tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-63406903845959534252024-03-13T19:45:55.339-07:00All This For A SconeSconeLadyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02334705708671697585noreply@blogger.comBlogger1033125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6340690384595953425.post-22798082551008704782024-01-31T01:11:00.000-08:002024-01-31T01:11:37.849-08:00Fencibles<p><span style="font-family: trebuchet;"></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; font-size: large; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: trebuchet;"><br /></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; font-size: large; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: trebuchet;"><i>Cool farmhouse near Matamata</i></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; font-size: large; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: trebuchet;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEichZdx1LbUKUgTZPlg5bbuVwQGNICMGnqthi04d_oJ9FTRgak1ulGkfRjGwCAy8T1T7tJfW2wioB7e2omxlHHQop_xTKumVN8_oFzAAt3HOu1MkGvCINi8RhMOsC5OjPrnoYlBnqN88fpCJzRKkAF5TyQy_VkVGQqjUaqSoZ6T7e51hn-VPBSEozGjhHo1/s640/IMG_3622.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="640" data-original-width="480" height="340" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEichZdx1LbUKUgTZPlg5bbuVwQGNICMGnqthi04d_oJ9FTRgak1ulGkfRjGwCAy8T1T7tJfW2wioB7e2omxlHHQop_xTKumVN8_oFzAAt3HOu1MkGvCINi8RhMOsC5OjPrnoYlBnqN88fpCJzRKkAF5TyQy_VkVGQqjUaqSoZ6T7e51hn-VPBSEozGjhHo1/w255-h340/IMG_3622.png" width="255" /></a></span></div><span style="font-family: trebuchet;"><br /><span style="font-size: medium;">A vote was taken, and the children chose these favorite pizzas:</span></span><p></p><p><span style="font-family: trebuchet;"><span style="font-size: medium;">*Cheese and shrimp</span></span></p><p><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: medium;">*Three Cheese New York (this is so large that you must fold it over sideways and eat it from the point)</span></p><p><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: medium;">*BBQ chicken with cheese in the crust (lucky coincidence!)</span></p><p><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: medium;">*Gluten Free Pepperoni and cheese</span></p><p><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: medium;">(*and one more, only I've forgotten it.)</span></p><p style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: trebuchet;"><span style="font-size: medium;">I am so sorry no photos of the pizzas and children were taken.</span></span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: trebuchet;">Before eating pizza, the whole 10 of us visited Howick's Historical Village, a village that depicts how life was lived in New Zealand in the mid-1800s. A historical and very clever Kiwi told me that ships were once used to transport convicts from England to serve prison time in either New Zealand or Australia (a debatable practice). When that stopped happening, they used the ships to transport military retirees to New Zealand as 'Fencibles' to help defend the territory. </span><span style="font-family: trebuchet;">(Get it? Fencibles?) </span></span></p><p><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: medium;">When the settlers wanted more land than they had been given, the indigenous Maori peoples were so nice that they just gave their land up to them. (Oh. The historical and very clever Kiwi said it was actually settled by war, during which pretty much nobody was nice).</span></p><p><span style="font-family: trebuchet;"><span style="font-size: medium;">The houses we saw in the village today had been moved to this spot in the 70's and 80's from several miles away. It wasn't as dramatic as moving a house would be today because they had no electricity and no plumbing to mess with. Still, it was a labor of love setting out the homes, the church, the post office, the government building, the laundry, and everything that needed to be placed inside of each. The pictures we looked at showed brightly smiling workmen having what appeared to be the time of their lives. </span></span></p><p><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: medium;">All of this might sound a bit dry and historical if not for the four children dashing with excitement from place to place. Every little bit or piece was looked at and exclaimed over: the ancient furniture, the clothing that might just fit someone their own size, an old fashioned laundry process complete with a lady in a cap and apron from the 1800s, helping children wash, rinse, and hang out the family's clothing. </span></p><p><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: medium;">Especially interesting was the way the women did their ironing. They put something hot inside the iron to make the flat surface hot enough to de-wrinkle their shirts, kitchen towels and even the sheets! We wondered if perhaps they might put boiling water inside the iron. Or maybe they placed hot coals in there, to produce the same effect. One of our young mothers went in and asked the colonial lady, who told us it is the <i>hot coals that go inside</i>! We were SHOCKED because of the possibility that coal dust might creep out and onto the white shirt, and then somebody's husband might get cross...</span></p><p><span style="font-family: trebuchet;"><span style="font-size: medium;">(and the matter might actually be settled by war, during which pretty much nobody would be nice).</span></span></p><p><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: medium;"><br /></span></p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjHiBHesttmgP0idm9H90eyny5m_wSRoOhmy_KoMK8qhTmEW8BYFTVTeiAyb8LPj8Wi_Xq_aXmOcTf80rr1aNRSdzVZ37di0KuouCU2eI0LNkWJxUtMA8NfoK9yq-A64I4BE8K4KOGTQUczArYkak1VGPxkL0xDhaUmiw-f4jTn5013yOO5mn1YRZ3O1c8F/s640/IMG_3616.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="640" data-original-width="480" height="364" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjHiBHesttmgP0idm9H90eyny5m_wSRoOhmy_KoMK8qhTmEW8BYFTVTeiAyb8LPj8Wi_Xq_aXmOcTf80rr1aNRSdzVZ37di0KuouCU2eI0LNkWJxUtMA8NfoK9yq-A64I4BE8K4KOGTQUczArYkak1VGPxkL0xDhaUmiw-f4jTn5013yOO5mn1YRZ3O1c8F/w273-h364/IMG_3616.png" width="273" /></a></div><p></p><p><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: large;">See you along the way!</span></p><p><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: large;">the SconeLady</span></p><p><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: large;"><br /></span></p><p style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: large;">Extra info about the Historical Village:</span></p><p><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: large;">"</span><span style="caret-color: rgb(51, 51, 51); color: #333333; font-family: trebuchet; font-size: large;">European settlement began in 1847 when three companies of the Royal New Zealand Fencibles were assigned to a defence post. They were retired soldiers enlisted to serve for seven years in exchange for a cottage and an acre of land. Howick was the largest of the Fencible settlements, with 804 people in three companies in 1848. All Saints (Anglican) Church was built in 1847 and is Auckland’s oldest church. After the 1860s New Zealand wars, cropping became the main activity, with wheat and oats the major exports."</span></p><p><a href="https://nzhistory.govt.nz/keyword/howick#:~:text=Howick%20was%20the%20largest%20of,and%20oats%20the%20major%20exports.">https://nzhistory.govt.nz/keyword/howick#:~:text=Howick%20was%20the%20largest%20of,and%20oats%20the%20major%20exports.</a></p><div><br /></div>SconeLadyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02334705708671697585noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6340690384595953425.post-77405635774072037922024-01-29T01:32:00.000-08:002024-01-29T01:32:41.252-08:00Nightly New Zealand News<p></p><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"> <i>Sunrise yesterday at the farmhouse B and B</i></div><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: medium;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEihG0ksrVC2TvdxE5nWHzpLy2v37ZqrOrZ30tv4JgQQBoSxeiZuBqF8mdGw5CO_-AiAcjiiYvIyYqKeW-V9fWu3tHEdmWyrqCrCZerrwrvsENAgrxVvzAtzENg9sP3EF1UZWKlnkLa7DQEoZp9pOI5uvMT1w8L-JYRsDQYFfeqlUeDwWUIWZyihWvnLqSA0/s640/IMG_3649.png" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="480" data-original-width="640" height="261" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEihG0ksrVC2TvdxE5nWHzpLy2v37ZqrOrZ30tv4JgQQBoSxeiZuBqF8mdGw5CO_-AiAcjiiYvIyYqKeW-V9fWu3tHEdmWyrqCrCZerrwrvsENAgrxVvzAtzENg9sP3EF1UZWKlnkLa7DQEoZp9pOI5uvMT1w8L-JYRsDQYFfeqlUeDwWUIWZyihWvnLqSA0/w348-h261/IMG_3649.png" width="348" /></a></div><br /></span><p></p><p><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: medium;">You almost can't go wrong in a place like this, because everywhere you turn there will be beauty. Usually I listen to audio as I walk hours and hours every day, but because my surroundings are so distracting, I have forgotten all that. </span></p><p><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: medium;">For instance, the spot upon which I have chosen to write to you is on a cliff overlooking the South Pacific Ocean, with lawns, and trees, and flowers, and a path of steps down to the beach that was once a piece of cake to descend. But of course things have changed in 50 years and when I tried the path the other day... it wasn't pretty.