(Cornwall Day 24) Cape Cornwall

 

The combination beauty of sunlight and blue sea is enticing, it is true. I go out into it as early as possible, where it's just me and a dog-walker, or maybe me and a man pushing a pram. There are a lot of men pushing prams this week, giving their wives a lie-in.

But by 9:00 am, the tourists are out of bed and the SconeLady is squashed. Looking down Fore Street, I saw a mass of bodies ahead of me, bodies trying to pass each other and making no headway. In the midst of this a group of workmen began to hammer their way into the center of the road for work that evidently must be done now, right in the middle of Half Term week. To make matters worse, a dog backed up to the hole and USED THE RESTROOM IN IT (I really don't think it meant to be objectionable. It saw a hole).

The dog's owner whipped out his poo-bag and, red-faced, reached down in. I felt sorry as much for him as for the workmen. 

Watching the man with the bag and the dog, I made a command decision. I would go to the bus stop and just hop onto the first one that came. No matter where it went. St Ives excels in buses, and you almost can't go wrong. 

Right then a bus pulled in, and I could not believe it. It was a Coaster bus!

The Coaster is an on-off bus that travels the entire peninsula along the coast. You can see the ocean the entire time and get off whenever you want to, then just come back an hour later and get back on again. It's a great deal for 5 pounds. 

Instead of taking the entire circular route (which takes a few hours), I got off at St Just, walked the circle to Cape Cornwall, and went back the way I had come (they have clockwise and anti-clockwise buses).

You may have visited Cape Cornwall, or heard it mentioned in the song, "Cornwall, My Home":

I've stood on Cape Cornwall
In the sun's evening glow
On Chywoone Hill at Newlyn
to watch the fishing fleets go.

Watched the sheave wheels at Geevor

As they spun around

And heard the men singing 

as they go underground.

And no one will ever move me from this land.

until the Lord calls me to sit at His hand.

For this is my Eden, and I'm not alone,

For this is my Cornwall 

And this is my home.

-Harry Glasson

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=FNCcSJiZR1I

This song is my favorite of the Fisherman's Friends' songs, so it was lovely fun today to see where they filmed the song's video. 

St Just has an adorable town square that includes a clock tower, a medieval church, and a collection of tea shops, grocers, Cornish pastie shops, and others. The photo below of the Parish Church is lovely, but in real life it is breath-taking. If a church like this was in California, people would line up to go see it I'm sure! But there were no lines, today. 

I needed a place to eat my sandwich because it was a bit nippy outside. Coffee and tea shops look down on people bringing their own sandwiches in, even if you want to buy a pot of tea (my sister and I know this from British experience), so I hoped that the church might not mind if I did. 

It was a particularly delicious sandwich to which I have become attached - roast chicken, lettuce, tomato, onion and mayo. It would be embarrassing if I were to start eating it in a pew, and a church official came in and asked me to leave. But no person, official or otherwise, came in to say that and I was able to sit in those unbelievable surroundings, eating my chicken and mayo.

It became time to catch the clockwise bus back to St Ives. As I walked that short distance, the sun streamed out from behind the clouds. Then the clouds went away altogether, and those of us in the top of that bus had huge smiles. The beauty was overwhelming, as if it were Eden itself.

For this is my Eden, and I'm not alone,

For this is my Cornwall 

And this is my home.

See you along the way!

the SconeLady

(Cornwall Day 23) Fisher Grandchildren

 

There can hardly be anyone harder working than a Cornish fisherman. Every day my first steps take me to the pier, where I am almost sure to see this man in yellow, scrubbing, organizing, weighing, sorting, or answering the questions of tourists. It's all part of the job.

Some of these sightings take place when the tide is out, and I think, "Why would a fisherman be at the pier now, with no water to carry him out?" But Stuart always has plenty to do, tide or no tide, and the work is never really done.

Yesterday I arrived in the bright sunshine to find a little group clustered around him, the mother, father, and two children asking him about his catch. A group of seagulls also hovered with a lively interest, above. All of this interest was focused on a bucket of delicious looking crabs, their long spindly legs seeming to reach out in curiosity toward us. Lobsters squirmed around in another bin, their claws bound securely for safety, and a bucket of mackerel twitched together in the third. The children stared.

"What if they get loose?" asked the boy cautiously.

