Millions of Loyal Subjects

I was ready early, for Matthew would arrive at 6:40 and - given St Ives traffic - could not stop longer than the moment it would take me to hop in. So I trotted up to the Royal Cinema to wait. That cinema was playing the new Top Gun movie momentarily (last year it was the new Bond movie), and I had not yet seen it. I would see it, certainly, but not tonight. Not when the Male Voice Choir were rehearsing. 

Already teenaged girls were queuing up for the film, getting their money out and shouting to other approaching teenage girls. I wondered if they knew Tom Cruise will soon be turning 60? Or maybe there were other younger blokes in the movie causing all this drama? but probably not. Probably it really was Tom Cruise, although I could not myself figure it out.

While trying to figure it out, Matthew's car drew up to the curb and I got in.

"Y'alright?" he said in the friendly way of all Cornishmen.

"Oh yes, very well. Thank you for taking me!"

In the front sat choir member Jeff, who chatted softly to Matthew as we passed the lovely Nancledra, Treverack, St Michael's Mount, and the Jubilee Pool in Penzance. The Jubilee Pool would be earning its name this weekend as everybody celebrates the Queen's Jubilee. The Queen has been Queen for seventy years now (hurray!) and that makes this her Jubilee year. Millions of loyal subjects are gearing up for the bash, as they have all been given a four day weekend in which to celebrate it.

We arrived at the church in Paul, and I spent the next two hours listening to men who had grown up singing songs in four part harmony. One need not wonder where this phenomena of Cornishmen and music came from. They are born into it and almost can't help themselves. 

Standing around afterward, someone mentioned the Jubilee, and the fact that the choir are having a concert on the Sunday.

'Oh," said I, "it must be in honor of the Jubilee. How nice!"

"Well no, not exactly," said one.

"Why not exactly?" 

"Not everyone is a Royalist, you know," he said. "Not everyone wants to honor the Royals the way you Americans might." 

I was shocked, I say. Shocked. Why wouldn't they honor the Queen? She has worked so hard all her life, drove a truck during the War, raised a family of five children, and held the country together through sad divorces, fires, scandals, deaths, and disloyalties from within her own ranks. I certainly like her, and wouldn't be able to quite name out why others wouldn't.

"It isn't really about the Queen," said the original man. "It's really about Royalty. Lots of folk don't think we need Royals."

"Well, I think you need them!" I said, wondering whether they could ever actually GET RID OF THE WINDSORS. Surely not! But it was time to go back down the hill, so for the moment my questions went unanswered. 

As we drove, I tried to imagine an England without Royals in it. Impossible! What would they do with Buckingham Palace and Windsor? Turn them into low cost housing? And what about the spectacular William and Kate, the future King and Queen with their perfectly splendid two princes and one princess coming down the line, all set and ready? 

I like the British Royalty. While there might be some tough nuts in there, the Queen balances them out fairly well and I hope it is a long time, a very long time before you and I hear anything sadly final about her. 

She's a Brick.

See you along the way!

the SconeLady

Six Goldens

The other day as I strolled along the wharf chewing on a chocolate Nutella-filled tube of some sort, EIGHT WHIPPETS WERE RELEASED ONTO THE BEACH AT ONCE. What is a 'Whippet'? It is a very long, very lean, non-shedding speedy dog that came from the Greyhound. The Whippets here in St Ives turn up in differing sizes, but the EIGHT WHIPPETS on the beach were small. Their master had - I am not joking - eight leashes in his hands that had a release mechanism that worked so ALL EIGHT were released at the same time. And off they streaked. 

These creatures did not run and splash into the surf like other dogs; they did not play with each other or nip at strange dogs' bottoms; they did not stop to be petted by their master. What they DID do was run in circles. The lead Whippet ran so fast in circles that I became dizzy. The other seven followed him until the sand had a perfectly oval running track of exact proportions to a race track. Did you ever know a dog who could build his own race track? It was uncanny!

They ran so long in these ovals that a crowd gathered. 

"When they gonna' stop it?" asked one sun bather.

"When I tell them to," replied the master of the hounds, who by all accounts knew his business.

"Won't they get tired?"

"That lot? Never." By the time I left the beach, the race track was a deep trench.