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: medium;"><br /></span></p><p style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: trebuchet;"><i>Overlooking the South Pacific from the cliff</i></span></p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjt3Thi95t8LdbEZH5fnxkRqBfI8Ix8Q8G5Eg-5gJ4Ax36RAOfy25YKIuFF46mQK9cFNqyO3SpFDpZ80sy9jz6yUqb_p-fiRYFKwOcmqIyjzcUueJjO16s4vX6a9CaeedFE6nZouhbbCmTiDSC7mojtb-xS5dupZh9fzlUfEh4irB9pM4MWWauZbLDynHWv/s640/IMG_3112%20(1).png" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="480" data-original-width="640" height="309" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjt3Thi95t8LdbEZH5fnxkRqBfI8Ix8Q8G5Eg-5gJ4Ax36RAOfy25YKIuFF46mQK9cFNqyO3SpFDpZ80sy9jz6yUqb_p-fiRYFKwOcmqIyjzcUueJjO16s4vX6a9CaeedFE6nZouhbbCmTiDSC7mojtb-xS5dupZh9fzlUfEh4irB9pM4MWWauZbLDynHWv/w412-h309/IMG_3112%20(1).png" width="412" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><i>The beach at the bottom</i></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiP3Whiv9eyO1-bgzF-eVW0u1efH9eum7UobKAjh6YpqhtInhm9nUE57Lg7COspSjn7ZIlInS-IsgPnR4z9T_Rmw6Xdp8GZJI0iBiTg__m_MpszVAYLLGAq02rI6caeS5xfjomlJnAr5sdvkINicWSujPkl8ta3M7D4S9RFTYyQVx-si2PX3KQ0sBg8RbZQ/s640/IMG_3121.png" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="480" data-original-width="640" height="286" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiP3Whiv9eyO1-bgzF-eVW0u1efH9eum7UobKAjh6YpqhtInhm9nUE57Lg7COspSjn7ZIlInS-IsgPnR4z9T_Rmw6Xdp8GZJI0iBiTg__m_MpszVAYLLGAq02rI6caeS5xfjomlJnAr5sdvkINicWSujPkl8ta3M7D4S9RFTYyQVx-si2PX3KQ0sBg8RbZQ/w381-h286/IMG_3121.png" width="381" /></a></div><br /><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: medium;">Inside, as I write, are my kind and loving host and hostess, watching their nightly fill of New Zealand news. I can barely hear it where I sit, but it is fascinating. There is something about weather, something about sports, maybe the occasional Australian shark attack, and then the gradual swing toward politics. </span><div><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: medium;">It is amazing how similar this all is to where I come from, if you take the trouble to find news coverage in a house devoid of cable. There are streaming services for this but they aren't fascinating. As a result, I am (usually) the most ignorant American in the room if the talk turns political.</span><p></p></div><div><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: medium;">But my host and hostess don't mind this. They think of other people before themselves, and behave accordingly. When I came last week for this visit, they moved out of their cottage bedroom and gave it to me. They are staying in the nearby dorm and in this and a few thousand other ways, have made me feel as if I am on Cloud Nine. That is the grace of God being shared out from an endless Source, and I am inundated with it.</span></div><div><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: medium;">It will soon be time for us to say goodbye, and me to climb into another plane. We will visit the Howick Historical Village tomorrow, and then have pizza to celebrate the beginning of a new school season. These grandchildren have been off for the month of January so parents are switching gears, and children are beginning to look thoughtful. I wonder what kinds of pizza these wonderful young people like? I must ask! What if it's BBQ Chicken and Ham with Pineapple? That would be a fun coincidence. </span></div><div><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: medium;">And it's terribly important that I get this right..</span></div><div><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: medium;">See you along the way!</span></div><div><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: medium;">the SconeLady</span></div><div><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: medium;"><i>Shenanigans on the dining room floor,</i></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: medium;"><i>at Home</i></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgQC1U4KoLO6w7Tle0Tm_dcUFtCO4_Sw6wZWgW69swZ2WP3Gip4TVewnyE6QemGWyyXf6GYxv2RmGBqcuvzcDYMAIx36c4TTEp03EFs7ErixRtZxEl7pi06fmvNWZ3NMYWuVn9QZXVByXCattl4r-R9Lv6D0Bndr-KD4rjUCVC1ZVcJ90JkSxGgSxRPrl4b/s640/IMG_3709.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="640" data-original-width="296" height="389" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgQC1U4KoLO6w7Tle0Tm_dcUFtCO4_Sw6wZWgW69swZ2WP3Gip4TVewnyE6QemGWyyXf6GYxv2RmGBqcuvzcDYMAIx36c4TTEp03EFs7ErixRtZxEl7pi06fmvNWZ3NMYWuVn9QZXVByXCattl4r-R9Lv6D0Bndr-KD4rjUCVC1ZVcJ90JkSxGgSxRPrl4b/w180-h389/IMG_3709.png" width="180" /></a></div><br /><div><br /></div><div><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div>SconeLadyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02334705708671697585noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6340690384595953425.post-76756012410724486642024-01-28T01:25:00.000-08:002024-01-28T01:25:27.297-08:00One House In Matamata<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh-HtwBtF2AZulSXZg1QPMEQtOmb96OsvD8W7GIwJGhYQiIsK19bU7mfhPWAcgHdTMYkgnR1eE8SPKKCt_t40pWqQ7ETASVN0ca8pZRxwyHhxRn1TC2dUF21CAu_Qbc2tAMKHAAHse_eYsZpruegBiZvyREZ8B8RgXE6GjHq8jNrxuRCwKHmPD_J9gVzFBW/s640/IMG_3675.png" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="409" data-original-width="640" height="238" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh-HtwBtF2AZulSXZg1QPMEQtOmb96OsvD8W7GIwJGhYQiIsK19bU7mfhPWAcgHdTMYkgnR1eE8SPKKCt_t40pWqQ7ETASVN0ca8pZRxwyHhxRn1TC2dUF21CAu_Qbc2tAMKHAAHse_eYsZpruegBiZvyREZ8B8RgXE6GjHq8jNrxuRCwKHmPD_J9gVzFBW/w372-h238/IMG_3675.png" width="372" /></a></div><div style="text-align: center;"><i><span style="font-size: medium;">A house in Matamata</span></i></div><div style="text-align: center;"><i><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></i></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: medium;">One of the reasons I wanted to show you Matamata is this house, above. While my host was playing golf yesterday, I strolled the neighborhoods and scoped out the cool houses I walked past. This wasn't even the prettiest house. There were many just as nice, and some prettier. But something touched me about the splendid way the town had been planned - large yards, front and back, houses wide apart, split streets with green grass and trees in between, tons of room for kids to ride bikes and play 'kick the can' on a summer's eve (no, I don't know if they play kick the can), and cute main streets filled with entertainment cafes and shops. There must have been some pretty special Town Planners involved back when Matamata was developed. They were brilliant!</span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: medium;">As I walked that morning, I set to wondering how to get to the places I needed to be, without a car. Reasons for NOT renting a car had out-weighed the reasons FOR it, although some gentle Kiwis thought this idea strange. I'm inclined to agree with them, now. My hostess, after all, </span><span style="font-size: large;">rescued me in her 'flash' car after eating myself silly at the Hobbit Luncheon (new word alert: </span><i>flash</i><span style="font-size: medium;"> is a Kiwi word meaning 'fancy'). Just about everything at my airbnb - including the cat - is 'flash':</span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh4t1mwAVulsPizXCR1SWJptpBN9U9C62eCym7jGIO68Q8WYs5PwDNpD6wID6GSVGTA5IRgyx8NkDnLrUPq7XIJnM6ydYph7prUgKUsmpIlcV8XnrLqTIwK4WbDzThgM-1IcyxJrTmMVJCWscv2GO6QFSY4nfxmJLy7mpteE8q7bi0lkXWEfB67ojK4cw4S/s640/IMG_3682.