Maybe I should...but then M's lights flashed, he pulled up, and I scrambled in. Mr Bond was going to have to wait.

The puddles in the road grew into rivers, and made us think of hydroplaning. A dark cloud seemed to hover above our car, pouring down upon it with a will. At Nancledra we stopped for John.

"Y'alright?" he said. I said that I was, and then he said that not everyone was because there seemed to be health issues everywhere. He told us about a stroke, a broken leg, and I think he said someone named Jim had fallen in his back garden and broken his hip. 

"Does the NHS take care of all of that?" I asked from the back seat.

But before I could get an answer, M was pulling up at the church. Somewhere between the curb and the sanctuary we all became utterly soaked. Umbrellas were useless! Blown inside out. Black mascara ran down my cheeks and there was no makeup bag to repair the damage. My thoughts ran along the line of, I should have stayed home in my warm cottage. I should have gone and watched the Bond movie. I should have..

"Hello!" said the friendly voices of several Cornish choir members, all of whom were dripping. "Y'alright?" 

"Oh yes! Lovely!" I said back. "Only a little wet."

Everyone kept their coats and scarves on, because all the large double doors in that church were OPEN and had the storm blowing in through them! It is one of the strategies England adopted during the pandemic. Open windows and doors everywhere - in taxi cabs, restaurants, shops, church services, concerts, wherever there are groups. It makes sense and I'm not complaining. But when you're wet AND cold inside an already cold church - man!

While hanging up the dripping poncho, I heard the thing I had come to hear. The reason for making a scary drive on a flooded road with two of the kindest men in Cornwall. 

They started with American music! Look away, look away, look away Dixieland. I sang along as I remembered singing it in fifth grade, with Mrs. Franklin waving her arms and yelling at Wayne to "Stop fidgiting!" 

Thus did the rehearsal go. Somewhere about halfway through I noticed a woolen blanket sitting on one of the pews. I wrapped up in it, wondering whether people could get covid from sitting in a wet church.

I will find that out tomorrow, for my 'Test to Depart' happens tomorrow night. And soon after that, if wet churches do not give people covid, I shall pack my bags, board a plane, and fly home! 

Sweet.

See you along the way!

the SconeLady

The Island, today

It Isn't Over

 

It was time to see Jean, again, to find out if her hip is better, and bring her a little treat.

"Is there anything special you would like from the Yellow Canary?" I had asked. The Yellow Canary is probably the most popular bakery shop along Fore Street, now that The Digey is no longer itself. Just that fact alone (that The Digey is no longer itself) is enough to make a visitor sad, if they had visited St Ives when there was a Digey.

You probably remember it, since the SconeLady has mentioned it a fair time or two - or perhaps two hundred times. My love of it began when I decided to find the BEST SCONE IN CORNWALL 8 years ago. It was a sincere search, which led me little by little, scone by scone, to the one and only, expressly tastiest, crisp on the outside, gentle on the inside, scone of all scones in Cornwall. And I found it.

The Digey had it. Alex and Josh created it (the recipe is secret - except to special people whom they trust). (I'm not mentioning any names), and the people in St Ives, as well as its numerous visitors, loved it. We found it because friend Rosie's Ted asked the gentleman at the Bakeshop on Fore Street which shop he thought might contain the best scone. Ted was quite specific about this scone, that on a scale of 1 to 10, it had to consistently be a 10, and the gentleman at the Bakeshop said, "No doubt about it then, sir. You will find that scone at The Digey." And so we went.

We all had one, and we all voted. It was very definitely a 10. And that was that. No where else did I find anything so good as that Digey scone. Year after year we came back, and year after year Alex and Josh kept making dazzling scones. I even told Rick Steves about it and urged him to go back to St Ives and have one. But then The Digey stopped being itself, and I think Rick missed his chance.

Right before the you-know-what, when travel and everything else in the world was about to shut down, I saw somewhere that The darling Digey had been sold. What did you say?! No more Digey? I can't really say it in strong enough terms the impact that had upon me.

But it was two years before England opened up, and I finally came back to where The Digey had stood for so many years. I stood and just looked at it, bereft. Never was a food room more missed. 

So it was to the Yellow Canary I went, to get a treat for dear Jean. It was raining, but I was covered in a poncho from the Big London Bus Company, and comfortably dry. The walk to Carbis Bay is lovely because it is uphill, and hard, and then you know you get to go back DOWN again. Easy-peasy.

