Royal-Watching

With Oxford behind me now and home out ahead, this room looks like some kind of explosion happened to it. I can't seem to fit any of my stuff back into its case. Has this ever happened to you? Has a dream trip, as you approach its end, become a nightmare? It always happens to me, but then I forget about it until the next time.

Besides (and this is much more important), I think I saw Prince William today! I was actually thinking about him, and then - there he was. I'm staying not far from where they live, and was walking in Hyde Park when a helicopter flew directly over my head and landed in a field. The people around me began running as if some sort of magnet was pulling them. They were yelling and laughing, but you couldn't hear anything because the helicopter was so loud. When the engines shut off, 3 people got out and THAT is when I thought I saw Prince William. I thought I saw him getting out of - the COCKPIT! 

Isn't he a pilot? I think he is, so it's not much of a stretch to think he was being one today. 

Royal-sightings are part of what makes life as a tourist in England so interesting. Almost everyone has a story. I saw the two Princes when they were little boys, walking with their mother along a path toward church. It was Christmas and cold and you could hear their shoes scrunching on the snowy pathway. Since that day, I have become a hopeful and devoted Royal-watcher.

The pilot got out and walked around a little bit, talking to the other helicopter people and to the policemen who were standing guard nearby. These policemen were NOT the Bobbie kind; they were the SWAT kind. Impressive weaponry, fingers on triggers, stern looks, the whole deal. No one who saw those police people would want to Mess With Them.

The man-who-might-be-William finally finished his conversations, looked around at all the bits of his helicopter, got back in and lifted off. Uh-oh. Maybe it wasn't him. Wouldn't he, if he were William, walk into his house? The people around me wondered out loud about this and the opinions were divided. I'm afraid we never came to a conclusion, but you could see that they would be telling their wives, their husbands, their girlfriends, and their children that THEY SAW PRINCE WILLIAM TODAY.

The strange thing is that these people had a sort of glow about them, as if having seen the Prince might rub some of his Princeliness off on them. Hmm, I'd better go and check the mirror - if I can find it. This room looks like some sort of explosion happened to it.

See you along the way!

the SconeLady

Cream Tea at Kensington Palace today

The House By The Side Of The Road

I have written a book, my friends!

Mother

If you did not know about it yet, you are about to. When I began this blog several years ago, the premise was that I would travel to England (mostly Cornwall) each year to write. And eat scones. Delicious prospects. I figured one, maybe two years to write the story, max. But I wasn't quite that quick, and the thing stretched out! Now, however, it is complete and blessedly out on Amazon.

The sweet lady holding The House By The Side Of The Road, above, is at the heart of this Memoir; it really is hers, and I know you will love walking this road with her. The story is written from the perspective of "Jenny" (me!) and I have changed some names to protect individuals’ privacy. These are my memories, from my perspective, and I have tried to represent events as faithfully as possible.

The cover and interiors of the book are wonderfully designed by Tim Green (Creative Director at FaceOut Studio) and I couldn't be more happy with it! Check out his website, here.

God bless you as you read. And, See you along the way!

the SconeLady

https://www.amazon.com/House-Side-Road-Memoir/dp/1792385536/ref=sr_1_1?crid=3SZAYFGQ99DI&keywords=Chris+cowgill&qid=1655237181&sprefix=chris+cowgill%2Caps%2C138&sr=8-1

Cinnamon Bun Twice

 

I'd heard from friend Rosie of an excellent bakery called "Gail's", and had wanted to visit it ever since. There would be, if I went, a Cinnamon Bun to die for. Rosie knew about this because one of her children lived near (or did she say above?) the London shop, and the aroma was almost impossible to ignore. 

Guess what? There is a Gail's in Oxford! 

You don't have to say 'Cinnamon Bun' twice to the SconeLady. I woke up, got dressed, and wandered around the streets of Oxford staring into my phone, in search. I wondered what a British cinnamon bun would be like. Would it resemble the fresh cinnamon rolls Americans bake each Christmas morning? Surely it couldn't compare to that! Well, I was about to find out because there was movement and chatter in front of that shop just ahead. I approached.