"Oh well, you see, we don't need to worry about them getting loose. This lot isn't going anywhere." A long crab claw reached out, as if on cue, toward the little girl. She squeaked.

Stuart saw me then and said, "Y'alright?" in the typical Cornish welcome. Once we had established that I was alright, the family said 'thank you', and slowly moseyed in the direction of the wharf. I made to follow, knowing how busy Stuart was. Then I remembered something. 

"How is your son doing?" Stuart's son is a younger fisherversion of himself. 

"Oh -" the man said, perking up. "He has a baby now, just three weeks old! The cutest little thing..." he forgot his catch and began flitting through a smart phone to find the one absolutely perfect photo of that 'cute little thing'. He finally did find it, and held the screen toward me. 

"She IS the cutest thing!" I said in all honesty. More digging revealed photos of his daughter's two children, every bit as cute. Those three grandchildren were the blondest haired, bluest eyed children I had seen since...since I'd left my own grandchildren in California!

"I spend all my extra time with these three," he said, checking his watch. "Better get workin' now so I can go back..." He bent over the lobster bin and heaved it into the truck.

Fishermen are strong and can heave bins of sea creatures into trucks and take them to market. They rise early and go to bed late. They put up with people who fiddle with their boats because their boats have to be outside all night long. 

The fishergrandfather's day is never over, because what about that 3 year old? and the 18 month old? and that cutest little 3 week old who is already starting to love her granddad? There's an awful lot of holding yet to come. 

See you along the way!

the SconeLady

Cornwall Day 21 (Wild Church)

 

St Michael's Mount gleamed out like an emerald today, but this picture is deceptive. It is deceptive because there are no humans or dogs in it, and in reality there are humans and dogs EVERYWHERE HERE. We are trapped, I tell you - TRAPPED! We are ensconced in the half-term holiday, and there is no escape. It doesn't help that the weather is perfect every day because that only brings in more humans-and-dogs!

Yesterday I was able to escape the crush for a while, walking up the hill to St John's in the Fields Church of England, for Wild Church. Even the walk to Wild Church is enjoyable because the further up you climb, the fewer the crowds there are. Everybody wants to be DOWN.

I turned right and saw why they called it "St John's In The Fields" long ago. It looks exactly like a huge park with a very old church set into it. When you come up for Wild Church you will almost always see children playing, biking, and cheerfully working in the raised garden beds to the side. It is a child's paradise.

Wild Church takes place in the Vicar's garden. One approaches the Vicar's garden through an opening to the right of the church. 

When you enter the doorway you are given a welcome and a sheet to help guide you through the service. Then you are directed to the tea, coffee and cake shack, a very popular spot at Wild Church. Children think it provides a smashing start to the service. This time they had vanilla cupcakes with real whipped cream and fresh strawberries on top, and a huge chocolate layer cake. 

For a while, everyone was talking, milling around, making new friends, and looking at the variety of activity tables, which were not just for the children but for everyone. Everything at Wild Church is for everyone, which makes them all feel hugely welcomed.

The Vicar's wife is a terrific lady who sings, plays instruments, writes music, keeps a Spotify playlist, and includes everyone in the whole worship experience. There was a guitar, a keyboard, microphones, and a sort of box thing that a person sits on, and keeps rhythm on it with their hands. I don't know what it is called, but it was lovely because the Vicar sat on it and played it! 

After this, the Vicar spoke to us (the theme was The Holy Spirit's coming, at Pentecost - read Acts 2:1-31 -, as it had been in the morning service where he wore his robes and his shoes. At Wild Church he didn't). Much was said about Pentecost from others in the service, and in fact everything about the time together - and the Bible readings especially - supported the theme, tying it all together in an understandable way.

You need to know something here. There were lots of children there with their families - including grandparents (three cheers!). The children were not separated into another area to do children things. They were, for the entire time, in. 

Were they quiet? Well, not the whole time. But it didn't matter because whenever they made any noise, everything just kept going on as if they weren't making noise. No one was bothered by the noisy bits. It was very sweet and very much like Jesus, who is also wonderfully welcoming to children.

the Vicar

chocolate layer cake

The bus helped. What bus? you ask? Well, there was a blue and white wooden bus whose insides is actually a slide. The little ones loved it and spent most of the service in it. I was right in the line of sight of that little bus, and thought it hilarious!

When it was time to go I was able to say, "See you next week!" Smashing. 