The Digey, 2019

Jean's hip was better, and we had a jolly old chat. Her daughters made cups of tea and served up the treats, and I wondered why, when I was a young person, did I think when people got 'old', (my age, for example) life would be over? It isn't. I know Jean, and IT ISN'T OVER! Life exudes from her 90-year-old self, a life she shares out which makes everyone else around her alive, too. It made me fairly skip down that Carbis Bay hill, just to think of it. 

It's never going to be over, as a matter of fact. Life, the kind Jean exudes, is forever.

See you along the Way!

the SconeLady

Opal's Distress

Her name is Opal, and she slept in the tree all night. 

Opal is the sweetest thing, very dainty and good at hiding, watching her humans going about their day around her. There were so many humans - six (with the frequent addition of two more) - that Opal was sometimes overwhelmed. Then she disappeared into a private little nook all her own.

One of the six, a girl, understood Opal's distress and sympathized. This girl waited, and was quiet, and Opal was tamed.

Opal and her brother Oscar, were happy in their life on Ransom Road. But it was an inside life. The woman who fed them said so. They would be 'inside cats', and so no one must ever leave a door open. If they left a door open, well then dreadful things might happen. So everyone made a gargantuan effort about the doors. But with six humans (and two occasionals) going in and out and about all day long, it was only a matter of time.

Ever curious, Opal and Oscar watched the big French doors, hoping to dart out to where the World lived. The World looked so interesting, so big from the inside out. There were birds, and balls, and barbecues from which they, the cats, were excluded. And then all of a sudden, it must have been a miracle - there were CHICKENS OUT THERE! Chickens, because the woman who fed them needed eggs. Both cats felt something welling up inside of them when they saw those chicks through the French doors. They watched...and they waited...and they kept an eye to the Main Chance. 

One day the inevitable door was left open, and Opal inevitably darted. She found herself in the middle of the big back yard, the World now at her feet. This wasn't altogether comfortable, at first. The woman had instilled in her a sense that inside was right, and... but a bird flitted by, and landed. Then it went up. Opal watched it. This was fascinating, even if it wasn't right. 

But the woman had seen, and come, and gotten. A gargantuan effort was made again about the doors, until...

One day, the girl came looking. The Opal-cat could not be found. "Opal? Kitty-kitty..? Mom, I can't find Opal."

They heard, from somewhere up above them, a sound.

"Meeyowwwwwwwel!" it said, and the girl looked up. "She's in the tree!"

And not just any tree either. The tree was over 20 feet tall.

Was this a job for Superman? Or a fire truck? No, those things happen only in Baby Boomer books and films, and so the lovers-of-Opal set to work. They called her, clicked their tongues, said, "kitty kitty" multiple times. Grandpa called Grandma in England ("Don't get yourselves scratched!" she said)... but no one had an exact magic word. It was going to be up to Opal.

All night she kept her vigil, and no one knows whether she slept. Early the next morning an extension ladder  appeared; was set up against the tree. A boy climbed up it as Opal watched, waiting for her hero to make it okay to come down again. He did. And she purred.

She'd had enough of trees.

Bin Men

 

The Biffa bin men (or 'dust' men, if you like) are out in force today. They are never called 'garbage men', here. That would not be proper, I think. I have seen them at their work many times, but only just now became aware of the sign on the front of their truck: "Caution. Operatives At Work". They are unbelievably hard at it. The only complaint I might have is that there don't seem to be any bin (or 'dust') women anywhere. Have you seen one? I suppose women have enough to do with food before it becomes garbage that they don't like to see it in such a tragic state.

It is extremely important to be aware of when the bin men are coming, because the streets are so narrow that you might become squished. They would never want to squish you, but there are enough visiting tourists now (dare I mention Americans?) that safety around those trucks is a scary problem. The other day I was at the busiest intersection in town, the one near The Sloop, the Post Office, Whistlefish, and the building that played an important part in a Rosamunde Pilcher novel. In the Pilcher novel, The Sloop was renamed The Sliding Tackle (isn't that a great fishing town's pub's name??), and the building I am referring to, in the novel, was Warren's grocery. As far as I know, it never really was a grocery, but I do know that it used to be the Moomaid Ice Cream parlor, and very popular it was. 