"May I help you?" murmured a server. I asked him for a Cinnamon Bun, and please could he "warm up the bun just a tiny bit?" 

He said, "Unfortunately I cannot do that, but they were made just this morning and I feel sure, Madam, that they wlll be fresh." Whenever I hear this disclaimer about "not warming the bun" in the shops of England, I realize that the servers have got it wrong. I am not thinking so much about fresh. I am thinking about warm.

                                                          

But he was right - the bun was fresh. As I sat enjoying it, a rather rude voice disturbed me from behind. An argument was building and growing louder, becoming such a long and scary harangue, back and forth, as the church bells mingled with the shouts, that I really thought I was going to have to run. The lady next to me did too. 

"What shall we do?" she asked, eyes wide.

But I didn't know, and then another man joined in and things became even more strident. Three loud yellers now, and nobody said anything to them, or tried to intervene, or called the authorities. If we were in the streets of LA, we might have expected gunfire. But the Brits don't get out guns, I think, so they have figured out knives instead. Either option is scary, so the lady and I grabbed up our things and looked for a hiding place. 

But suddenly it went quiet. The yellers had disappeared, and their chairs were empty. 

"Oh, thank God!" we said simultaneously. As we sat back down, I thought of a song the boys choir sang at Princess Diana's funeral long ago:

"Make me a channel of Your peace,

Where there is hatred let me bring Your love,

And where there is injury Your pardon, Lord,

And where there is doubt, true faith in You."

I can't think of anything to add to that. The boys in the choir said it all.

See you along the Way!

the SconeLady

A Room With A View

It is almost like being a student again, staying here at Oxford University. Most of my contemporaries would by now be in hotels, or B&Bs, or Airbnb's - but not the SconeLady. She wants the up-close-and-personal experience even if the reality of it is not glamorous. These are, after all, student rooms. 

But it is rather sweet - two large windows facing out onto the gardens, a living room, kitchenette, downstairs bathroom, and loft bedroom. All the amenities, in fact. Just not the glamor. Leaving my bags, I dashed off to reacquaint myself with many favorite Oxford bits - Addison's Walk, the Bodleian Library, the Martyrs Memorial, the dining hall wherein famous Oxonians have eaten, and then - oh no! a truly sad moment came as I approached The Eagle And Child. The Eagle And Child was the pub where long ago the Inklings met - friends including Lewis and Tolkien who liked to discuss and read aloud each other's literary works. And here is the sad part:

The Eagle And Child has been closed.

It's true! I wouldn't have believed it if you had told me about it in advance. But there it sat, empty and looking rather down at the tooth with a crooked sign hanging from the front door. 

I stood looking at it hopefully as if the proprietor might open the door and say, "What are you waiting out here for? Come on in!"

But the proprietor never came out. I crossed the road to look at the Lamb And Flag, another pub familiar to Lewis fans. It was closed! The Eagle has been there since 1684 and The Lamb since 1772. What!?

I REFUSE to look at this in negative terms though. Maybe they are just refurbishing? Or perhaps just changing hands. Whatever it is, there are still lots of other wonders in Oxford to look at and walk to. 

Last night was Choral Evensong at Christ Church where people were lined up outside in hopes of getting a seat. There was quite a buzz, and we at the end of the line worried out loud about our prospects. But the cathedral was so huge that there turned out to be plenty of room for everybody. The young men and boys in the Cathedral Choir were also exceedingly great, but in a different way than the one at Magdalen. I suspect it will happen like this at every Choral Evensong: beautifully different.

dining hall in Magdalen College

Addison's Walk

The spot where the Oxford Martyrs were burned at the stake

Tomorrow I will tell you about going to St Ebbe's Church for morning service. Another beautiful difference! You could tell before you went inside the church that something good was going to happen to you. This very day!

See you along the Way!

the SconeLady

Till We Meet Again

It was the usual rush, packing up and carrying cases hither and thither. But underneath this slight distraction, we both knew what was to come. We would have to say goodbye.

This happens whenever someone near-and-dear heads off in a different direction to the SconeLady's, in this case with Ted standing in the 'between'. Dear Ted. He knew.