Today I came across something so far to the opposite of those Whippets as to beggar the imagination. SIX GOLDEN RETRIEVERS. The Goldens were released to the beach in much the same way as the Whippets had been, but THEY did not run in circles or ovals. They wouldn't know what an oval even was. Instead, they bounced and bounded toward and into the water at speed, banging into each other in a hodge-podge of joyful yapping; in and out, out and in, splashing, biting the water, even doing dog-cartwheels. Those Goldens were smiling, I tell you, straight out of their tooth-filled muzzles in the delight of simply being alive.

The business-like Whippets are in a class by themselves - sort of the Mechanical Engineers of the dog world who, by their very presence, make everyone else want to sit up straight. The playful Golden Retrievers are the jolly charmers you might find in any field of life, the ones who make everyone else feel better just to have them around. That's what I want. A sweet, doggie-breathed bundle of wiggles who might shed quite a bit, but who would smile at me while doing it.

Something tells me they might nip at strange dogs' bottoms, though. I guess you can't have everything.

See you along the way!

the SconeLady

An Aussie With Four Cottages

Friday is changeover day, which means all manner of packing, refrigerator-emptying, last minute laundry (which always takes ages here) and dragging bags to the Library. The Library is very accommodating about bags. There are any number of ladies wandering around in St Ives on changeover days, all of whom have bags and all of whom don't like dragging them.

Checkout is at 10:00 and checkin is 5 hours later, so you can see the problem. Shop owners want the women to be comfortably hands-free so they can dig for their credit cards more easily. So the Library scheme was born, and each week their storage room is crammed with our stuff. It looks like a hoarder's paradise in there. I love it.

After a bunch of shopping and walking, I ran out of steam and finally crept over to the cottage that would be mine just to have a look. Wait - it had a bench out front in a little courtyard! There were potted plants sitting around the bench and dear little flowers peeking out at me. I could get out the flower book that had been left for me by the lovely daughter, and identify them! I began to dig.

"A'llow!" said a voice in an Aussie accent. I looked up. There stood a man wiping down one of the walls of the courtyard, bags of linen laying around his feet. He smiled.

"Oh! Hello, sir," I said. "I was just going to sit here and wait, if that's alright..." 

"Of course! In fact, I'm just about done and you might as well have your cottage right now!" He unlocked the door, giving me a glimpse of the interior - then stopped.

"Do you want to see the other cottages?"

"Other cottages?" I asked.

"Yes. There are three more, all around you."

Of course I wanted to see them all, all all all! We did a tour, during which time I learned he had moved here from Australia 18 years ago and started buying the properties one at a time. Then he obtained repurposed materials to renovate them, and I LOVE repurposed materials. You could see the touches he had created, a combination of old hardwoods, tiles, and slate for the floors, some wood countertops, uniquely crafted bathroom tile work, creative lamps, SMEG toasters and kettles, cute rugs, stained glass, scrubbed pine tables, comfy sofas, non match-matchy kitchen chairs, the works! 

In the cottage on the top floor there was a huge view of St Ives Harbor, revealed by bi-fold floor to ceiling glass walls, which stood open. Taking a breath of the fresh sea air, I determined then and there that I would stay in the top cottage one day. He led me back down the labyrinth of stairs and corners, twists and turns, until we spilled out and into my very own cottage once again.

"Have a lovely time!" he said, and bent to pick up his linen.

Finding new cottages is always fun, but finding FOUR of them, all in one go? Practically miraculous.

See you along the way!

the SconeLady

A Mass, or a Concert?

It is such a comfort to know that at least one person in this world always knows exactly where I am at any given moment. The person knows this because his phone is connected - even from thousands of miles away - to my phone, and all he has to do is look at it.

Last week I took a sudden taxi ride to Penzance because the Mousehole Male Voice Choir was giving a concert at the Roman Catholic Church, and I had fallen asleep sitting up and forgotten about it. Good grief, I couldn't miss this concert, their very first one since Covid! So I called a cab. 

"Where to, Madam?" my driver asked, as we got underway.

"Oh. Penzance, please. The Roman Catholic Church.." I did not know precisely where the Roman Catholic Church was because I hadn't had time to look it up. Besides, cab drivers are supposed to know where everything is. Aren't they?

"Where is the Roman Catholic Church?" he asked. His accent was charming and very different (it turned out he is from Italy) and a little bit hard to understand. Our conversation proceeded without us much understanding one another. The one phrase we were both certain of was "Roman Catholic Church".

"I don't actually know."

"Are you going to Mass?"