I might as well tell you, the owner of the Moomaid building decided in recent months to do something else with his building besides serve tourists their ice creams from it. He thinks he wants to serve them Tapas now. So the Moomaid people had to go, and they have taken themselves down near the Guildhall, much to the confusion of the Americans. It takes at least a week to find all the things that have moved, and this is very disorienting.

Anyway, I was at that very busy intersection when I saw the red Biffa bin truck backing up. It was fascinating because there were taxis, white transit vans and baffled other drivers in front of and behind him. And, if I may be honest, on either side. But he zipped backwards without scratching or squishing any of us. I couldn't understand how, and as I looked at the Biffa driver, I said so. 

"How did you DO that?"

He smiled broadly and shouted, "I'm only the front driver, Madam. I've got a driver in the back too. He takes care of his business, and I take care of mine!" Other people heard this explanation, and were amazed. I believe fire trucks have more than one driver, but it's the first time I've heard of it in a bin truck.

One more key ingredient to the bin men here is that they are highly respected. With the amount of people sort of crammed into a small space around here, rubbish can become a horrendous problem. You should see all the directives we receive from the cottage management companies, complicated regulations that must be adhered to, or 'a fee' will be charged. Believe me, 'a fee' is the last thing I (or my husband) wants to pay.  On bin days these men come swooping in and save the day for us, taking all that nasty stuff away so the visitors for next week won't know a thing about it and can start all tidy. We love the bin men. 

The town of St Ives operates like clockwork, smooth as silk, as long as its visitors read the directives. If they don't, I may as well tell you right now that those Biffa men are buff, and I wouldn't mess with them.

See you along the way!

the SconeLady

 

The Hamlet

It was Monday evening, and as I stood in front of the Royal Cinema I knew I had misjudged the weather. It was getting cold. In one way, cold was fitting, for the Choir would sing Christmas carols that night, and it promised to be dazzling. Still, I should have brought more warmth with me, as certainly the church at Paul wouldn't provide it. The doors would stand open, to help defeat the Virus.

'M's car pulled up, and I jumped quickly in (the cars of St Ives don't wait), and he accelerated up the hill. 

"Y'alright?" he asked kindly.

"Oh yes!" I said. "Always, on a Monday night."

                                                     

Presently he slowed, and then stopped in a place called Nancledra, where Choir member John lived. He climbed aboard, and we repeated our greetings all around. I said something about how cute his village was, and he gently corrected me, saying that Nancledra was not a village, it was too small to be a village. It was a hamlet. A hamlet is a handful of dwellings out in the country, with possibly a pub but no churches, Inns, or shops (I murmured that you wouldn't get many women into a hamlet). A village has shops, and pubs, Inns and churches, and more dwellings than a hamlet would have. And probably more women, Ha, ha.

So, in general, you have:

-a hamlet

-a village

-a town

-a city

And do you know how they define a city? It is a large town that has a Cathedral. A city cannot be without its Cathedral, and I think that is splendid.

St Ives is a town - a large town, but without a Cathedral. So it cannot be a city.

By the time we had settled all of these differences, we had arrived. For some reason there were a lot more observers that night. I am often the only one, and when they rehearse down in Mousehole (a village, by the way), I am invited to sit on the stage while the men sing at me from the audience. It felt funny to me, but to the men in the Male Voice Choir, it was as normal as apple pie.

The Christmas carols were beautiful. I recognized many of the lyrics, but not the music. British carols are often different to the American versions, maybe because the Americans switched things up a bit. They sang:

-Hark The Herald Angels Sing, Softly The Night is Singing, And We See The Little Child, Abide With Me, and Joy To The World. Joy To The World is the same as the American version, and I sang it out full force with them, from the back of the church. There were whoops and hollers from the visitors that night, to beat the band. I don't know how, but those two hours of Male Voices rehearsing always speed by like lightening, and it is a sad thing to leave. I have only one more Monday night left, but I am going to purchase their Christmas CD, and take them home with me.

At the very end, the president of the choir introduced a choir member who had been singing with them for 71 YEARS! Since 1950! They gave him a lovely enlarged photograph of the Mousehole Harbour (adorable, it really is), and then the clapping and cheering! It went on and on, and he was so pleased and honored, it was the absolute sweetest thing! What a lovely way to end the evening.

We drove at a tranquil pace down from Paul to Mousehole to Newlyn, to Penzance, to Nancledra where John got out, and then back to the Royal Cinema in the town of St Ives.

"Next week, then?" M asked.

