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?