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="640" data-original-width="480" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh4t1mwAVulsPizXCR1SWJptpBN9U9C62eCym7jGIO68Q8WYs5PwDNpD6wID6GSVGTA5IRgyx8NkDnLrUPq7XIJnM6ydYph7prUgKUsmpIlcV8XnrLqTIwK4WbDzThgM-1IcyxJrTmMVJCWscv2GO6QFSY4nfxmJLy7mpteE8q7bi0lkXWEfB67ojK4cw4S/s320/IMG_3682.png" width="240" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">The <i>flash </i>cat</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgRbDUULe_KTnV-zln24-cHFf6FJhEPHBoOLwIv67ccfXyct_-FGYvSVS4CrRRTjddz4qFKwuEyCSX1xJZVfvdndzumyxTlNVVnTXIpAswUk13x0LrSQFH2qyUJEUpKa-HRvqzIY21LScXrcXbJr5pau6MzmZow01BXfbETpCN3IokXdwSg0Xqndq06Q6k6/s640/IMG_3681%20(1).png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="597" data-original-width="640" height="299" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgRbDUULe_KTnV-zln24-cHFf6FJhEPHBoOLwIv67ccfXyct_-FGYvSVS4CrRRTjddz4qFKwuEyCSX1xJZVfvdndzumyxTlNVVnTXIpAswUk13x0LrSQFH2qyUJEUpKa-HRvqzIY21LScXrcXbJr5pau6MzmZow01BXfbETpCN3IokXdwSg0Xqndq06Q6k6/s320/IMG_3681%20(1).png" width="320" /></a></div><br /></div><br /><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: medium;">*Her husband Greg drove me to Matamata and back on Saturday</span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: medium;">*The iSite manager (Tourist Information) arranged a cab to take me to Matamata Sunday morning to catch the bus to Auckland</span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: medium;">*my hostess did something else entirely kind and voluntarily (and I am not going to say what), saving my bacon</span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: medium;">*getting from downtown Auckland to the Ferry,</span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: medium;">*getting from the Ferry to Half Moon Bay,</span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: medium;">*from Half Moon Bay to Bleakhouse Road, and Fowey.</span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: medium;">I never did find the Ferry, or Half Moon Bay. It was raining sideways and my phone was almost dead, and when a man said there is NO FERRY TODAY and that I should get a bus to Panmure and then another bus to Howick, I freaked and dialed Uber. I kid you not, people, the driver appeared in 15 SECONDS, opened his window, called my name, and said - "GET IN". </span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: medium;">I did.</span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: medium;">See you along the way!</span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: medium;">the SconeLady</span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><i>Another house in Matamata</i></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjldyGlTdgVK59kCfXgag393metWoO0ivyD0-MyzqMNmthwVhN_C9_fRkpTxkeN9uSHsu_aAUSCBZtsdhiPgDPeNJnLXFS1MUtx5vaFmNjTRGqzE0WWkQPauXPG32v40qd6oy5FHVlw4TlFceRkt1wVvrYSaXJa3EKShmH5vIwT_J1tU6Hb8nkt3tOONXQ-/s640/IMG_3671.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="632" data-original-width="640" height="360" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjldyGlTdgVK59kCfXgag393metWoO0ivyD0-MyzqMNmthwVhN_C9_fRkpTxkeN9uSHsu_aAUSCBZtsdhiPgDPeNJnLXFS1MUtx5vaFmNjTRGqzE0WWkQPauXPG32v40qd6oy5FHVlw4TlFceRkt1wVvrYSaXJa3EKShmH5vIwT_J1tU6Hb8nkt3tOONXQ-/w364-h360/IMG_3671.png" width="364" /></a></div><br /><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div style="text-align: left;">P.S.: Definition for Matamata:</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">"A grotesque South American freshwater turtle that has a broad flat head and neck with irregular projections of skin resembling waterweed." (Google)</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">"Matamata means headland." (Google)</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;"><ol class="eQJLDd" style="caret-color: rgb(32, 33, 36); color: #202124; font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14.000001px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px 0px 0px 20px;"><li jsname="gskXhf" style="list-style: none; margin: 0px; padding: 0px;"><div class="vmod"><div class="thODed" style="padding-top: 8px;"><div class="wHYlTd sY7ric" data-topic="" jsname="cJAsRb" style="font-size: 14px; line-height: 16px;"><div style="margin-left: 20px;"><div class="wHYlTd sY7ric" style="font-size: 14px; line-height: 16px; margin-left: -20px;"><div class="PZPZlf" data-attrid="SenseDefinition" data-psd="sense_definition~:&a grotesque South American freshwater turtle that has a broad flat head and neck with irregular projections of skin resembling waterweed."><div data-dobid="dfn" style="display: inline;"><br /></div></div><div class="PZPZlf" data-attrid="SenseDefinition" data-psd="sense_definition~:&a grotesque South American freshwater turtle that has a broad flat head and neck with irregular projections of skin resembling waterweed."><div data-dobid="dfn" style="display: inline;"><br /></div></div><div class="PZPZlf" data-attrid="SenseDefinition" data-psd="sense_definition~:&a grotesque South American freshwater turtle that has a broad flat head and neck with irregular projections of skin resembling waterweed."><div data-dobid="dfn" style="display: inline;"><br /></div></div></div></div></div></div></div></li></ol></div><p></p>SconeLadyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02334705708671697585noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6340690384595953425.post-52017410984916633422024-01-27T01:55:00.000-08:002024-01-27T01:55:51.492-08:00A Hobbit Along The Way (day two)<div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: Helvetica;"><span style="font-size: medium;"> </span><i>The Mill at Hobbiton</i></span></div><div><span style="font-family: Helvetica;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; font-size: large; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgEzNdgsnLByzM3Rspcq6J_wkDm__1YAVmlxdE-2wVRdMHcpjaLpKeAPVvAcxIN0dFHIUe_giEypWpNxysk3KHeC8MLpzH6CPblNCkpqOt6rVGsY_qtL3Xzr62egT5hrNBqLntcwZhhTcNsJAtnTBqmY7qgNuvnnwxlsCPDFRFyh_Ys9DD5VsxIDHEIquPQ/s640/IMG_3604.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="640" data-original-width="480" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgEzNdgsnLByzM3Rspcq6J_wkDm__1YAVmlxdE-2wVRdMHcpjaLpKeAPVvAcxIN0dFHIUe_giEypWpNxysk3KHeC8MLpzH6CPblNCkpqOt6rVGsY_qtL3Xzr62egT5hrNBqLntcwZhhTcNsJAtnTBqmY7qgNuvnnwxlsCPDFRFyh_Ys9DD5VsxIDHEIquPQ/s320/IMG_3604.png" width="240" /></a></div><div style="text-align: center;"><i>(This is the only photo I was able to import today, so I have no photos of Matamata)</i></div><div style="text-align: center;"><i><br /></i></div></span></div><div><br /></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: Helvetica;">Greetings from Matamata!</span></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: Helvetica;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: Helvetica;">After the first week of rekindling old memories and sharing new ones, I went off on my own simply to enjoy this pretty little town whose major industry seems to be a series of movies. Everything about Lord Of The Rings (and The Hobbit) makes this place hum. </span></span><div style="font-family: Helvetica;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: Helvetica; font-size: medium;">I haven't described for you yet the all-you-can-eat-hobbit-luncheon-buffet. To begin with, it was almost grossly huge, and the guides encouraged us to eat AS MUCH AS WE WANTED. I noticed that the men (and I) had generous portions on our very large plates, and their wives (and not I) were more delicate in their choices. The following items were on two large and groaning hobbit tables:</span></div><div><span style="font-family: Helvetica; font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: Helvetica;">Ginger beer, sweet potatoes, carrots, turnips, Middle Earth Stew, green salad with a tasty dressing, roasted potatoes, creamy macaroni salad, freshly baked breads, grilled chicken legs, and roast beef. For dessert there was a separate table groaning with a variety of cakes - chocolate (best taste of the day), white cake, lemon cake with cream cheese frosting (did hobbits even use cream cheese?), apple crumble with heavy cream, and dessert squares one could eat with one's hands. After all this </span></span><span style="font-family: Helvetica; font-size: medium;">gluttony, our group was ushered out <i>post haste</i> because the next group was ready for their gluttony.</span></div><div><span style="font-family: Helvetica; font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: Helvetica; font-size: medium;">By this time I felt it was time to go to the airbnb, which is a one mile walk. I set out like any take-charge American walker, totally unaware of the effect I was having on the tour guides. They finally appointed one of themselves the task of approaching me.</span></div><div><span style="font-family: Helvetica; font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: Helvetica; font-size: medium;">"I'm sorry Ma'am, but we don't allow anyone on the road.. It is too dangerous, and anyway, you can't."