"Oh that would be terrific. Thank you!" and I hopped out and away, down the hill toward the main road and through the tiny cobbled streets to my cottage by the sea. Unlocking the door, I flew in and put on every article of clothing I could find. My, but it was shivery. 

I looked again forlornly at the folder which contained directions of how to operate this cottage - the microwave, the oven, the hot water heater, the refrigerator, the television - and the HEATER - the one thing I had NOT been able to figure out. If you could see that instruction booklet you would understand me. It's not possible. And because the company is 'short on staff' at the moment, emergency calls only.

But I've got my trusty woolen blanket from The Minack Theatre, which will make a world of difference. In the meantime, I think - perhaps a hot water bottle..?

See you along the way!

the SconeLady

Irreplaceable

As a former organ player, I am partial to them and grieve their gradual loss in the churches. They seem to have been replaced by things like guitars (don't get me wrong, I love guitars!), keyboards (them too!), and drums (well..). Because of this, it isn't often that you are invited to an organ concert, but I was, and I jumped at it. The organist for that day's Festival concert was the splendid Michael Hoeg, who lives in Cornwall but has performed around the world: Holland, Sweden, Germany, Switzerland, Italy, Greece, America, France , the Czech Republic, Italy and Sinagapore as not only a solo organist, but as a pianist, conductor and accompanist. 

Michael Hoeg, and Frank

As I walked into the St Ia Parish church and was handed a program, I looked up and saw a familiar face; another organist, the man who would turn pages for Michael. This other organist's name is Frank, and I knew him because he once let me play an organ just a block away. A Methodist organ. 

 I don't just go around Cornwall playing people's organs willy-nilly. It happened because my husband, after the church service, walked over to Frank and told him I had been an organist a certain unknown number of years before. 

Frank was immediately interested.

"You did? In High School, you say? I don't meet many high schoolers who play the organ these days." Neither do I.

"Would you like to play this one?"

I was dumbstruck. To play that massive thing (which filled the entire front of the huge church with immense pipes pointing straight up), in front of those who were still finishing their tea and biscuits? Surely not..

But suddenly, "Yes! I would love to play it." There would never be another chance like this one. I played "How Great Thou Art" with my husband and Frank standing nearby, smiling to beat the band.

"This has never happened before," he said. "No one has come here and expressed interest in something so important to me."

It was the sweetest thing.

Bedford Road Methodist

Frank accompanying the Two Brothers, 2017

So here he was again, standing next to another massive organ and chatting with Michael Hoeg about something fascinating to them both.

Then it was time to listen, and from the first notes of the first song, Michael blew us all away. There were five anthems, by people from J.S. Bach to Finlandia, to some Good Friday music from Parsifal (Wagner). It was lovely, stirring, and uplifting. He played as easily as though he'd been doing it since High School, a certain unknown number of years before! And Frank stood to his right, always ready to nip in and turn the next page (there is a knack to page-turning in a concert, and Frank did it brilliantly).

At the end, I applauded until my hands hurt, along with everyone else in there. But for me, the applause was for two men, two organists who had given their lives -  and their years - to something so important to them both. 

That's irreplaceable.

See you along the way!

the SconeLady

Luggar in St Ives Bay

 

Further In

"You look lost," said a man. 

I was walking high above the town and had reached what you might call upper pasture land. It was further up than I had been in a while, and well out of the town. The man and his wife, who were also out 'walking high' had come suddenly around a corner to find me staring into my phone. 

"I am trying to find which direction might be the most fascinating," I said, and they laughed. "It's all pretty fascinating up here," said his wife. We discussed finding The Burrows in this direction, or Steeple Lane along there, which leads to Knill's Monument. I decided upon Knill's, and they went on the other way. 

Knill's is about as high as it gets, and the trek reminded me of C.S. Lewis' book "The Last Battle", when the Pevinsie children find themselves out of the Shadowlands and in the high Mountains (where Aslan is). Everything they had loved about England was even better there, clearer and sharper, and there was a wonderful resemblance between the two. And the great thing was that they could Run! and the running wasn't hard, because they had been fit for it, and could breathe as easily as if they were sitting.

Where I walked today, the fields were so blindingly green, and the horses so friendly, and the clouds so white and puffy that I felt it must almost be Narnia. I thought, just as Peter and Edmund and Lucy had thought, "This is my real country. I belong here. This is the land I have been looking for all my life, though I never knew it till now." 