But there we were once again at the railway station, I with my crab sandwich in a Yellow Canary sack and numerous other bags stacked around my legs. We talked about what she and Ted were going to do. They were going to spend the weekend in a boat! With two beautiful daughters and the charming canal to rock them all to sleep each night. Delicious meals to eat; ever so much to talk about and catch up on, friends and relatives, past loves, all of it. I could envy such a weekend with nears-and-dears of my own.

 

As the little St Ives train pulled slowly away and Rosie became smaller and smaller, I thought of her Victoria Sponge and the cream I hope to duplicate when I get back home. But there is something unique about the dairy products in England. THEY WON'T BE DUPLICATED. I have tried. But of course I'll try again, in what must be the definition of insanity.

I really shouldn't go into the strange, crowded conditions of yesterday's Great Western Railway ride. The people were nice and very patient, but it was HARD getting all my bags past all their bags and into the right car, then squeeze myself into what seemed a minuscule seat where a man was sitting and then had to move. Oh, and it was hot in there. 

In the midst of it all, though, there were the two sisters and their two daughters excitedly preparing to go to a very big concert that night: Billie Eilish! I don't even really know how to spell it but I knew who Billie Eilish was/is, and how big a deal the concert would be. And Billie's only twenty years old! The girls' eyes fairly sparkled in anticipation, and I murmured to one mother, "Have you any earplugs?" She laughed and said no, but that she was probably going to need them. The concert would be held in the O2 Arena, about as big as big can be (it's the arena they filmed the 2010 concert of Les Miserables with Alfie Boe playing Jean val Jean. THE BEST!).

So meeting those four lovely young/sort of young women was a huge joy. It had turned out I was sitting in one of their seats and had fallen asleep, and they had had to wake me so I could shift out of it - but my devices were all plugged in beneath the seat and I had to disentangle them, put away my laptop, gather my bags, and skooch across the aisle to a vacant spot. All of this took time. They had to arrange all their bags too and meanwhile this maneuvering plugged up the aisle so that no one could move in either direction.

But the sisters were so nice, saying things like "Oh, here is the cable for your laptop.." and "is this bag with the picture frame yours?" And most alarming, "Is this your Apple Watch on the floor?..." 

It was a bit like saying goodbye to friends as I left that train and caught the one for Oxford. They saw me hovering outside their window, and waved enthusiastically - four excited females headed off on an adventure. My own adventure seemed tame compared with theirs; sitting in an ancient chapel at Magdalen College for the Choral Evensong, young boys singing like the angels without a microphone in sight. 

I was probably listening to those boys at about the same time Billie Eilish was belting out whatever it is one belts in the O2, with fog machines and sound systems at full caliber. I'd love to hear what the mothers had to say about afterward, wouldn't you? 

Shall I hazard a guess that four sets of young/sort of young ears are still ringing a bit today? I suppose it can't be much worse than when Jimi Hendrix screamed and banged his guitar onto the stage in a fit. Lots of hearing aids exist today, just because of him.

See you along the way!

the SconeLady

To Be Born Into Pier House

Showing Matthew the Old Home Place.

                                                    

"You really must come and see your old house!" I enthused from my back seat perch. Our Mousehole Men were rehearsing that night and the topic of Pier House had come up. 

Matthew was born into Pier House (where we have been staying) in the 1940s before it became a splendid four-story self-catering tourist cottage on the harbor. Back then, the dwelling had grownups and children tucked into it everywhere, for this was a fishing family of aunts, uncles, cousins and grandparents (as well as non-relatives who often slept there), all working hard and doing their bit for the family and the war.  

Matthew loved his grandfather, the Patriarch and crusty old fisherman who occupied the 3rd floor bedroom (the room I have been staying in). From there he could keep a bright eye on the comings and the goings of his residents - and Matthew helped him.  When his grandfather became ill, an uncle told him "Granddad wants you to come stand at the foot of his bed so he can see you to say goodbye." This Matthew did, watchful as the light in the old man's eyes, and in the waning sky, grew dim. 