</span></div><div><span style="font-family: Helvetica; font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: Helvetica; font-size: medium;">I was nonplussed and without words. In all the thousands of miles I have walked since 2011, not one person has suggested that I couldn't. I felt sorry for her though, because really, she was right. And not happy to have been forced into the bad cop role. </span></div><div><span style="font-family: Helvetica; font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: Helvetica; font-size: medium;">"What should I do?" I asked.</span></div><div><span style="font-family: Helvetica; font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: Helvetica; font-size: medium;">"Where is your car?" she asked.</span></div><div><span style="font-family: Helvetica; font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: Helvetica; font-size: medium;">"I don't have a car," I said. </span></div><div><span style="font-family: Helvetica; font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: Helvetica; font-size: medium;">"What about trying an Uber?" she whispered, because everyone up there knows that not one Uber driver has ever showed their face at the Hobbit Film Set Tour. But I said I would try. I also messaged my airbnb hostess that I would be a little later because I was walking down. Somehow she was able to get in her car and appear at the Film Set Tour in a matter of moments. She opened her window, called out my name, and said "GET IN".</span></div><div><span style="font-family: Helvetica; font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: Helvetica; font-size: medium;">This lady has turned out to be the most generous, sweet, and kind airbnb hostess. She has given me wonderful food and anything a traveler could possibly want. I can't go deeply into it right now because this blog post is already too long, and I am too sleepy. But I <i>have </i>to tell you this: her husband drove me to Matamata and back today so I could wander the streets and get my mileage in while he played golf. Then, they invited me for dinner at their house next door.</span></div><div><br /></div><div><span style="font-family: Helvetica; font-size: medium;">Dear Readers, New Zealand and its people are lovely. You really should come, and see. You will be made the most generous welcome, and, once you get the hang of their accent, they are extremely funny.</span></div><div><span style="font-family: Helvetica; font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: Helvetica; font-size: medium;">See you along the way!</span></div><div><span style="font-family: Helvetica; font-size: medium;">the SconeLady</span></div><div><span style="font-family: Helvetica; font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: Helvetica;"><i>P.S. These are the items my hostess provided me with:</i></span></div><div><span style="font-family: Helvetica;">a half gallon of whole milk, home made blueberry coffee cake, yogurt, honey, jam, orange juice, fresh butter, tangelo marmalade, apricot jam, bread, bottled water, bananas, apricots, plums, bean bag coffee, tea bags, raw sugar, corn flakes, granola, weetabix, salted peanuts, salt and pepper, a HAIR DRYER, hair spray, bath robes, and all sorts of soaps just in case someone didn’t bring theirs. </span></div><div style="font-family: Helvetica;"><br /></div><div style="font-family: Helvetica;"><br /></div></div>SconeLadyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02334705708671697585noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6340690384595953425.post-70498986589112281532024-01-25T23:35:00.000-08:002024-01-26T18:01:42.618-08:00A Hobbit Along The Way<p> </p><p><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: medium;">You cannot step foot in New Zealand without thinking about 'those' movies. Everything around you shouts out 'those' movies names. Which movies? Well, they are the movies that make you think about New Zealand, the lush green landscapes and stark blue skies and shockingly white mountains. Oh yes, and the pure, clean rivers, streams and lakes. I can only be referring to the unforgettable, unbelievably astonishingly fabulous Lord Of The Rings. We have now been thinking non stop about them for two straight days.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: medium;">Maybe you remember that I re-visited New Zealand 20 years ago to travel and sing and look at anything remotely related to Lord Of The Rings, taking my sister with me. The locals seemed in a perpetual yawn whenever we asked them, wide eyed, about LOTR. Even in Hobbiton, three battered looking hobbit holes were just about the whole of the display. </span></p><p><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: medium;">And then there came The Hobbit, with its sky high budget and over-the-top creativity. The film sets were fantastic, colorful, and precisely created the way they had been for LOTR, only this time no hideous rule about demolishing it all at the end. There are now 44 beautiful hobbit holes and a lake, with cute passages along which Gandalf and Frodo rode in their cart, and the Party tree with its May Pole and the spot where Pippin and Merry set off all the fireworks. All in all, it is a hobbit village fit for (very small) kings (and queens).</span></p><p><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: medium;">Yesterday we visited their Hobbiton-Movie-Set-Tour. When we climbed aboard the shiny new bus and settled into our plush new seats, the first thing we heard was the MUSIC of Lord Of The Rings. Nothing can draw you in like that. It was a real "You had me with hello" moment. I was so impressed and drawn in that I came back and did the whole thing all over again today, with an important addition: I went to their Hobbiton-Movie-Set-Tour-And-Meal-Combo! </span></p><p><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: medium;">It was delicious, dear Readers. More than anyone could ever possibly finish, but of course they (and I) tried. And I have smashing pictures of it all, truly I do. But those pictures will not - however hard I try to convince them to - import! (Or is it <i>export?) </i>Well it's one of those two, and they simply will not do it. So for now, you won't be able to see the loveliness.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: medium;">Maybe you will soon. I hope so.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: medium;"><br /></span></p><p><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: medium;">See you along the way!</span></p><p><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: medium;">the SconeLady</span></p><p><br /></p>SconeLadyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02334705708671697585noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6340690384595953425.post-40784402913573672672024-01-23T20:46:00.000-08:002024-01-23T20:46:01.325-08:00Privileges<p> </p><p><span style="font-family: trebuchet;">1972</span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: trebuchet;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjvxSRmtaZ7tbbPt5jqbCkjcGTaJQsGFue1mm-8Hw19GeF769BeYQ0jvg3GvCgnvv1zfEpS7H9nhw0ZxWgG5Be4fiEUXNqrj6RGUrpi-Sl2E1M3qjSPGMPW3IPmQjPOd-iRr3G-JHB3frW6KyJlYpFfEoRmQ4ZaGAdvYQ4Qb0zx2Zqo6VR9MgPGzuo9QIqy/s640/IMG_3170.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="480" data-original-width="640" height="282" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjvxSRmtaZ7tbbPt5jqbCkjcGTaJQsGFue1mm-8Hw19GeF769BeYQ0jvg3GvCgnvv1zfEpS7H9nhw0ZxWgG5Be4fiEUXNqrj6RGUrpi-Sl2E1M3qjSPGMPW3IPmQjPOd-iRr3G-JHB3frW6KyJlYpFfEoRmQ4ZaGAdvYQ4Qb0zx2Zqo6VR9MgPGzuo9QIqy/w376-h282/IMG_3170.png" width="376" /></a></span></div><span style="font-family: trebuchet;"><br /></span><p></p><p><span style="font-family: trebuchet;">Arrival at a Capernwray school is something of a Paradigm shift, leaving one slightly off the normal kilter. Ours happened to be in New Zealand, making us a group of very lucky young people. We ate our meals in the Lodge overlooking a massive lawn that ended in a cliff overlooking the Pacific. And then there was the sky. </span></p><p><span style="font-family: trebuchet;">We stayed in dorms and attended lectures by gifted Bible teachers, learning things we still have never forgotten. And then, we did "chores". Only they weren't called that, dear Readers. Chores came with a different name, because we were becoming different people and were very slightly off the normal kilter.</span></p><p style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: trebuchet;">They were not chores that we were doing. They were Privileges.