It's like that when we finally stumble upon Narnia. 

Up, and up I climbed, finding it easier to take the steps and breathe the air, because I had been practicing. Along the way, I met other travelers who said hello, and smiled, and one even said, "I saw you in church this morning!" Her hair was blond, too, and she wore a beautiful flowing blue dress (out on the hills?) and she said she had been to the wedding in the Parish church at 1:00. 

"I hadn't time to go home between the service and the wedding, so I stayed there. I am heading home now." 

I laughed when she mentioned there was a wedding because our organist, at the end of the final hymn ("Onward Christian Soldiers") had surprised everyone by striking up the Wedding Recessional. The blazing intro to it gave me CHILLS with everyone cheering and applauding at the end. And now I knew why. 

She went along home and I strode off to the tip-top of Knill's, where one can see everything, every direction, north, south, east, and west, and there is no more climbing. One day, no one knows when, we will find ourselves out of the Shadowlands and in the high Mountains (where Aslan is). And we will be fit for the run, not because we are strong on our own but because we are made strong by Him. 

"Welcome, in the Lion's name! Come further up and further in!"

"All their life in this world and all their adventures in Narnia had only been the cover and the title page: now at last they were beginning Chapter One of the Great Story which no one on earth has read: which goes on for ever: in which every chapter is better than the one before."

See you along the Way!

the SconeLady

Knill's Monument

All Joking Aside

 

Once or twice each day, I walk straight up one of the many hills of St Ives. Straight-up isn't easy, but it is getting easier for me, now at the beginning of my fourth week here. The first day was appalling, with stops every half minute or so. Now, I can trudge along at a pretty quick clip, head down, hardly stopping. 

Today I entered the forested grounds of Tregenna Castle, and noticed again two signs (see video above) that sit just feet from one another.

"Dog walking is strictly prohibited," one sign said. And then..

"Dog waste only." This is printed on a small red/black bin evidently meant for poop from the strictly prohibited dogs being walked.

Okay. Is it a joke? I want to know.

Another sign that caught my attention my first day here is the banner high above Fore Street. Two years ago it said "WELCOME TO THE ST IVES SEPTEMBER FESTIVAL!!" Now it says, "PLEASE KEEP TO YOUR LEFT" in an attempt at social distancing. It might be effective if it were POSSIBLE to keep to your left. But there are crowds with perambulators and dogs and toddlers. There are shoppers criss-crossing that street continually to see if the other shop has a better price. Will anyone in those crowds keep to their left? Will they kindly NOT cross the road until they get to the end of Fore Street and then turn around and KEEP TO THEIR LEFT again? I gave it a try, really I did, that first day. The thing's impossible!

Is it a joke? I want to know.

The 'dog beach' is another poser. My sister and I noticed precisely which beaches were dog beaches and which were NOT dog beaches. There were signs on the not-dog beaches that said, "DOGS STRICTLY PROHIBITED ON THIS BEACH". We actually found only one real 'dog beach', the tiniest possible beach at the edge of civilization that had - I am not making this up - NO DOGS ON IT. Then we walked along the not-dog beaches, and I'm sure it comes as a huge surprise to you to learn that those beaches were CRAMMED WITH DOGS. Not that we minded. We didn't. The dogs of St Ives are the sweetest things in the world. The only trouble the dogs of St Ives have is with the other dogs. Today I saw two incidents of one dog biting another, resulting in yips and yaps, elongated barking sessions, and dog owners 'having a word' with the other dog owners.

Are those NO DOG signs a joke? What about the Keep to the Left signs? And are the poop signs a joke? Does anyone else get confused, back and forth? Not that it matters. It doesn't. It's all just part of what makes Cornwall a Lifestyle, not a Holiday. But which committee is it that gets to decide what bewildering directives will be printed and put onto signs in St Ives?

I want to know.

The Rather Stunning Son filming a dog of St Ives

See you along the way!

the SconeLady

Ready Not Ready

It was time to go, only no one wanted to. 

We were ready on the outside - all bags packed, all food items cleared out, and all beds stripped - but we weren't ready on the inside. It seemed that every minute we had spent together in and out of that dream of a place had been faultless. We had visited the splendid Truro Cathedral and seen the baptistry opened up almost by magic, by two people simply lifting the top by a pulley system:

We had suffered through their Day 2 Covid test!

We had seen the wonderful Cornish Roots concerts at the Parish Church, and been thoroughly wowed.