So you see, my next Sunday will be a lively and a busy one. Singing in the choir at one church, having cake and tea at another! And maybe I won't even wear shoes - although that might shock my grandchildren. I can hardly wait.

See you along the Way!

the SconeLady

the bus!

(Cornwall Day 20 ) Singing In A Church of England for the First Time

 

Yes, I sang in the church choir this morning, but there are sadly no photos of the event. This is because I couldn't figure out how to use a smart phone on a stage in an ancient Church of England WITHOUT BEING NOTICED (also there was the request that I be sure my phone was switched off. That ended any fiddling).

We met early for a rehearsal, where the music director led us through each of the songs expertly well. He is a Scott with a decently strong accent, so I did not understand quite everything he said. But one thing became clear. I knew none of the songs for the day. This did not trouble me, however, since my father taught all of his children to read music from an early age (a.k.a. the moment we were born). 

By the time we needed to meet in the choir room and prepare our hearts, the Scott had given us enough confidence to walk out there with heads held high. This is possibly the most important quality in a good music director - that, and being gentle with our mistakes. 

After all the years of sharing with you the joys of a Church of England processional, I finally got to be a part of one. I was toward the front of the double line and close to the cross as it floated on ahead, carried by a tall young man whom I had seen before. The incense, the cross, the music, the Bible, and the people all helped set that collection of moments apart in my mind. Unforgettable.

The choir surrounded this newcomer with kindness itself. Throughout the service, the lady next to me gave little helpful instructions to keep me in the right place at the right time. Another lady helped me get a glass of water to put near my seat on the pew. A man said he would print me off a copy of the liturgical pages and put them into a folder for me. That way I can be ready "next time you come!" Another lady said they would never let me sit alone in the congregation again. "She's one of us, now." It was the sweetest thing.

And, there was dog-Tess at her spot, watching carefully for her cue to stand. She did it without a hitch.

In the end, we processed back to the choir room where the Vicar blessed and thanked us as a group. He apparently does this every week, and no one takes off any of their robes until he is done. Then the robes come off because it is HOT in them.

Tomorrow I will tell you about the second church service I attended today. It is also the Church of England, but is called "Wild Church" and did not have robes. Wild Church was splendid in a different way. I am still humming the songs they shared, and the moments spent there are also set apart in my mind, and therefore, unforgettable.

See you along the Way!

the SconeLady

(Cornwall Day 19) Something I Have Never Done In Cornwall

If I hadn't stopped to admire and listen to the church bells along the way, I would have caught the train. Sometimes missing one thing is better than catching the other.

I lingered, thinking about tomorrow. Tomorrow would be a Sunday, and I would be doing something I had never done in Cornwall. Singing in the St. Ia choir! When you stay for the post-church cup of tea, you meet all sorts of fine people and give them a chance to figure you out a little. 

The organists's wife heard from dog-Tess's mistress that the American lady used to sing in a church choir long ago. The organist - who is no ordinary organist, but one with a reputation elsewhere who leaves the congregation wanting more every week - said, "Splendid!" when HE heard. All of this made the SconeLady feel welcome and excited about donning a robe, making the Processional, and following the great Cross as it traverses the nave to its rightful place. 

By now I have memorized all their choral responses, but might not know the hymns. Hymns in this country are often different to the ones in America. Sometimes the words of a hymn here are different to ours even though it has the tune we are used to. Then sometimes the tune will be different but the words are the same. Once in a great while you will find a hymn that matches both the lyrics and the tune, AND the title. And that is an especially red letter day, because one needn't look at the book at all, but can stand blaring it out with everybody else (Blaring it out runs in our family).

Pausing in the churchyard en route to the train, I suddenly remembered the time. 11:10! Train time is 11:12! Picking up the pace, I made my way down the lane in front of Rosamunde's house with only the tiniest glance (and it was looking gorgeous, by the way, in all that sunshine). And there the train was, already approaching, stopping, screeching, and then moving off. I watched it go.

"I'm afraid you've missed it, Madam," said a knowledgable man on the bench. He had been jawing with a group of other knowledgable people, discussing the dreadful mess they felt the government was making of everybody's finances. 

"They'll have us all eating Corn Flakes three times a day, at this rate!" he was saying, when I missed my train.