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: trebuchet;">It is a lesson that has lingered - when laundry sits on a couch or dishes rest in the sink, I no longer think "chore"; instead, I think "Privilege". And for whom am I doing Privileges? the Giver of grace and peace. Do we always feel that working the mundane is a privilege? Probably not. But there is a choice there, too, and I am still, daily, making it.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: trebuchet;">2024</span></p><p><span style="font-family: trebuchet;">Every day here at the Lodge (now called 'Fowey Lodge') I wander a few feet from my cottage doorstep (for no one lives in the Lodge, now; it is, sadly, to be sold) and stand there. A new Paradigm may be on the horizon. But for the rest of my final week here, I shall wander the halls and gardens of the empty Fowey, remembering precisely the spots where significant things happened, in 1972; the places where significant people, including me, were being changed from the Old to the New, becoming very slightly off the normal kilter.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: trebuchet;">See you along the Way!</span></p><p><span style="font-family: trebuchet;">the SconeLady</span></p><p><span style="font-family: trebuchet;"><br /></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: trebuchet;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj6_SbOeNUp1nzD2qDc8K6oy9vrHCcJdsDqjk4-G5OIpviV6K9mMW_SCMjJYby69NpoztEpBo5b3jIX8HhXTnjRBGM4VeP4Ck2wYklkwtNVHGAkrI9fVEhD_QJX6kbaMu4YQIhumG2tpU-mDcQ18rmuhWcqObuVRKol__jict8ziVvKrdjJ4m6-i4_CLXEt/s640/IMG_3192.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="640" data-original-width="480" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj6_SbOeNUp1nzD2qDc8K6oy9vrHCcJdsDqjk4-G5OIpviV6K9mMW_SCMjJYby69NpoztEpBo5b3jIX8HhXTnjRBGM4VeP4Ck2wYklkwtNVHGAkrI9fVEhD_QJX6kbaMu4YQIhumG2tpU-mDcQ18rmuhWcqObuVRKol__jict8ziVvKrdjJ4m6-i4_CLXEt/s320/IMG_3192.png" width="240" /></a></span></div><span style="font-family: trebuchet;"><br /></span><p></p>SconeLadyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02334705708671697585noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6340690384595953425.post-89419118911770390092024-01-22T00:47:00.000-08:002024-01-22T12:45:42.121-08:00Pilgrimage<p><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: medium;">September 1972</span></p><p><span style="font-family: trebuchet;"></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: trebuchet;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjpDco0xa_l79uRduQBFeGmUAs5PoyfhJ4Kc5bKKJe1nw8EEiqEjzHi_2EJSbQExYDcPiOeQeD2duXm-F_92r-noIq5XSh_SS0w8dILccFHS0QgNyj4gF-I0_I874r6yq8VRf928JsnJWVOY7rV-Enpmv9iEQVbaFRuZM787q6SlorkWn9kYJMG9xsDUpcR/s640/IMG_3092.png" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="640" data-original-width="480" height="369" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjpDco0xa_l79uRduQBFeGmUAs5PoyfhJ4Kc5bKKJe1nw8EEiqEjzHi_2EJSbQExYDcPiOeQeD2duXm-F_92r-noIq5XSh_SS0w8dILccFHS0QgNyj4gF-I0_I874r6yq8VRf928JsnJWVOY7rV-Enpmv9iEQVbaFRuZM787q6SlorkWn9kYJMG9xsDUpcR/w277-h369/IMG_3092.png" width="277" /></a></span></div><span style="font-family: trebuchet;"><br /><br /><span style="font-size: medium;">I was 21 and packing a large but lightweight bag which would carry everything I might need for a year 'Down Under'. New Zealand was on my horizon, with lovely Capernwray Lodge ready to welcome me.</span></span><p></p><p><span style="font-family: trebuchet;"><span style="font-size: medium;">My mother sat next to me on the bed, holding a great fat wallet. I eyed it cautiously because it contained money, a passport, important telephone numbers, and the US Embassy's New Zealand address. My mother seemed reluctant to hand it over. I had never traveled outside the country and I think she was entertaining doubts as to whether I would make it back.</span></span></p><p><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: medium;">"Keep this wallet safe," she was saying, an edge to her voice. "There are unscrupulous people who would like nothing better than to grab it if you leave it laying on a bench."</span></p><p><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: medium;">"Oh mom," I said, appalled. "I would <i>never </i>leave a wallet on a bench!" </span></p><p><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: medium;">"Mm-hm," she approximately replied.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: medium;">Fast forward to January, 2024. My mother no longer has to worry about whether I might leave my wallet on a bench.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: medium;">But as I prepared for this trip, I read about how strict New Zealand is about bringing in fruits, vegetables, or animal products. Nothing like that was in <i>any</i> of my baggage, of course. I would <i>never </i>carry such non-acceptables. But walking toward customs and immigration, I saw signs forbidding these things and felt a twinge of uncertainty. The signs warned of a $400 fine and IMPRISONMENT. What if... But I was so weary from the flight that I tiptoed through the barrier in a hopeful fear.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: medium;">Ahead of me, a law enforcement officer appeared with a cute dog that was sniffing everybody's shoes and selves, and then it was sniffing my shoes and my self, and then it put its snout against my arm, in - not exactly a bite, but perhaps a nip. The law enforcement officer said, "Stop," - with an edge to her voice. I did.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: medium;">She directed me to a designated search area, opened my bags, and let the dog sniff. Its snout came to rest upon a crumpled up paper bag, which I recognized as my TRASH BAG. Oh no! In it was a mandarin peel and empty tomato soup container. </span></p><p><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: medium;">Have I told you yet how kind the people of New Zealand are? Even their law enforcement officers and dogs? Even that little <i>nip</i> was rather kind. I wanted to pet it, but refrained. And - thank Heavens! - there was no fine, and no imprisonment. As I exited my Uber a half hour later, there stood the Lodge, just exactly the way it had looked 50 years ago, with two wonderful and loving people standing on the porch, smiling, waiting just for me. </span></p><p><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: medium;">Hugs; laughter; cups of tea. </span></p><p><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: medium;">Pilgrimage. </span></p><p><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: medium;"><br /></span></p><p><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: medium;">See you along the way!</span></p><p><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: medium;">the SconeLady</span></p><p><span style="font-family: trebuchet;"><br /></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiIeZx2eTUvaNqSisfbOXixRIE45fwe_Ql1CbHYwGHTi55CK3I8dmgT7AF22VH2XLNiN6Y6tkmdKHH6oB1PQHpqcIqNbcTHQyIoosbviAAwnnN4y1z4bhkT7CXR3fo4HtmVcGmIWyvgzvSaimMmQK3yNgp6I7YBLQo4GahWcW6tR3YODA6a4KdtahhyphenhyphenLcYt/s640/IMG_3112.png" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="480" data-original-width="640" height="263" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiIeZx2eTUvaNqSisfbOXixRIE45fwe_Ql1CbHYwGHTi55CK3I8dmgT7AF22VH2XLNiN6Y6tkmdKHH6oB1PQHpqcIqNbcTHQyIoosbviAAwnnN4y1z4bhkT7CXR3fo4HtmVcGmIWyvgzvSaimMmQK3yNgp6I7YBLQo4GahWcW6tR3YODA6a4KdtahhyphenhyphenLcYt/w351-h263/IMG_3112.png" width="351" /></a></div><p></p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p>SconeLadyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02334705708671697585noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6340690384595953425.post-34128494041863207242023-06-09T14:06:00.002-07:002023-06-09T22:36:09.339-07:00(Cornwall Day 32) London<p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><iframe allowfullscreen='allowfullscreen' webkitallowfullscreen='webkitallowfullscreen' mozallowfullscreen='mozallowfullscreen' width='320' height='266' src='https://www.blogger.com/video.g?token=AD6v5dxMa0NjFR892EV6SKENvIeRFcBybqyXCbg-c8lvg2REqEO_zNwfI_X_bkbanil79DAHAPPqC3QxkkIXUI9ifQ' class='b-hbp-video b-uploaded' frameborder='0'></iframe></div><br /> <span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: medium;">Here I sit</span><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: medium;"> in a microscopic hotel room in London England, not terribly far from Heathrow. This has to be the smallest room ever. All of my relatives who stay here after a dream trip to Cornwall say the same thing. The smallest room EVER. But it isn't horrible, it's just mini.