"Um, no, it's a concert. The Mousehole Male Voice Choir.."

"Does the concert not have an address we could look at? Is there a Facebook page?" I could understand his confusion. Usually the people he drives know where they want him to take them.

Suddenly my Maps app popped up with the location of TWO St. Mary's churches in Penzance. I called the first one.

"Hello, is this the Roman Catholic Church?" I asked the woman on the other line.

"Well, no - this is the Church of England St Mary's Church. There is a Roman Catholic St Mary's Church in Penzance, is that the one you want?"

I said it was, and would she please let me have the address. All of this took time, because the woman wanted to know if I was interested in the 7:00 Mass, which had already started, or the Mass the next morning at 10:00, which hadn't. The 7:00 Mass had a priest from another parish coming, but the next morning's Mass...

"Thank you, thank you very much, Ma'am," I tried to hang up.

"But the Mass..."

Just then the cab driver turned down a street he thought might be the right one, but it was so narrow, and had so many cars parked along it, that he had to pull his side view mirrors in so as not to HIT ANYONE'S CAR. The cab was literally less than an inch away from the cars AND the buildings. 

My phone pinged.

"Where are you going?" asked my husband from 6,000 miles away, who had identified my sudden departure from St Ives, and wanted to be sure I was not kidnapped.

"My husband wants to know if I am being kidnapped," I told the cab driver.

"Kidnapped? Why?"

"Because our phones are connected so that we can check up on each other. It's rather comforting."

We did get to the concert, and he did come back afterward to deliver me home, kidnap-free. One day I will tell you about the wonderful music, and the Ukrainian opera star who had come to share the stage with the men, and how my cardigan had, in my rush, been buttoned up wrong so that everyone else saw it but me. 

What else can you expect from someone who fell asleep sitting up and forgot to get ready? Nobody's perfect.

See you along the way!

the SconeLady

Pinnacle Adventure

 

Certainly if we were to be asked our favorite adventure of the week, my vote would have to be walking the Coffin Trail. When we say the word 'coffin' we are not thinking of death or pine boxes - although pine boxes were in times past carried along this trail. We think of walking the pastures between Zennor and St Ives, a pathway greener than you might probably imagine. A tour guide, the splendid Tony, has taken various of my family members along this trail. But schedules did not mesh this time, and so we two blondes strode forth on our own.

Not wishing to wander around lost, we compared a paper map with our iPhone Maps app, and traced exactly the proper way to go. On both types of map were Zennor and its church; further along sat Lower Tregerthen, Wicca and Boscubben Farms, Trendrine Farm, and other landmarks to keep us straight. I thought we might still be lost at least part of the time (which has happened to me before), but thanks to the daughter with a screen shot and excellent sense of direction, we never were!

Click here to learn more details about my Coffin Trail adventure with the Rather Stunning Son, circa 2019.

We took the open top bus 5 beautiful miles to Zennor.

the Church at Zennor, below

One of many 'stiles' along the way.

The ruins of a chapel where the Wesleys had, long ago, preached. About this I must say something: even though I have walked the Coffin Train many times, I have not always come upon this elderly chapel. How can such a thing be? I've no earthly idea, because there it is clear as day along the trail. 

Climbing stiles took concentration and quite a lot of balance. Whenever I needed it, a hand as if by magic would reach backwards to grasp mine, and over we would both go.

We saw the sign below, and looked at each other. Bulls. I hadn't remembered any bulls on this trail (although there had been some in the Cotswolds), but we left them alone and they thankfully returned the favor.

Eating a Cornish pasty along the trail. 

This pasty had come from The Cornish Bakery on Fore (our favorite) Street. We were running late for the bus, but remembered we might get hungry along the way. The Cornish Bakery gleamed out at us, and we dashed in and out, the proprietor being uncommonly quick, and made it to the bus just in time.

(BTW, those hot pasties were still warm when we became hungry.)

It was, as I have said, an open top bus, which ought to be just fine given all the fresh air up there. But we had a teeny concern about becoming 'bus sick' (those double deckers do achieve some nauseating movements). But we decided to run the risk, and climbing upwards, received the rewards of awesome beauty.

Somehow the combination of the trail, the pastures, the sea, the companionship, and a blue sky above it all is unforgettably satisfying. Absolutely - oh, what other word can describe it to you? 

perhaps splendid; 

or magnificent; 

or spectacular?

Yes, dear Readers.