"But - Corn Flakes?" I asked, quaking a little because I am not knowledgeable in their politics (I did see Corn Flakes on their grocery shelf, though. Does that count?)

"Oh, I only meant that prices have gone up so high that Corn Flakes are probably the only thing we'll have left when the dust settles." There was a general consensus on this amongst the group.

"In the meantime," he said, brightening, "the best option for you today, is a bus. Go to the top of this hill, turn left, and cross the road. There is a bus stop that leaves every 15 minutes." 

I thanked him, climbed the hill and squeezed into a double-decker crowded with families. As the bus descended the main road into St Ives, the sidewalks were burgeoning with tourists. So THIS is half term holiday in England! There were children, dogs, pails, shovels, wind breaks, blankets, wet suits, swim suits, picnic baskets, water bottles, sun screens, and harassed parents/grandparents, all along the route. When the bus stopped, my fellow passengers and their stuff joined the throngs.

 I followed the general stampede toward the sand, and saw an interesting change coming over the children. Whereas they had squirmed, cried, and been annoying in the bus, the closer they got to the beach, the happier they became. 

They quit their quarreling and made a beeline straight for the water. I couldn't tell who was happiest - the kids or their parents, and it was probably a tie. But if somebody had asked me, I would have to say that absolutely none of them was worrying, at that moment, whether Corn Flakes would end up their final meal.

See you along the way!

the SconeLady

(Cornwall Day 18) A Cottage As A Pension

 

Everything that meets the eye here is so old that it all looks quaint. It's sometimes hard to walk on (I would not recommend cobbles to just everybody), but it sure is cute.

We four were stretching out their departure times for as long as possible, as it is always hard to admit that our week is ending. We had done our wild swim, eaten our breakfast, packed our bags, emptied the cottage of all our clobber, and sat down at last, looking at this sweet quaintness. High on our list of must-do's for the morning had been going to the little Italian cafe for the best coffee in town, and sit 'gassing' in the sunshine. 

I asked Rosie, "Which is the strongest possible coffee?" not for the first time. I am always asking her these reminder questions, but she doesn't mind it and recommended a cappuccino with two shots, allowing me to add milk (apparently this is a no-no to coffee experts like Ted. One time he gave myself and the lovely daughter a minuscule cup of black Turkish coffee, and when we tasted it and gagged, we immediately begged for milk. I'll give you three guesses as to whether he allowed it).

The others got 'flat whites', and the Italian man said Goodbye and see you next year! and then we all trouped out into the sunshine.

A nice-looking gentleman settled himself nearby as we rested our heads, eyes gently shut and murmuring about what a fabulous week we had just had.

"And where are you from?" asked the man.

We explained, and he (approximately) said, "Ah, California...that must be nice."

The SconeLady is given this opinion by lots of people in the vicinity of St Ives. They often can't imagine someone who prefers the cooler shores of Cornwall to the enviable warmth of the great California. "It's nice, yes, but I do have a strong fondness for this lovely spot."

We learned that he lives in Cheshire, bordering on Lancashire, Staffordshire, Yorkshire, and ...  I've forgotten the last one.

"But I own a cottage here, so being retired I can come down anytime I want!"

This impressed the SconeLady, who has often brought up the subject. We learned that his cottage was "just two streets up from here" - wonderful! Near the sea! In Downalong! Mere moments from Italian coffee! 

"I'm going home soon, but in three weeks time I shall be back. Traffic doesn't bother me no matter how bad it is, because I always stop at a special spot and consider it to be part of the holiday!"

He did say that there are advantages and disadvantages to owning a Cornish cottage for the last 40 years. Some of these were enumerated, which should have been daunting to the novice sitting next to him. But ask me if I cared! No. I only thought of getting to step outside the door to this.

Our coffees were empty now and the clock ticked away, nudging us up from the cozy bench and our new friend.

"Well, our time is gone," we said, sorry to go. It's like this with new friendships along the way. There is always someone new to meet - and lose. "But it was very nice meeting you!"

More than one pair of feet dragged just a bit, along the cobbles.

Ted, who had pulled her roller bag over the cobbles for about a mile, safely situated Em onto the train. English trains always have a tale-tell bell that shrieks when the doors are about to close, and it shrieked at us now. Ted came off.

"Have a good ride!" we yelled.

"Enjoy your crab sandwich!"

"See you next time!" she called. There was a gradual move, and the end could no longer be delayed. 