</span><p></p><p><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: medium;">I can think of nothing untoward about my preparations for departure from St Ives this morning. I was surprisingly organized and did not have to throw out huge amounts of perfectly good food that would otherwise have rotted. I'll bet there ARE huge amounts of perfectly good food rotting in plastic bags in the Biffa Bin Trucks down there - this very minute - because we ladies have left (It is hard to strike the right grocery purchasing balance).</span></p><p><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: medium;">When I arrived at the train station, I found that I had not been given a seat assignment. </span></p><p><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: medium;">"Oh! No problem whatsoever, Madam," said the ticket collector, when I explained this. "There are plenty of available seats. No Problem whatsoever!" And I believed him.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: medium;">At least, I believed him until he went on break just as a man came and took my seat from me. What!? All of this took time because someone had to be found who could lift my heavy bag from the overhead bin, then help me carry all my clobber to an empty seat. In the <i>next car</i>. </span></p><p><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: medium;">I ended up with two very nice Australians (one whom had helped me with my suitcase) and a Brit, who were very funny but whom I COULD NOT UNDERSTAND. I know they were funny, because the people around us kept laughing. They loved films, and fascinated me with the US movies they had seen and loved. They told me outrageous stories about how restrictive the Aussie government was about Covid. Aghast, I finally said, "But I thought Australia was a FREE country!" The Australians laughed.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: medium;">The Aussies and the Brit all took my name down and said they would order my book ("The House by the Side of the Road") and read it. The Brit wondered if it was going to be a smash hit like a Lee Child book (the writer of the Jack Reacher novels). I hesitated and said, well maybe my book would fit better compared with something like a... Rosamunde Pilcher book. This started us on a Rosamunde tangent which lasted until the train announcer called out for "London!"</span></p><p><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: medium;">They all said they had never read a Rosumunde Pilcher book. WHAAAAT?!</span></p><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: medium;">See you along the way!<br /></span><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: medium;">the SconeLady</span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><p style="text-align: left;"><br /><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: medium;"><br /></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjz9LwAVewapv0sESeyRVII88QLZP0VKFS-3146PKFRCGSZV0vsB_gHXYSLfOS55dfSfjtyUu8X4w2U3N0vsdGuxH4_tIUxAa71KMdM4oB86TgBXSBQGDUKcwnTc5pgw34j2vJfNM2e5F6t8HHWkudRUo6s09xhLjNRrdabiPaXE4EwX9isSdUmCvViZw/s640/IMG_9538.png" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="640" data-original-width="480" height="392" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjz9LwAVewapv0sESeyRVII88QLZP0VKFS-3146PKFRCGSZV0vsB_gHXYSLfOS55dfSfjtyUu8X4w2U3N0vsdGuxH4_tIUxAa71KMdM4oB86TgBXSBQGDUKcwnTc5pgw34j2vJfNM2e5F6t8HHWkudRUo6s09xhLjNRrdabiPaXE4EwX9isSdUmCvViZw/w294-h392/IMG_9538.png" width="294" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><p></p>SconeLadyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02334705708671697585noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6340690384595953425.post-55112689928618212862023-06-08T11:52:00.001-07:002023-06-08T23:35:56.944-07:00(Cornwall Day 31) Last Full Day<p style="text-align: center;"> <i>Sunrise this morning</i><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: medium;"><br /></span></p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhvT3eJGpX33zKIzWSCT6pfhLtsAH9rYMb0TDe7WpQhAj_oOenKdc6TYcfjdVAcPEZYgQy7kz9ehMi5CWWXkBeAuVU85d5tbuWkgbU13lmBEeD_RXDzXOJ0zpDznkL6vmzNT4I4sBLG0Iv2VdwpSdchAgsWehBhNyH5OICmYFs6Pxo93sA-qBJ6YYuJyw/s640/IMG_9612.png" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="640" data-original-width="550" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhvT3eJGpX33zKIzWSCT6pfhLtsAH9rYMb0TDe7WpQhAj_oOenKdc6TYcfjdVAcPEZYgQy7kz9ehMi5CWWXkBeAuVU85d5tbuWkgbU13lmBEeD_RXDzXOJ0zpDznkL6vmzNT4I4sBLG0Iv2VdwpSdchAgsWehBhNyH5OICmYFs6Pxo93sA-qBJ6YYuJyw/s320/IMG_9612.png" width="275" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: medium;">Because it is the last full day, a portion of it has been spent with Jean. When I first came into her life, she was as fit as a fiddle and needed no extra help. She, Eric, and Pennie called themselves "The Three Musketeers" and went places together. I was lucky to be a part of those times and places, and I think I almost became a fourth 'Musketeer'. </span><p></p><p><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: medium;">Then something happened, and a foot turned the wrong way during the making of a nice hot cup of tea. A hip was broken (oh, sad day) and things spun downwards for a while. But not out of control! </span></p><p><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: medium;">Some time during these events, Eric was diagnosed with Leukemia. It did eventually take him, and that first Musketeer is much missed. But Jean is made of stern stuff, and sits in her chair with her Bible, welcoming visitors ("Please excuse my dressing gown, haha"), sweetly thankful for the small bites the SconeLady brings up the hill (especially pork pies).</span></p><p><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: medium;"><br /></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: medium;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjIcbhAO5c3fha9d6U8cWGopm2DZcNmcnFR4JHMtGhwGX7WtZxEebSc8DTuWQme1o9yZAi3MfqakDwm9UixW31IiIGbHnpxjtg93kDpUYLeRftm_itmTekL8U3MIOji77CCysvdU7TR4t-u6E3OsY4C9UqMQIpXhEl18KNveuqQNr3VqnI5lqjIZ0LGeg/s640/IMG_9520.png" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="375" data-original-width="640" height="188" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjIcbhAO5c3fha9d6U8cWGopm2DZcNmcnFR4JHMtGhwGX7WtZxEebSc8DTuWQme1o9yZAi3MfqakDwm9UixW31IiIGbHnpxjtg93kDpUYLeRftm_itmTekL8U3MIOji77CCysvdU7TR4t-u6E3OsY4C9UqMQIpXhEl18KNveuqQNr3VqnI5lqjIZ0LGeg/s320/IMG_9520.png" width="320" /></a></span></div><p></p><p><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: medium;">Her birthday is coming up, so I brought her gift and card and we sat in a circle eating muffins and drinking tea. When I got ready to go, her eyes looked the same way mine did. A little damp around the edges. We don't know what changes may come within a year, but have determined not to see that as a worry. Last year we didn't know either, and yet here she is and here I am. </span></p><p><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: medium;">"Goodbye Jean!" I called, and walked outside to her big window, waving and waving. The dogs barked at a cat that wanted to get a bird, but we ignored all of that stuff and just - looked. Then I turned, and left.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: medium;">Walking around to my favorite St Ives haunts took my attention for a while, and I saw Knill's Monument, Carbis Bay Hotel, Tesco's, Man's Head Rock (where Eric stood in 1943 when a German bomber destroyed the gas works), and the Tate Museum. I might even enjoy a Moomaid ice cream, today. Perhaps it will be dark chocolate sorbet. After all, it will be a while before I have another crack at this!</span></p><p><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: medium;">Tomorrow's departure will include a cab ride, a little train ride, a big train ride, then next day a Heathrow Express ride, and a plane ride, drawing ever closer to my own Musketeer, driving in circles at an airport, waiting for me.</span></p><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: medium;">See you along the way!