It was all of the above.

See you along the way!

the SconeLady

St John's In The Fields

The first Sunday morning we walked down to St Ia Parish Church, where the Cross, the Vicar, the Warden, the Choir, the incense and the music director all processed in at the stroke of 9:45. I was pleased to see again the Vicar, robed and kindly, with sincerity guiding us all to Christ. At the end of the service he removed his robes and stood at the entrance to shake hands and wish us all well. My daughter and I stepped forward and it became our turn to be wished well.

"Good to see you here again," he smiled, "and I thank you for your email message." Since the virus, my husband and I had 'followed' St Ia on our devices and watched their services on Zoom. The Vicar said he was about to "dash up the hill to St John's in the Fields", for what he called Wild Church.

Wild Church? I queried, but recognizing this term from the dark days of 2020 I said, "I'm glad you still do that!"

"Oh yes, we will always do that." 

That is a church service out of doors in the vicarage garden with a sound system, coffee truck, chairs, shade, and activity tables every Sunday at 11:30 am. And the Vicar wears jeans.

"You should come next week!" he said.

The week progressed and wonderful times were had until half of the 'we' returned home. But I hadn't forgotten Wild Church and ascended the hill called Stennack, arriving at the stroke of 11:30 am.

I loved it. From the beginning it was the most welcoming, cheerful setting you can imagine. Children and young parents, middle aged and elder folk dotted the grass, some in chairs, some running about. I spied the coffee truck and was given a cup. "Where shall I pay?" I asked, digging for change. "Oh no, no one pays," said the youth behind the counter, and I found a chair in the shade. It was a very bright morning.

Together we played a 'find someone with the same birth month as yourself' game, then 'find someone with the same color of socks as yourself', and 'find someone with your same favorite color!' Everyone of all ages got up out of chairs and began calling out the appropriate item, until we found each other. People recognized an American accent in their midst, and welcomed the newcomer warmly. 

Throughout the music and the sermon, there were activity centers with children doing crafts that centered on the sermon from Revelation. Nobody minded children's voices during a sermon. It was the sweetest thing.

St John's In The Fields

It's amazing to travel thousands of miles and find people with that recognizable Light in their eyes and kindness in their speech. The darkness of 2020 burdened us all for a time, and may yet again. But not all of the results of it have been bad. Church services on the lawn, for example. And I shall certainly dash again up the hill called Stennack, and find myself very much at home in "Wild Church".

See you along the Way!

the SconeLady

One Blonde In Cornwall

She left yesterday.

I remember when it was Monday, and we had a lovely block of time ahead of us! - miles still to walk, food yet to enjoy, and shops waiting for some Americans to pop in (we did). We tried to 'drag our feet to slow the circles down', but the circles of time don't do that. So here I am staring out a window of clear blue, while she eases her way West, through the same.

At the Yellow Canary the day before, we had shared a final scone together (it was not at all nice like The Digey, but you can't have everything) and just for fun added in an apple and blackberry pasty. We think it looks rather like a hand pie, don't you? and we want to make some - with the kids - when we both get home. 

Then came one last walk along the SW Costal path, cutting left to descend again into the town. 

Such beauty is almost unbelievable. 

After we boarded her train I rode along with her for a while, chatting and putting off the inevitable. Then at Truro station, I stepped out. Standing and waving bravely, a feeling of melancholy crept in as her smile and her sunglasses, along with the train, faded off into the distance. 

What now? For some time I stood alone beneath the Truro sign, crowds thinning and train agents scurrying. But this would simply not do. I shook myself out of the feeling that always comes when loved ones leave, and went to Truro Cathedral. 

This time, instead of a free cathedral tour led by a kindly elderly docent who knows everything about his subject, today they were having: A CRAFTS FAIR, ALL DOWN THE NAVE! It was so incongruent and strange, somehow. Crowded. Loud. Don't get me wrong, I am not knocking a crafts fair per se. I am just saying it seemed to set off gongs in my head.

I tried to get into it, honestly I did, but soon went back outside to seek a lunch somewhere. Truro has scads of tasty lunchy spots. But instead, I came upon a man playing piccolo and making a tiny marionette dance at the same time. It was the most uncanny thing! I would have watched on and on had it not been for a blast of rock music nearby that drowned out the poor marionette man. The rock music was to introduce another man who was setting up for a Fire Walker. I-KID-YOU-NOT, readers. A real Fire Walker. At least, it looked like one. Someone walked on what looked like fire. Then they had people volunteer so another man came up and walked on it, taking off pieces of his clothing and acting like a stripper. 