English trains are never late when you want them to be.

See you along the way!

the SconeLady

Cornwall Day 17 (Clacking Claws 2023)

 

In compassionate solidarity with the lobster, our Em was hidden in her room two stories up. 

In the kitchen, a kindly YouTube chef demonstrated the how-to's of lobster preparation. It appeared to involve some twisting, some cutting, and some boiling. Once again we listened eagerly. 

"The lobster will feel nothing whatsoever as the knife goes into its head. Just be sure it is put into the right spot."

Okay, I believed the chef but still the whole idea was a little creepy. Grateful that it would be friend Rosie and Ted and not me who held the knife, I watched as quiet as a little mouse.

They put the knife, as the chef had said, into the right place. The chef moved the knife downward, so Ted did. There was a silence.

"Is it dead yet?" I asked.

"Yes," said friend Rosie, as the tail of the lobster moved up and down. I freaked, but hid it well. During this process the pot of water had begun to boil, so when the knife had been placed and moved and removed properly, Rosie placed the lobster into it. Something somewhere moved. I freaked.

And then, after 20 minutes of quiet boiling, it was all blessedly over. We called the compassionate Em out of hiding, and she crept to the kitchen and peered in. The aroma of lobster (with lemon mayo made by Em), potatoes, courgettes, broccoli, and yellow squash permeated the place and set our mouths to watering.

Fishing in the waters off St Ives is not an exact science, and we still don't really understand how it works with the tides. But Stuart came through, bless him. I saw him this morning, driving his white pickup truck back to the pier for another day of fishing.

"Hello, are y'alright?" he called.

"Oh yes, fine!"

"Having a nice walk?"

"Yes - but most of all, Stuart, the lobster was fantastic. Thank you so much!" He smiled.

The truck began to pull away, but he put his head out for a last word.

"Come see us next year, now, don't forget!" And he was gone.

Have you ever had a particularly scrumptious lobster dinner in a Cornish town just yards from the ocean where thousands of squiggling lobsters are currently clacking their claws in those waters? No? But you must!

Here's to making it happen.

See you along the way!

the SconeLady

(Cornwall Day 16) Godrevey Lighthouse

 Godrevey Light House, today

There are so many fun and interesting things we have been doing, that I don't really know what to tell you first. One item that stands out because it permeates everything else, is being able to walk within feet of the magnificent Celtic Sea. We do this every day, for hours. Whenever I leave Cornwall, it is this sea that I will miss the most. 

Today's walking took us near to the Godrevey Lighthouse. You can almost always see it floating out there in St Ives Bay, and what a splendid lighthouse it is, too. Seeing it in the bay makes you want to see it in person. We found out ages ago that a person cannot actually go out to it because it is on an island, and therefore you have to ride in a boat to get there (This would not be fun, though. The crashing waves would almost certainly deprive you of at least some of your parts).

A bus clerk told us how to reach the lighthouse by hopping on an open top bus from St Ives to Gwithian (isn't 'Gwithian' the sweetest name for a Cornish village?). We liked the idea of this, but open top buses here can be adventuresome. You feel as if you are flying low-level in a very slow airplane, with things like tree branches and sometimes telephone poles scraping the sides of the bus (well, maybe not telephone poles..). And you are just inches from it all.

The traveling took an hour each way, so we got a ton of talking done there and back. If Ted had been with us, he would have said we were "gassing". That is what he calls it when he can't get in a word edgewise.

Stepping from the bus, we turned and were met by the lovely St Gothians Church:

All the churches we see in Cornwall are spectacular, and this one instantly became one of my favorites. The beams in the ceiling! The pews! The tapestried kneelers made by wonderful women with servant's hearts! The gentle welcome we saw everywhere, which showed they wanted us there, sight unseen. It is open "24/7".

Pew kneelers

Well marked signs showed us the direction of Godrevey, and when we finally saw it looming above the waves, the three of us stood and stared while munching our Cornish pasties. The thing was sensational, its stark whiteness calling attention to itself day in and day out; the green green grasses surrounding it; the outbuildings crowding cozily around its base; the granite boulders waiting for an unwelcome fool to try and gain access.

The wind became 'fresh', giving the SconeLady a rather scarecrow-ish look. I wondered why my companions never seemed to look like scarecrows, and then realized that some things are just never going to be fair. 

