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.