"Granddad died in that bed," he told me now, pointing. "And right here is where I stood.." He took up his position, and for a moment or two we stood thinking of the day Matthew's Granddad died while he kept watch.

"The old place isn't all that different," he continued, pointing and looking. "Same square footage pretty much, that cupboard's the same, but they've added an en suite to this bedroom. Kitchen's the same, except new appliances. Just look at these ovens! Grandma wouldn't know what to make of those." We ourselves did't know what to make of the ovens, which are so high tech and complicated that we almost couldn't cook!

At last, we climbed to the Tippy-top, an enviable space filled with golden sunlight. He said, "This attic's utterly changed." 

It's no attic, now. It is a gorgeously decorated upper room with a spectacular view of the harbor where one can watch strange and funny people going by. The people going by in the 1940s would mostly have been fishermen, with small boys dashing about helping their dads and uncles bring in the fish. Lots of shouting, lots of smells. Numerous children would be crammed into the attic each night (lots more smells), because they needed a place to sleep and it was just as good a place as any. An uncle who had lost his abode moved into the 3rd floor bathroom, lock stock and barrel. If anyone needed in, the uncle just crawled out and slept until his room was available again.

I don't know if I could do it, could you? crammed in at night and then having to wake up an uncle in order to use the loo? Something tells me these were mostly boys, not girls; men, not women. Well I guess there were aunts and a grandmother who did the cooking and considerable cleaning. It would be interesting to talk to them, I think.

An old advertisement said "You've come a long way, baby, to get where you've got to today!" Maybe it's true, in this case. But I'm wondering if Matthew's Grandma would agree. 

See you along the way!

the SconeLady

The attic

Friend Rosie and the Victoria Sponge

friend Rosie baking a Victoria Sponge

Last week I went through a bit of a sweet tooth for cake. Cake just about has to be the highest food item on anybody's taste list, in fact I cannot right now think of a food I like better. My family's favorite is a frosted frozen whipped cream chocolate layer cake which we now call "The Keck" in honor of Father of the Bride (and Martin Short). Just mention The Keck and everyone's paws will go up and tongues will hang out in a peculiarly doglike pant. We can't get enough of it.

During my sweet tooth phase I traipsed the streets around St Ives looking for one. For a specific one - the Victoria Sponge. I've seen Mary Berry bake a lovely Victoria Sponge on The Great British Baking Show, and that is the cake I wanted. 

But - and this has to be unbelievable in a tourist town like St Ives - none of the tea shops had one. This is very upsetting for someone like me who is having a sweet tooth attack. I went so far as to order a piece of Chocolate Orange cake instead, which I will not discuss here because it would be insulting to the shop owner. But friend Rosie would be coming to St Ives soon, and I knew I could get her to make me one.

She did. Or rather, we did. Today she guided me through the process, saying things like "One should put all the ingredients into the bowl before mixing." or: "It is best not to beat the batter too long" (the recipe says 2 minutes, but you should actually stop beating the batter once the ingredients have all been incorporated - about a minute and a half.). Now I did not know this, dear Readers. The purpose for not over-beating is to KEEP THE CAKE MOIST. Keeping a cake moist is nothing less than the Gold standard.

Here are a few photographs of our Victoria Sponge:

And here is Mary Berry's recipe. Doesn't ours look like hers?!

My sweet tooth has now been well assuaged. In fact, I had so much Victoria Sponge at 4:00 today that I did not feel quite right afterward. But it was not the cake's fault. The cake was perfection itself and I intend on overdoing it some more in the very near future. 

See you along the way!

the SconeLady

                                                           

Jane Eyre At The Minack

Going to a play at the Minack is terrific, if you prepare yourself. And we thought we had. Tickets purchased, decision made about either cab or car (car won out, cab too expensive), an early lunch sorted (crab sandwich from The Yellow Canary), and large bags with layers and towels and poncho inside. What in the world could go wrong?

                                            

Rain. Real rain - which in the end wasn't actually terrible. We were warm enough, and a little bit jolly because of the laughter the situation perpetuated. We had every expectation to arrive on time, park, maybe buy a more substantial poncho (that sky really was looking grim), stop in the ladies', and situate ourselves in time to enjoy the opening.