"What is that bird there, Rosie?" asked Em.

"Which bird?"

"That one.."

These two sweet sisters are excited about birds and flowers, and lovely nature in general. No one asked me what the name of the bird was, because they (politely) knew I WOULD NEVER KNOW IT. I'd missed out on that particular gene. 

In a while, a group of large gray birds floated towards us, two grown ones in the lead, and 4 babies. I perked up. They looked familiar. They looked rather goosy, in fact. Goosy...goose...

"Canadian Geese!" I said. "Those birds are Canadian Geese!" 

Smiles all around. Maybe I still have a bird gene in there, somewhere.

See you along the way!

the SconeLady

Cornish pasties along the way

(Cornwall Day 15) Motor Bikers on a Sunny Sunday

Don't get me wrong, I have nothing against motor bikes or the men and women who ride them. There must be a place for them in the grand scheme of this world. But when 200 motor bikes (and their men and women) start clogging up the cobbled lanes of St Ives on a sunny Sunday afternoon, I draw a line. 

While walking along in a peaceful, uninterrupted silence a faint rumbling noise reached our ears. The noise grew until it became a roar, and the roar was coming our way.

There is no possible way to walk or talk when hundreds of motor bikes are roaring at you and maybe even frightening you into bits. Several other pedestrians stopped, too - some ladies out walking their barking dogs and a young, beautiful couple standing and staring at the edge of the street. 

There are not many truly gorgeous people in this world, but these were definitely two of them. Apart from the man's multiple tattoos, these young people were smashing. The woman's blond/brown softly curled hair fell to her waist. She wore a long leather-look dress, boho beads, and other super cute accountrements. I was impressed. But there really was no time to stare at them. I was staring at the motorbikers.

I hope you can see in this video what we saw in real life. These were not your ordinary, work-a-day bikers; neither were they Hell's own angels. They were long-bearded, three-piece-suit-wearing, boot-wearing and sequin-encrusted riders, but in a really masculine way. One wore a black-tie affair, very spiffy with a beard and mustache that curled at the corners of his mouth. 

There were a variety of helmets, from World War One Kaiser helmets to heavy-duty Viet Nam era head gear. Their ladies behind them were dressed up too. They were pretty, waving and cheering as they flew by, but were not as impressive as their men.

When it looked like the parade was over, we turned and struck up a conversation with the beautiful couple nearby.

"Do you know why they are here?" asked the man.

"No," we said. "We have no idea."

"Maybe a wedding?" said the woman, who was wearing long, pretty earrings. "It would be cool to go to a wedding all filled up with motor bikers. They would have to have it out of doors, I think. Maybe it's a biker-wedding and the first two in line were the couple.."

We ran out of things to say, then, and they wandered off. 

It may seem strange to you, dear Readers, that the SconeLady - when she was a teenager - used to want to ride a motor bike. Because I wanted to, a motor biking school friend brought his over for me to ride, sitting behind him. Off we went, as he made loud engine noises that hurt my ears.

Pretty soon he produced a flashing red contraption that looked like a police light. 

"What is that?" I asked plaintively.

"You'll see," he answered, then pulling up behind a car, he turned it on. The car stopped.

What!? Was he pretending to be a policeman? Who on earth was in the car he had stopped? Great heavens!

Thankfully we did not hang around to 'interview' the car driver, but made our escape. Suddenly I no longer wanted to ride a motor bike. What I wanted was to go home.

That is my only motor biker story. I was reminded of it as we stood watching the strangely bearded and smiling bikers. It also reminded me of the lesson I had learned that day long ago: 

Never get behind an idiot on a motor bike who wants to be a policeman, but will never be anything more than a security guard.

See you along the way!

the SconeLady

Cornwall Day 14 (Even A Cat)

The cat appeared to have no known owner, and regarded our little group with suspicion. The six of us were tagging along behind Tony the tour guide, who knows more about St Ives than anyone else in a 50 mile radius. We had started at the Guildhall, working our way around to the Wharf, Westcott's Quay (pronounced "Key"), and Skidden Hill (so named because mule-drawn carts had once skidded down the hill in a treacherous manner). It isn't that much safer nowadays, given all the speeding white transit vans we had to dodge. In a while, we were guided to the war memorial, commemorating the graves of the glorious dead. 