That's when I left. Truro just wasn't quite itself that day.

See you along the way!

the SconeLady

PS. Below is the little marionette. It is just a little bit creepily real, isn't it? 

At The Badger Inn

We wanted to eat our Sunday lunch at a Carvery, and thought about where exactly might be the tastiest spot. In times past, there have been many to choose from - but viruses will interfere, and the choosing was not as easy. 

I am sure you know what a Carvery is, but for the benefit of those who do not I shall describe it.

The root word carve hints at delicious roasted meats sliced to perfection, usually by a chef and surrounded by amazing side dishes guaranteed to fill you up. It has become a great Sunday tradition in England, and reminds me of my childhood. Every Sunday after church, Mother served a roast dinner which Dad then carved up for us to eat. Five children sat with eyes fixed to his knife, watching him release the most delicious aroma known to man, placing the slices onto our plates, then passing around the rest. This was our pleasure every single week, all a part of the wonder of the fifties and sixties. The dinner consisted of (usually but not always) the following:

Roast beef

Potatoes

Gravy

Home made bread

Carrots and peas and other vegetables

A salad

And some kind of unbelievably spectacular dessert. 

All of it was mouth-watering. Little did we know that in England, families had sat down to their own Sunday lunches 8 hours earlier. Their tradition goes back much farther than ours, though, to the year 1485 during King Henry XII's reign. Remember the 'Beefeaters?' They started it! Not only did families enjoy the feast in their homes after church, but the British pubs also took up the habit, giving mothers everywhere a break. 

We were not successful in finding open reservations until someone helpfully said, "But what about The Badger?" I instantly rang and, bless them, they had an opening! Off we set next day strolling up the main road, through Carbis Bay, to the sweetest little village, a favorite village, in fact THE village where Rosamunde Pilcher had grown up. Can anything good NOT come from Lelant?

Our experience at The Badger was all it was cracked up to be. The surroundings at the Badger are simple and beautiful, as you can see below, and everywhere is that aroma so similar to the one I grew up with. 

"Would you like a small, medium, or large?" asked our waitress. We thought, better do small, else we will never make it out of here. 

"Small, please," we said primly. We were invited to the buffet, where the chef sliced us each three types of meat - beef, turkey, and pork (at least I think it was pork), after which we took our plates and filled them to the rim with everything else. The chef had given us SO MUCH MEAT that there was hardly room for the rest. So, we just piled. 

Besides the meat there were roast potatoes, Yorkshire pudding, gravy, carrots, cauliflower cheese, dressing, mashed sweet potatoes, and peas. There were sauces too. And probably other additions I have forgotten. You would be amazed at how much the SconeLady (and her daughter) were able to consume. 

All of it was mouth-watering. The conversations around us were jolly, the waitresses were helpful, and the chef was fun to watch. 

Oh - I almost forgot, we even met a man WHO KNEW ROSAMUNDE PILCHER. Yes! He lives next to The Badger Inn, and saw us walking past as he stood in his doorway. A conversation was struck up (this tends to happen whenever people see my traveling companion), and I asked him if he had ever met Rosamunde. 

"Oh yes, I knew her before she married a Scot and moved to Scotland. We even wrote letters!" This was very impressive.

"I hope you still have the letters," I murmured.

"Yes, I have them!" he replied. But before I could say, "Perhaps I could have a quick look..?" I lost my nerve, and off we went to the Carvery. Those letters will have to wait for another day.

See you along the way!

the SconeLady

PS. Even though we had a 'small' serving, we really almost didn't make it out of there.

A Dog's Welcome

 

My friend the adorable Jean sat in her favorite window-side chair today, minding her own business in peace when an explosion of barking shattered the silence. I had forgotten this quirk of her dogs, of waiting until a hapless visitor reached the door and then let fly. The sound is remarkable, quite possibly harmful to one's health.

But we entered at last (once Jean's daughter had manhandled the dogs into obedient silence), and were rewarded by the sweetest smile in Carbis Bay. From the hallway I could see she was wearing a pretty sweater (Jean always dresses well) of soft blue, white, and tan over a matching blouse and skirt. 