<br /></span><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: medium;">the SconeLady</span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgaI1yg3KwnSca6_stWDnCuQgTsNM_I8GJU2hSWEZSqSFKVTxgzis1EhdEXYR-t_7za5Qb4FXA-r0iy-JTPP-0Cdb9kaMjtKCf6jH0LEfQhO-MtSH_xk7Y4mlR6JJyg0IRZ5_2dcbmAG_xoyr7QXfHwzv7-lzICKom-JsteG1a-8w3JUln5l3nO4UNK1A/s640/99242c4b-050c-4216-b878-8e6f6eae1452.png" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="480" data-original-width="640" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgaI1yg3KwnSca6_stWDnCuQgTsNM_I8GJU2hSWEZSqSFKVTxgzis1EhdEXYR-t_7za5Qb4FXA-r0iy-JTPP-0Cdb9kaMjtKCf6jH0LEfQhO-MtSH_xk7Y4mlR6JJyg0IRZ5_2dcbmAG_xoyr7QXfHwzv7-lzICKom-JsteG1a-8w3JUln5l3nO4UNK1A/s320/99242c4b-050c-4216-b878-8e6f6eae1452.png" width="320" /></a></div><br /><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><br /><p style="text-align: left;"><br /></p><p><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: medium;"><br /></span></p><p><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: medium;"><br /></span></p><p><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: medium;"><br /></span></p><p><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: medium;"><br /></span></p><p><br /><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: medium;"><br /></span></p>SconeLadyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02334705708671697585noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6340690384595953425.post-76400683275259749742023-06-07T13:38:00.005-07:002023-06-08T01:11:57.658-07:00(Cornwall Day 30) Embarrassment of Riches<p> </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhnZ3JCS3z-E39-AVJPq_RxFEfBTjXGqh83HcnUBXUmgLWxX-d3pp9qqeo7-jn3u_QH0yEoX_z6M6bRsuXNUfRduyFa0UyImgBuFBaDLRopA8m6zLTY3zg840jd0MxvlxFv0Xb7QP5gwA44MjN6RAf4XmXUChoGWVhxKeoRG0IvQX6VOPJT7rdgUc1mrQ/s640/IMG_9478.png" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="640" data-original-width="480" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhnZ3JCS3z-E39-AVJPq_RxFEfBTjXGqh83HcnUBXUmgLWxX-d3pp9qqeo7-jn3u_QH0yEoX_z6M6bRsuXNUfRduyFa0UyImgBuFBaDLRopA8m6zLTY3zg840jd0MxvlxFv0Xb7QP5gwA44MjN6RAf4XmXUChoGWVhxKeoRG0IvQX6VOPJT7rdgUc1mrQ/s320/IMG_9478.png" width="240" /></a></div><br /><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: medium;">Being in a town filled with talent is just great. There is always something going on. Yesterday a friend said I should go see the Matt Carter Octet (an 'Octet' has guess how many people in it!) at the Western Hotel at 7:30, where you pay whatever you can, and just go on in. I figured it would be a sweet little local group that plays in basements, and did not have high expectations. </span><p></p><p><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: medium;">I was the first to arrive, so I did what I always do - found the most perfect seat in the basement and put my feet up. Only it wasn't a basement! It was a decent staging area with tables, chairs, and the bar to order from and lean upon. THIS was where the people were clustering, and leaning. The bar maid was by herself and working her head off, but her customers were all very nice and gave her tips and teased her (I don't think people in St Ives worry too much about getting into trouble for teasing). The tables and chairs added up to about 75 potential listeners, and my perfect seating area was beginning to get crowded.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: medium;">Finally there was a disturbance at the back, and eight young men walked onto the small stage, picking up their instruments and looking shyly out at us all. There was a baritone saxophone, an alto, and tenor sax (those three played in absolute tandem, with no mistakes or off-notes). Next to them was a trumpet (fabulous), and trombone (I could tell he had a leadership role because he made hand motions when it was time for somebody to do something). In the back was the drum and double bass, and to the far left sat Matt Carter at the piano. He not only plays, he <i>writes</i> much of the music they play. When you do that, you arrange each and every player's part, which means you must know their instrument. </span></p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjA5pExg0bgXfirjmA_NinBKdwsPSo2W-T2AnV0IHMR5gQAEPh6lRcfrgMMqk_CkufcST-Z7lQ03lMq2bLuCh_gvA6j4sqpwcecMetwvRBDD6TM1mxGBPyU3necpom7vUG6-2FBDYjErtaFWkSW8U7i8OVSc6rLnA9lMxno5M3sJKM1gpr9gQZprdP9qA/s640/IMG_9498.png" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="508" data-original-width="640" height="254" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjA5pExg0bgXfirjmA_NinBKdwsPSo2W-T2AnV0IHMR5gQAEPh6lRcfrgMMqk_CkufcST-Z7lQ03lMq2bLuCh_gvA6j4sqpwcecMetwvRBDD6TM1mxGBPyU3necpom7vUG6-2FBDYjErtaFWkSW8U7i8OVSc6rLnA9lMxno5M3sJKM1gpr9gQZprdP9qA/s320/IMG_9498.png" width="320" /></a></div><br /><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: medium;">From the first note of the first song, we were all shocked. Soon every toe in that room was tapping, every face smiling, and every hand reaching into a pocket for cash to donate to this magnificent group. Matt introduced each tune, and the instrumentalist who would be the solo in it. He kept his eyes on that instrumentalist, nodding, smiling, encouraging as the thing went on and on. </span><p></p><p><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: medium;">I could feel myself becoming a Groupie..</span></p><p><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: medium;"><br /></span></p><p><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: medium;">Then today my computer went <i>bing! </i>and a message came out that said, Organ Recital today at 1:00 pm. What! An embarrassment of riches! I had to get going because this was not something I wanted to waltz in late to. The St Ia Parish Church is awe inspiring, and an organ recital in it is every bit as awe inspiring. It would not be like a jazz Octet, of course, blasting out unbelievable tunes no one has ever heard before. But the organist was just as as talented. He is the organist at the Parish Church and had already made an impression on everyone who has walked through that door on a Sunday morning. </span></p><p><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: medium;">It is time to turn a corner now, dear Readers, for my five weeks in St Ives is nearly done. I shall soon be in the arms of my sweet family. I can't wait to be in <i>their </i>audiences again, up close - their baseball games, ballet recitals, and choir performances. Nodding, smiling, and encouraging as darling life goes on...and on.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: medium;">Grandma, the Groupie.</span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEja40YinMTsyt68fP49zfjXTmTj2md4qdGh-_oBhtBMvutYgycpLRqSfkHrnNV-ZGESkZNisfITJxL3ucQQhHhOMXXK_Trf8OiPizrWo903U93WRBif2GgBRGu4vutLp4GMWsk4GFIB2V-8PNJjZEpvahGZtg1ZsCtmxwp_BCKqR3_HpIQ8lwpzirCkIg/s640/IMG_9560.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="640" data-original-width="480" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEja40YinMTsyt68fP49zfjXTmTj2md4qdGh-_oBhtBMvutYgycpLRqSfkHrnNV-ZGESkZNisfITJxL3ucQQhHhOMXXK_Trf8OiPizrWo903U93WRBif2GgBRGu4vutLp4GMWsk4GFIB2V-8PNJjZEpvahGZtg1ZsCtmxwp_BCKqR3_HpIQ8lwpzirCkIg/s320/IMG_9560.png" width="240" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><p>See you along the way!</p><p>the SconeLady</p>SconeLadyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02334705708671697585noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6340690384595953425.post-47274204759782928882023-06-06T10:21:00.003-07:002023-06-06T23:53:33.763-07:00(Cornwall Day 29) Wild Church 2<p><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: medium;"></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: medium;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhI3nZ7wi0YsuMQoa6n7e985Oe-F8sOJHckKc1erVDc7YDjs6DsN9MMjHri7f5RyJZ4_6D4HdgFPvT4LWmHHGWwzQ2D6d505HXDSmSmqHE7JizDMSyClvbaErBJJALrxYrbBNonmAfhvgViCfI9osU38PsO9D-Xj6Xs94xHZJVAxVvTI6jsWR4VidLBMA/s640/IMG_9376%20(1).png" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="640" data-original-width="480" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhI3nZ7wi0YsuMQoa6n7e985Oe-F8sOJHckKc1erVDc7YDjs6DsN9MMjHri7f5RyJZ4_6D4HdgFPvT4LWmHHGWwzQ2D6d505HXDSmSmqHE7JizDMSyClvbaErBJJALrxYrbBNonmAfhvgViCfI9osU38PsO9D-Xj6Xs94xHZJVAxVvTI6jsWR4VidLBMA/s320/IMG_9376%20(1).png" width="240" /></a></span></div><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: medium;"><br />Walking uphill to the Vicar's garden, a new feeling of resilience came over me, because - can you believe it? - I was not out of breath! Just a couple of years ago and I would have been positively gasping. (The secret is <i>practice</i>. You wouldn't have one without the other). So I almost skipped in through the garden wall and was met by a smile and someone calling me by name.</span><p></p><p><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: medium;">"How did you get here?" the lady with the pew sheet asked.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: medium;">"I walked up."</span></p><p><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: medium;">"What? That's a long way, I'm sure we could arrange..."