There in front of the memorial lay the cat, as if it had known all along where we would be going. The creature did not acknowledge us, but it was so pretty and its fur was so soft that we couldn't help liking it. Tony was explaining how John Pain was hanged at the town square for his part in the Prayer Book Rebellion, when the cat stared at him as if he understood every word.

Walking around the town of St Ives and being told scandalous and fascinating things about its past on a gloriously sunny day filled with birdsong and new friends, is lovely. We finished up inside the very old and very hot Fisherman's Lodge facing the Wharf. Its walls are covered in ancient framed photos of fishermen who had lived, loved, and died here a long time ago. Even Tony's father and grandfather had sat around the pot-bellied stove there, telling tales. 

The story of Cornish tin miners and fishermen never gets old. It's fascinating to hear Tony explaining such a complicated history in a way even a cat can understand.

See you along the way!

the SconeLady

Cornwall Day 13

 

It is changeover day for the SconeLady, and the end of the day has come without a post or a picture. And there is so much to say! Friend Rosie, her Ted, and our Em have once again made their way to the Jewel of Cornwall.

The train for Em was already later than she wanted it to be, but became even later due to a tragic circumstance that made it stop. When the train finally came in and we were all together again, a Mammoth gab session ensued, and Ted hardly got n a word edgewise. We did let him talk (a little), but there is hardly anything so satisfying as the topic of the next generation.

We are by no means finished, but we have got to get to bed. I keep falling asleep over my MacBook.

See you along the way!

the SconeLady

Lost En Route To Rosamunde (Cornwall Day 12)

 

I thought getting to Rosamunde's place in Lelant would be easy (you all know I've been there before), but taking a wrong turn onto a golf course is never helpful. 

The warning came to me in the form of some men's voices deep in the heart of the West Cornwall Course. 

"Wait! You aren't supposed to be here," said one.

"You might get hit!" said the other. I could have told them that I already knew this, having been yelled at years ago with friend Rosie, her Ted, and our Em. WE had wandered onto the course, prompting the manager to yell, grab his cart and whirl us away. I didn't really feel like being humiliatingly yelled at and whirled away again, so I made my escape.

The voices mercifully faded. 

I hid for a while, and hiding like this made me feel strangely like Peter Rabbit escaping from Mr McGregor. But every cloud has its silver lining, and mine was the place I accidentally escaped to.

You won't believe it. The place I accidentally escaped to ROSAMUNDE PILCHER'S AUNT LOUISE'S HOUSE IN THE BOOK 'COMING HOME'! I literally gasped.

'COMING HOME' is my personal favorite of the great writer's novels, and in it we meet Aunt Louise. She is very interesting, drives like a maniac, plays golf like a man, and strikes up a friendship with an idiot named Billy Fawcett. You must read the book, and find out all about it.

I had heard (from a St Ives artist) that Aunt Louise's house in the book was actually a house Rosamunde had lived in, in real life. I had seen it once, with the Brotherly Traveler when we'd played golf in 2016, and lost a myriad of balls because it is a Links course, and almost nobody can keep track of a golf ball on a link.

The house is exactly as she had described it. That is the magic of wandering around St Ives, Carbis Bay, and Lelant, having read her descriptions. You can be directed to the places she lived in and loved, right from her own words. 

Oh - and Billy Fawcett's house was there too, just where she said it was. I wonder if the people inside them know that their houses are famous to thousands, even millions of us who know the stories.

I did, finally, reach Rosamunde's house in Lelant. Standing in front of it were a group of people staring up at the lovely home. I joined them.

"Rosamunde Pilcher lived here," I whispered.

"Yes. Riverview House," someone replied.

"Americans always like British novels," said another. "They love the novels of...oh, I can't remember the author's name. What other woman British author do you love?" 

I stood, unable to guess. The group finally wandered off, and as I stood taking pictures, I heard a shout.

"Hello! Hello?" the lady called from a distance.

"Yes?" I replied.

"VIRGINIA WOOLF!" she blasted. "Americans love Virginia Woolf!"

I waved at her, trying to come up with even one book I knew of by Virginia Woolf. 

I'm drawing a blank.

See you along the way!

the SconeLady

Cornwall Day 11 (Artists Still Come)

 

The man sat calmly as I strolled by, a paintbrush in his hand. At first, I felt a little too shy to ask what the paintbrush was doing. But then - why should I worry or be shy about something that very much interested me? So I turned slowly back around.