"Jean!" I said, touching her hand and introducing my daughter. There appeared as if from nowhere small white plates, cups, saucers, and spoons. Soon the cups were filled with tea, and then Jean spied the tell-tale bag. 

"You've brought treats, have you?" It is a habit of mine to stop by that favored spot to choose something for the appreciative Jean. My daughter held out the Yellow Canary Cafe bag, and then laughter rang out as it always must whenever the Canary is involved.

The goodies consisted of one flapjack and two amazing tarts - chocolate cream and lemon merange. And oh, it was great to hear again the Manchester accent, strong in Jean. Maybe I am not great at understanding it yet, but it's sure a lot of fun trying. We heard about a fall she had taken, her recovery (not quite complete), and some interesting details about the NHS which reveal that that NO HEALTH SERVICE IS PERFECT. It's kind of comforting to find that our two countries talk a LOT about this.

"And how is Eric doing?" I asked, wanting as always to hear of the friend who is living with Leukemia. He is a man who, in spite of his cancer, thinks of others before himself. He has a helper named Pennie who also thinks of others first; she comes three days a week to clean, cook, and garden for/with Eric. It's the sweetest thing!

After we left Jean (dogs barking their silly little heads off), we walked some more, ending up in the heights of St Ives. Our path took us along the street where Eric lives. 

"Hey! Eric lives down that lane, right there." We rounded the bend and glanced up at the house. In front of it stood Eric and Pennie (!!) clearly gardening.

"It's them!" I said with excitement.

"Who?" she replied, looking around.

"THEM. Eric and Pennie!"

"What - really?"

We stopped, not wishing to bother them or get too close because of his health. But - there they were, just at the moment we'd been thinking of them. We slowly approached, down the little lane that led us to the garden, and said 'Hello'. Pennie looked up.

Do you know what it's like to find someone you haven't seen since before Covid, and they at first aren't sure who you are, and then they suddenly ARE sure, and then the smiles just beam out all over their faces? It was exactly like that - a lovely, delicious welcome.

We stayed back a ways but communicated everything we needed to from there. Eric's sweet, pleased face - I won't forget that. And Pennie's was beautiful, filled with delight, the joy of seeing me and meeting my daughter, and we just stood there at a distance, soaking it all in. 

It's a part of Cornwall, this lovely, wonderful mystery of a place. It has curled in and around my heart until I'm sure I will never lose the magic of it. Maybe one day YOU will come, and see it for yourself. It's all available, you know. All you have to do is get here.

See you along the way!

the SconeLady

Blondes In Cornwall

Fore Street on Sunday

How many blondes does it take to execute a major trip halfway across the world whilst orchestrating the lives, laundry, activities, sports, play dates and meals for four children and two men? Two: One blonde to forget her coat on the train and leave the front door key hanging OUTSIDE THE COTTAGE, and the other to follow along behind her and pick up the pieces. 

Blondes in Cornwall. I could get used to this. And you should just hear the iPhones pinging as children, fathers, and grandpas jockey for position at a distance of six thousand miles. We talked about this endlessly in the days before takeoff. Our conversations went something like this:

Daughter: "Do you think they will survive?"

SconeLady: "Of course! Have you not trained them, taught them to cook and do the dishes, listen to their father, fold clothes and go to bed on time?"

"Well..." 

"And haven't you trained the big ones to look after the little, keeping him clothed and in his right mind?" 

"Yes..."

"And most of all, the blessed Lord who manages things with wisdom and love?" This was true. It was all true. And it was so easy, dear Readers - getting here, I mean. It is so much more fun traveling with someone you love, rather than stride forth alone. Laughter has rung out everywhere along the way - in the plane, walking through customs, finding the Heathrow Express, getting to Paddington Station, sitting on upside down trash cans while drinking coffee and eating baguettes, riding the train to Cornwall, and in our darling cottage on the sea. Laughter is the best medicine, they say, and it has all been the most marvelous fun.

After a good brisk stroll both days, we just now decided we need/deserve some ice cream. Thinking of calories, I hedged, "What about Gelato? Wouldn't that be less fattening?"

"Mom. You've walked at a good pace today and anyway, Gelato is about the same as ice cream. Why not have what you want?"

She is right, of course, and so we shall don our coats and walk the cobbled way toward Moomaid. Have you ever tasted Moomaid? You should, dear Readers! Come to St Ives, bring someone you love, and be absolutely wowed by this most delicious spot on planet Earth.

See you along the way!

the SconeLady