We (for reasons known only to us) departed and arrived late, were allowed to park in the disabled parking area, could not stop to buy anything or use the toilets (we might miss something!), and took quite a while getting situated and in our seats. The SconeLady kept murmuring things like, "Good grief!" and "What a mess!" during all of this, but our seats were SO GOOD! right down in front where you could see the whites of their eyes. We could let ourselves get into and involved in the storyline of Jane Eyre.

Mr. Rochester was outstanding. Some Mr. Rochesters are NOT, and make you feel a little squeamish about how they got the role. But this one looked right. He sounded real and gave it everything he had, causing us to believe in him. Jane was - a good Jane. I wish I could have seen her with Helen, because that scene is my favorite and says a lot. We came in just as Helen was (spoiler) dying, and the bedsheets in the school infirmary kept flapping around like ghosts in the rainy Minack wind. It was hilarious because the bedsheets did this a lot, in lots of the scenes. One time Mr. Rochester himself struggled to disentangle them from the clothes line!

Well, all the cast was good, even great. There was an interval during which we could do some of the things we didn't get to do at first, but mostly we looked at each other and laughed. We looked so ridiculous! -caught in the rain and hair all akimbo with saltiness. At the end, everyone expressed their appreciation for the cast being such bricks for putting up with the conditions. And they had another performance in just a couple of hours!

When we got back to the cottage, Ted, who was dry, and warm, and happy, looked at us - who were wet, and cold, and happy - and said, "Turned up like a bad penny again, I see," and we all trouped in and had some fish and chips.

Watching a play at the Minack Theatre was great. Maybe there wasn't a clear blue sky, as when my sister and the Amazing Larry saw the HMS Pinafore with me. But the experience was its own strange self, and all the better we are for it, too.

See you along the way!

the SconeLady

The Fun And The Joy

In the year 1990 the US Air Force decided in its wisdom to station the SconeLady's husband to an American air base in England. Hearing of this occurrence, she screamed. Truly she did, because she'd been wanting to live on that side of the Pond for absolute AGES, and now the Time had come. Triple HOORAY! Little did I know the fun and the joy that would come of it.

We moved ourselves into a British home with a British swimming pool and an interesting British street address, inserting the two children into a British school. 

The first day of school, friend Rosie drove up to the school with four wiggly children, 3 of them school age (the fourth was too little yet, but did a lot of jumping around inside their van). I knew somehow that this kindly lady smiling at me through the window was going to be a friend. When at the end of the day her daughter and mine walked out the door together, smiles became conversations and we became friends.

Here she is, now:

friend Rosie

All of our children are now grown, and we have time to do things like visiting Cornwall together. It's lovely that she likes to walk as much as I do, cooks like a chef, and laughs at my butchering usage of American style English. 

She is downstairs getting dinner ready so we can drive to where our Mousehole Men will rehearse. We love watching our Mousehole Men. The first time friend Rosie saw them, she and her sister Em stayed up until one in the morning watching Youtube videos of the group! We told the splendid Tony about this but I think it confused him, having no understanding or interest in Youtube or the fact that he might be on it. Humble to the last. 

Some hours later:

OK, we're back and it was awesome. I had no phone with me (it was left sitting on our bathroom sink - again!) so no videos yet, plus it rained on us and steamed up our wet jeans when we got inside the church, but who cared? The fun and the joy of music raising the roof of that gorgeous church in Paul made us forget about wet jeans.

See you along the way!

the SconeLady

Platinum Jubilee

 

For weeks now I have awaited this Jubilee weekend, especially the church service that would be held in St Ia. Beginning at 11am would be the service itself, followed by a picnic and Cream Tea in the churchyard and then a Songs of Praise session, also outside. Weather-people gave out dire predictions of rain and wind which I absolutely refused to believe, and on purpose left my umbrella at the cottage.