We had watched sunrises and moonrises from up in the tippy-top of our three-story cottage.

We had eaten great food (mostly - with one possible exception being the Sunday roast, which the amazing Larry made three meals out of from our leftovers).

We had gone on long walks, talking and laughing along the way.

We had attended the best and most heartfelt Sunday church service, and been much encouraged.

We had watched as a Luggar boat came serenely sailing by on a perfect day.

We had spent a morning eating breakfast at the best place in town (I had made reservations 3 months ago), the Porthminster Beach Cafe.

We had found fisherman Stuart along the pier, and discussed the possibility of lobsters!

We had attended the rehearsal of the Mousehole Male Voice Choir in the lovely Paul church, and been treated with high respect.

We had visited the Leach Pottery, seen a Cello concert by candlelight, walked to Tregenna Castle on a clear blue day, and - perhaps the most amazing of all - been to The Minack Theatre and seen the HMS Pinafore! (we weren't allowed to film it, so I waited until the last actor had left the stage:)

And now, we were to go.

They would take the train to another city, and I? I was to move cottages. One of us said, "Maybe it should be two weeks next time?"

Someone else laughed, and said, "If they stop all the rigamarole, and all those hoops.." It was true. Coming here was made difficult, and we will perhaps need to recover just a bit.

But it's just plain fun being here. Many people asked us, "Are you here on holiday?" and we politely said, "Yes." But in actual fact, Cornwall is more Lifestyle, less Holiday. And the lifestyle has soaked in again this time.

We three climbed aboard the Great Western Railway together, to extend the 'holiday' just a bit. At Truro I got off, saying a quick goodbye before my throat closed in emotion and gratitude. 

It's hard to see the backs of some people.

See you along the way!

the SconeLady

Monarch Of The Sea

We had always wanted to visit the Minack. Have you heard of it? 

The Minack is an outdoor theatre in Cornwall built by one woman on the cliffs of the Lizard peninsula. The views are always spectacular, but it is entirely possible to find yourself in the rain, soaking yourself through. We shivered about this a little, checking iPhones for forecasts. But no one, not even the weather experts, knows in advance what the weather in Cornwall will or will not do.

We found where the website said, "Tickets", and clicked. For a while, though, the website offered nothing, since you can't really trust the virus to leave people alone when they are IN THE OPEN AIR. But, finally...

"You're not going to believe this!" I said to my sister when the Minack had finally decided.

"Believe what?" she asked.

"Believe that we are going to see the HMS Pinafore on September 22!"

Screeches erupted from her end of the line. "What?! You mean the real HMS Pinafore? The one Dad taught us all the songs to?"

"Same!" Our childhoods had been steeped in "Captain of the Pinafore", "Sweet Little Buttercup", and "I am the Monarch of the Sea", hilariously sung by sailors, pretty girls, the Captain, a lady of ill-repute, and the rather nutty Monarch. That old record album practically lost its grooves (and didn't get them back) as we played it ad-nauseum - until I feel certain our sweet mother developed a twitch.

And now we were going to go see it! My sister and I sat on the couch in our adorable cottage to figure out how to get there. We thought: bus. but then found out it would take two hours to get there and two hours to get back. Ok, so not bus. We tried to add in a train ride, but that only complicated our already addled minds, until I had a brilliant idea: taxi. 

"Taxi?" said my sister. "Isn't that, ahh, kind of expensive?" My fingers flew to the laptop, and I waited for it to answer.

"Ah... yes it is." So, not taxi. But the not taxi phase didn't last very long because we kept going back to the being-in-a-bus-getting-car-sick-for-four-hours phase. Since we really had no choice, we decided to throw caution to the wind and get a cab (the amazing Larry was strangely in favor of this plan. I figured out later that two sick women in the top of a double-decker bus had never been his idea of fun).

Our cabbie was a superior fellow, thrilled to find that we wanted to talk and not listen to our headphones like so many annoying customers do. We talked about kids, school, taxi-driving, people who lost their jobs but decided not to go back to work because they get more money from the government than they'd earned working (our two governments were identical in this scheme), and then - at the end - the conversation turned toward beer. 

But as the cabbie drew up to the Minack, we had to postpone the ins and outs of beer. Instead we saw the most gleaming panorama which was as striking as Nice, France! Or the Italian Riviera! Or even Greece! Massive, blue, and stupendous, the English Channel at its very best. 