"Excuse me, Sir?"

He looked my direction, and sort of said, "Hmm?" 

"You are painting - on a wall! It is very well done. I am impressed."

He was just a little bit shy himself, and commented humbly about this work of his being 'nothing very much'.

"Oh I think it is something VERY much!"

He smiled, and went back to his painting.

In a minute I said, "Um, would you mind if I took a picture?" He said he didn't, so I took one, and noticed that something about him reminded me of Lawrence Stern, Penelope's father in the book "The Shell Seekers" (Rosamunde Pilcher, of course). Mr Stern was an artist, too, and had the beard and long hair of this fellow. I don't know about the jeans and tennis shoes, but Lawrence surely wore a long flowing coat as he walked to and from his St Ives studio every day. I know this, because I have read that book every year since it was written (There isn't much I don't know about our Rosamunde).

He casually mentioned that lots of people in St Ives see his work, and ask him to come and paint their wall too.

"How long will this take you?" I asked.

"A year."

Great heavens, a year! 

He went on. "It tends to rain, you see.."

Ah, yes. I remembered last week and the Marazion sideways rain.

He went back to paining in earnest, so I moved on.

Today I walked by again, hoping he would be there. He wasn't, but I took a good look at his work and noticed he had also painted the opposite wall, pictured below. This customer now has an enviable view (the real, and the painted) of St Ives. The harbor, the cemetery, Porthmeor Beach, and more than a few seagulls. 

There happens to be a house near this place that I've heard is coming up for sale. Startling views. Sweet garden. Wonderful neighbors. Enough space for family and friends. And - A RETAINING WALL! 

Wouldn't it just be jolly to settle into that gem of a place, and ask the Lawrence Stern man to come and paint that wall for me? I texted my husband about it, and suppose I shouldn't be surprised at his reaction. There was a bit of a pause, and then the words:

"YOU'RE GOING TO NEED A FUNDING MECHANISM."

See you along the way!

the SconeLady

Blessed and Not Forgotten (Cornwall Day 10)

 

St Ives Harbor at low tide

"Shall we meet for lunch on Tuesday?" Pennie asked. "We could do the Tate, if you like." 

I liked! The Tate St Ives has its good points, and their coffee shop is one of them. Their lunches and teas and quiches are said to be exceptional, and I was eager to try one. We would each walk there, and meet.

We had coffee, and hot chocolate, and talked. There was so much to catch up on. In fact, we two had never had a conversation on our own. There have always been other lovely people around us, wonderful people. But getting to chat in this way would be sweet.

Pennie is the lady who helped Eric during his time of desperate need. She has never been a person to let someone suffer alone. People have spoken to me quite strongly on this point, because her service (to many, not just Eric) has been profound. She, however, never expresses pride in a 'job well done'. She simply looks at it as service in Christ's name. 

We spoke of the way our two countries go about helping people nearing the end of their lives. It doesn't seem easy to do. There are obstacles. Sometimes there is no one available to help. This happened to Eric, and as soon as she learned there was a gap, Pennie stepped in to fill it. 

As we discussed these things, our lunches arrived. Exquisite! We had a crustless Quiche, with a cooked carrot and British chic pea salad. Both were terrific, and both of us ate both of them all the way up! (I think there might actually have been a scrap of lettuce left on my plate).

The topic of my mother came up, and I can never resist a chance to show people what a lovely woman she is at age 99. I knew Pennie would be impressed. 

"She isn't 99!" she almost screamed.

"But she is! Truly. She helped run two large farms for decades, hoisting hay bales, driving tractors, birthing baby lambs at 2 in the morning, producing mounds of vegetables, flowers, and meals (7 courses at dinner), vaccinating sheep, mowing the enormous lawn, sometimes feeding 100 people at a time, and keeping the farm going even when her husband was in another state for nearly two years. Now, bless her heart, she can relax and let everybody else do all the work.

She's terrific, isn't she?

There are people at this life stage who are, at this very moment, sitting alone in their homes or facilities, with no prospect of someone dropping by, bringing flowers, or foods, or Starbucks Mochas, or new clothes, books, or love. Thanks to people like Pennie, some of these lonely ones have found themselves blessed and not forgotten. Service, in Christ's name.

See you along the Way!

the SconeLady