The excitement of this event has animated everybody in town for weeks because - and this I truly believe - everybody loves the Queen. You should have seen the streets! Traffic was blocked off so the cafe owners could set out tables and chairs with white tablecloths and colorful bunting around them. There was bunting everywhere you looked! And women wore hats in bright colors that remind them of the Queen (the Queen likes bright hat colors, have you noticed?) and pretty dresses they had chosen with great care.

One woman just inside the door of the church had on a bright red straw hat with silver stars around the rim, and a few stars hanging off the side. It was the sweetest thing.

"That is the perfect hat!" I exclaimed.

"I've had this hat for all of 50 years now!" she replied. "Worn it to every Jubilee, I have, but I can't remember when it was I added the stars."

"It was when I was 8, Mother," murmured her fully grown and almost elderly son. She was clearly pleased to be able to wear it at what must be the last Jubilee for Queen Elizabeth. Her eyes beamed out almost as brightly as her hat.

Several other churches joined us at St Ia, and a right good crowd it was, too. As I walked in, the organist was playing something amazing, hands and feet pumping away while pulling out and pushing in all the stops at a great pace. When he was finished I wanted to clap, but just at the moment it didn't seem like the best idea. So I didn't.

"What do you think the Vicar's sermon will be about?" I had asked friend Rosie, who has descended upon St Ives with her Ted once more! 

"I expect it will be about service - the service Queen Elizabeth has given to her country, to her family, and to the world. He will likely talk about this because service is the key theme of the Queen's life." I liked the Queen even more, now that I had heard this.

"Do you think they will sing "God Save The Queen"? She could see I really wanted them to.

"I think today would be the perfect day for "God Save The Queen" in a church service. You can just about count on it."

And Rosie was right about the sermon! The Vicar encouraged us to think of others as more important than ourselves, and said that those who serve others will be the greatest in the kingdom of Heaven. Amen!

The *hymns were significant and powerful and it was all I could do to stand still during them. Surely no one would mind the American lady jumping up and down, just a teeny bit? But this also didn't seem like the best idea, so I stood still.

And then, "Ladies and gentlemen, please stand for the National Anthem." We stood and everybody sang out:

"God save our gracious Queen, long live our noble Queen, God save the Queen!

Send her victorious, happy and glorious, long to reign over us, God save the Queen!"

Of course I couldn't jump and clap, so I cried instead. Down came the tears as I thought about this good woman, imperfect (as we all are, don't forget) and realizing it, but giving her service all the same. Lots of us were choked up and more than a few tears were shed. It was a lovely moment to share with these dear British cousins from over-the-sea. 

Thank you for welcoming me! Thank you for shaking my hand! Thank you for consistently shining the Light of Christ out to this world that so desperately needs it. 

See you along the Way!

the SconeLady

*Guide Me Oh Thy Great Redeemer

*Eternal Father, Strong to Save

*Praise My Soul The King Of Heaven

What Did Rosamunde Eat For Breakfast

It was important that I find Matthew at The Sloop. I do not have his phone number, but I know he gathers there every morning for coffee in the sunshine with his friends. One will often see him leaning against the white wall of the place, wearing sunglasses, and jawing. It's all a part of St Ives.

I needed to talk to him about the Mousehole Male Voice Choir and rides to their rehearsals and such. It was so warm outside that everyone around The Sloop was wearing shorts or sundresses, leaning their heads back, soaking in the sunshine. 

"Y'alright?"

It was Matthew, and of course I said that I was. It is noticeable that when a Cornish woman greets you she says, "Hiya!", and when a Cornish man greets you it is with "Y'alright?" Both are lovely and I miss this in California. Californians just say "hey" or "dude".

We were starting our chat about choir rides when one of the men at Matthew's table called out, "Rosamunde Pilcher!" I sort of jumped and blurted, "Rosamunde Pilcher?", remebering that in my hand was a Rosamunde Pilcher book. I kept it with me because you never know when there might be a spare moment to fill with a few of her sentences. Her sentences are Gold.

"Oh, Roger's mother was Rosamunde's cousin," explained Matthew. 

"What?" I almost screamed. Was I actually meeting a man whose mother was MY HEROINE'S ACTUAL COUSIN? I hardly knew how to retort to this and wanted to know all about the cousin, where she lived, what Rosamunde ate for breakfast, and how many of her books Roger had read.