This became the backdrop for the wonderful Gilbert and Sullivan production of HMS Pinafore, containing some of the greatest satirical songs known to man. As the Cambridge Players sang their hearts out, their audience joined in without being able to stop themselves. We certainly did not stop ourselves. 

I am the Monarch of the sea,

the Ruler of the Queen's Nay-vee.

Whose praise Great Britain loudly chants

And so do his sisters and his cousins and his aunts!

His sisters and his cousins (whom he reckons up by dozens) and his aunts!

Or, what the Captain says, here:

Bad language or abuse

I never, never use

Whatever the emergency.

Though "Bother it" I may

Occasionally say,

I never use a big, big D

All: "What, never?"

Captain: "No, never!"

All: "What, never?"

Captain: "Well, hardly ever!!"

At the end, our faithful cabbie drew up to let us in, turned around, and then drove us back to St Ives - talking all about the ins and outs of beer. Surprisingly he took us to the splendid Bier Haus, "the greatest beer restaurant ever." It might be the first time a teetotaler had ever been driven by a Cornish cabbie across the Lizard peninsula - and ended up inside a beer joint. 

But give three cheers and one cheer more for...... the Captain of the Pinafore!

See you along the way!

the SconeLady

And The Angels Sang

After the rehearsal of the Mousehole Male Voice Choir two weeks ago, I was wild to go again. We were invited, but getting there would be complicated. Buses are great but if you miss the last bus down the hill, it is a long dark trek back to civilization.

But we needn't have worried, for the excellent Tony came through and found us a ride. "M will collect you at the Royal Cinema at 6:30pm," he said. "Be ready to jump right in, though, because the cars in St Ives don't wait."

'M' duly collected us in his SUV, and we scrambled inside for what turned out to be a very civilized ride. I have been the passenger in other cars for these 9.2 miles, and not all of them have been so sedate. The lanes are narrow, the space for two cars minimal, and if it is raining, you might just as well go straight to prayer. 

But last night it did not rain, and M drove his car with scrupulous safety. He is owner and operator of a fisheries business, well-known in Cornwall, and had lots of specialized information we found fascinating. The subject of Pilchards came up, and M said that Pilchards were at first appreciated by some, but once they were rebranded into 'Cornish Sardines', the demand shot up and he was a happy man.

"Sardines?" my sister piped. "My husband brought 2 tins of sardines on the plane from America, because he was afraid there wouldn't be any here!" 

"What??" M said, much impressed. "You brought them all this way? Amazing!" 

The conversation picked up speed as my sister continued the theme of fish. "We purchased sea bass the other day from the outdoor seafood shop on the Harbour."

"I provide the fish for that shop!" he exclaimed. "The fish you had for dinner came out of our plant not far from here. If you look at the packaging, you will see my name." It was our turn to be impressed. 

"Wow," I breathed.

"Where are you three staying in St Ives?" he asked with interest.

We named the cottage and its location.

"What!?" he said again. "I was born into that house! We had it decades ago when it really was a fisherman's house. There were 10 of us in there - Granny, aunties, cousins, parents, kids - everybody who counted.

Good grief, we were riding in his car, staying in his house, and eating his fish! 

"Do you want to come and see the house?" I offered. "It would be interesting for you to see what these owners have done with it.." But we had reached our destination, and piled out of the car. Around us were Cornish men, standing outside the church where they rehearse, laughing in Cornish (there is a pub across from the church, and a few had already stepped discreetly in).

Some recognized me, their 'American roadie', and came up to say "Good to have you back, my Lovlie," or, "'Allo! Y'alright?" Yes. I was very definitely 'alright', standing in this group who had missed more than a year of rehearsals and concerts, thankful to be at it again.

To us, the rehearsal felt more like a performance with only a few lucky observers. Steven, as usual, directed them fabulously, and as usual, none of the roadies understood a word. But all of the songs gave me the shivers:

How Great Thou Art

Abide With Me

Oh Love That Wilt Not Let Me Go

And The Angels Sang

Lay Up Your Treasures in Heaven

Music makes me Happy, and

As I Went Down To The River To Pray.

We listened, and with the first 4-part harmonies coming out of that group of voices, we, and they, were back home. The time sped by, and as we were climbing back into his car, M said, "Y'alright?"

And yes, I was - very definitely, 'alright'.

See you along the way!

the SconeLady