The men all looked at Roger, who shrugged and said, "None."

I was stunned. "Why on earth not?"

"Oh, I never read anything. Too much else to do."

"But surely you must want to read something by your famous and enviable 2nd cousin twice removed!" But no, whoever the famous and enviable proclaimed herself to be, Roger had zero interest in cracking any books. His famous relative is the main reason hundreds of thousands of her fans cram themselves onto the streets of St Ives every year. She is the reason German filmmakers produce boatloads of Rosamunde Pilcher films in German that become instantly and wildly famous.

"Have you seen any of her films?" I asked hopefully.

"Nope."

Now this was going too far. No books? No films? Dude.

See you along the way!

the SconeLady

Scones for the SconeLady

 

Since The Digey Food Rooms closed themselves, I have been in something of a slump about scones. Just about every shop in Cornwall serves them, of course, for to be in Cornwall without them is to miss the Point. But so far nothing has come even close to Alex and Josh at The Digey. I can scarcely talk about it.

Then my phone pinged, announcing an email. "Shall we have scones at Eric's house?" This was from the lovely and gracious Pennie, who has been a true friend from afar and who loves a Cream Tea as much as the SconeLady. 

"Oh yes, let's!" And it was set for 2:00 on Tuesday, in the conservatory.

Conservatories are a wonderful British invention. They are sort of like what we might call a 'sunroom' back home, only the British do it prettier. A British conservatory is (or looks like it is) an addition to the house, wherever it fits in best and the contractor can fashion. The conservatory is typically windows top to bottom, left to right and all the way around. With French doors. And plants! A good conservatory will have plants and flowers placed about it in a delicately arranged way. Eric's conservatory is lovely, and he has good memories in there of the years when his wife was still here making scones for him. 

Pennie provided the scones today and I wanted to contribute something to this special Cream Tea. Strawberries came to mind, so I stopped by the local and picked out some grand ones (we eat lots of strawberries in California, but may I say? they are NOTHING LIKE BRITISH STRAWBERRIES. British strawberries are so sweet and delicate, you almost don't want to cut into one). 

Pennie's scones were served with jam and cream, of course (Americans usually use whipped cream, but Cornwallians prefer clotted). Notice the jam was put on first, then the cream? That is a Cornwall trait, opposite to what is done in Devon, where they start with the cream and add the jam. I do not know why one county does it one way, and the other doesn't. I don't think they know why either. 

This clotted cream tasted better than any other that I have tasted. I ate the whole thing.

We listened as we ate, to some of Eric's stories about when he was a boat pilot in the waters off Penzance. He has written books that tell about these adventures (including the one about him taking Prince Charles for a ride), and very interesting they are, too. His very own father was a ship's captain during the War, and - because he rescued over a hundred people from the sea, the Queen gave him an MBE! (Member of the British Empire). Neither you nor I, no matter how many people we rescue from any sea, will ever become a Member of the British Empire. But Eric's father did, with Queen Elizabeth smiling kindly at him and handing him whatever it is she hands to people who become MBEs. 

The only sad part about that story was that Eric was sick on the day of the award, and missed the whole thing.

"Was St Ives ever in danger during WW2?" I asked, and he told us that the Germans had actually dropped bombs here. The building where the Tate Museum now is used to be the Gas works. One day Eric was playing in the surf when he and his mother heard two loud bombers flying in low, coming their direction from the sea. As the German pilot approached, Eric could see his face in the cockpit, grinning and laughing as if he was looking forward to really giving it to those Britishers down there. The bomb dropped, and then the gas works went up in flames with terrific noise and heat. Thankfully Eric and his mother were not injured, but he will never forget the look on that pilot's face.

The cream tea was over, and it became time for me to go back out under the blue Cornish skies. There can hardly be anything as nice as that - having a cream tea with lovely friends in a conservatory while listening to War bombing adventures from someone as nice as Eric. 

And to think, he came that close to being bombed while just being a kid, wading with his mum out under the blue Cornish skies.

See you along the Way!

the SconeLady