</span></p><p><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: medium;">But I said it was okay, that walking is all part of the fun of coming to Wild Church.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: medium;">Approaching the tent, I knew right away that something terrific was going to happen, because I could hear the Vicar's wife and her friend rehearsing a song called "Power in my Slingshot". It tells the story of David vs Giant, and I already couldn't wait to hear it again.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: medium;">After tea, and coffee, and cake-at-the-Shack, and as the little children stood together in the blue and white bus...there came the SONG. </span></p><p style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Ccq9Vbp8xYY">https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Ccq9Vbp8xYY</a></p><p style="text-align: center;"><br /></p><p><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: medium;"></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: medium;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhYL1jtvuXKpkWOTfMe0J292nfMXr4dNY-9Ia1lHMSCHb_IjYsNN3wlIZ587VjntxVBs1s42Vw7NoU0vC81id6bEKHtQlljZnV4ExaAht9K9XPbRMRW58VTVhIqQBTl9EqmX6HU2URMzKQkdaF9-b0NXHjdU4XaAL8ndP4s-U8hBWrMYaZlmv7IeIlgZw/s640/IMG_9346.png" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="640" data-original-width="480" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhYL1jtvuXKpkWOTfMe0J292nfMXr4dNY-9Ia1lHMSCHb_IjYsNN3wlIZ587VjntxVBs1s42Vw7NoU0vC81id6bEKHtQlljZnV4ExaAht9K9XPbRMRW58VTVhIqQBTl9EqmX6HU2URMzKQkdaF9-b0NXHjdU4XaAL8ndP4s-U8hBWrMYaZlmv7IeIlgZw/s320/IMG_9346.png" width="240" /></a></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><span style="font-family: trebuchet;"><p><span style="font-size: medium;">I was hopeless at the hand motions, but they very perfectly described the song's meaning. I wish you could see AND hear them doing it, but there was no decent way to video without being a rude American. But I highly recommend you hear it (click the link above).</span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">After the message (Isaiah 40, "Surely the nations are like a drop in a bucket" - the utter Hugeness of God -), there were 'explorer zones' for people to join, participate in and learn more deeply. As my little group introduced ourselves, I was surprised to all of a sudden hear a familiar accent.</span></p></span><p></p><p><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: medium;">"You're an American!" we both said.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: medium;">"California?"</span></p><p><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: medium;">"Temecula!?"</span></p><p><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: medium;">30 minutes from my home! The western US accent in the midst of these Manchester, Norfolk, Cornish, and Devon folk was a lovely cacophony! </span></p><p><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: medium;">Participating both in the 'high' church of that morning (choir robes and such), and the brisk joy of Wild Church, is terrific. It is o</span><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: medium;">ne of the lovely silver linings behind the covid-related-lock-downs for the people of St Ives. They all know it, and speak to it. And they are thankful for it, which means being thankful for the covid-related-lock-downs. </span></p><p><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: medium;">You wouldn't have one without the other.</span></p><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: trebuchet;">See you along the Way!<br /></span><span style="font-family: trebuchet;">the SconeLady</span></span></div><p style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: large;"><br /></span></p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiJaltJi5vBuQAOGCUKd0X7S6i6zNf_-wZptulPgPett51fU0CJgAkJakCQV9-_XwpmeQPef3EFXwUmufFcwvY0SbKdPHTH_TF6WUMuFT0c2b0SuU73SG42u_SUZBGgOeIzvUcjZ7SZA4aRN14PWwL09Bt-7JfiN0vM_jU5KMH3-2mf1C23RTwfs1G7ug/s640/IMG_9491.png" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="630" data-original-width="640" height="315" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiJaltJi5vBuQAOGCUKd0X7S6i6zNf_-wZptulPgPett51fU0CJgAkJakCQV9-_XwpmeQPef3EFXwUmufFcwvY0SbKdPHTH_TF6WUMuFT0c2b0SuU73SG42u_SUZBGgOeIzvUcjZ7SZA4aRN14PWwL09Bt-7JfiN0vM_jU5KMH3-2mf1C23RTwfs1G7ug/s320/IMG_9491.png" width="320" /></a></div><br /><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: large;"><br /></span><p></p><p><br /></p><div><p><br /></p></div>SconeLadyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02334705708671697585noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6340690384595953425.post-68009963638332862902023-06-05T12:54:00.000-07:002023-06-05T12:54:32.855-07:00(Cornwall Day 28) Chorus of Angels<p><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: medium;">Today is Monday, so are you wondering what happened to the SconeLady on Sunday? </span></p><p><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: medium;"><br /></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: medium;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj5h-0DHN-1hZ4-db-sXd3RnB9Sj7jRj9aZbbUXCPCoo701G1ANLZ8jpq91GXqRB0uAAf8EYOELyszF07tgQ_s0f6nSqA0LLNRx1VVhvTyiUyHjdSIS9pYZy3TIJ_CLj-Gta2rsD8lZ1DtxQzhkmeImq4V2ijFl5uCMunEpSrQ9KamM3UBfjJ3b5SLlEw/s640/IMG_9368%20(1).png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="640" data-original-width="480" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj5h-0DHN-1hZ4-db-sXd3RnB9Sj7jRj9aZbbUXCPCoo701G1ANLZ8jpq91GXqRB0uAAf8EYOELyszF07tgQ_s0f6nSqA0LLNRx1VVhvTyiUyHjdSIS9pYZy3TIJ_CLj-Gta2rsD8lZ1DtxQzhkmeImq4V2ijFl5uCMunEpSrQ9KamM3UBfjJ3b5SLlEw/s320/IMG_9368%20(1).png" width="240" /></a></span></div><p><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: medium;"><br /></span></span></p><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: medium;">This happened!</span><p></p><p><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: medium;">Once again under a clear blue sky, I stepped into the Parish Church. There was, seated in the vestibule and chatting, the Vicar. Again he greeted me saying, "Hello! In the choir again today?"</span></p><p><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: medium;">I certainly said yes I am, and the Vicar smiled and said we're glad you are. And after that I trailed along into the choir room.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: medium;">There was a little pause and scramble before I could find robes (there are always two robes - red and white) because I think last week's weren't there. Eventually it was established that I could wear another size, which felt wedding-dress-sized ... with a train. But the ladies helped get me situated and properly clothed and, after a rehearsal, it was time to be blessed. The Vicar squeezed into the small choir room and prayed over us with thanksgiving. We stood a little straighter and held our heads a little higher as we followed the tall young man bearing the Cross in.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: medium;">"Please turn to hymn number 148,<i>" </i>the Vicar called, "omitting the starred verses." Then everybody turned to it, and the service began.</span></p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEix7eRadcMgsbAR8EVIIPoqDvsCvl7rkeq1urHU0VAZKFqQeFZnCnrFhu9pRsUrJAf9elkX-ruSmMryw0KlTNdiF7evhbpR1cLA5SMmWBtv0ok_88ybPVIIXaqFhfpzR2YfV3mLKaW-d_VYQN8ej1pNaYfYJf1OtUP390yCKlOTpSHiWqOQQeKzfG2JJw/s640/IMG_9424.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="431" data-original-width="640" height="281" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEix7eRadcMgsbAR8EVIIPoqDvsCvl7rkeq1urHU0VAZKFqQeFZnCnrFhu9pRsUrJAf9elkX-ruSmMryw0KlTNdiF7evhbpR1cLA5SMmWBtv0ok_88ybPVIIXaqFhfpzR2YfV3mLKaW-d_VYQN8ej1pNaYfYJf1OtUP390yCKlOTpSHiWqOQQeKzfG2JJw/w416-h281/IMG_9424.png" width="416" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: medium;">When people afterward asked how it felt to be in a Church of England choir, processing together behind the Vicar and the Cross, I almost answered, "It was so fun!" but stopped myself. It would sound silly, wouldn't it, saying that something like that, something solemn and meaningful, was 'fun'. </span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: medium;">But - that word was exactly how it <i>did</i> feel to be in a Church of England choir, etc. The swell of voices and organ together (oh that organist!), dog-Tess giving the tiniest little 'yip' as we passed, the sermon drawing attention to the utter Hugeness of God - all of it. Not so much 'amusing' or 'merry', as - <i>blessed</i>.</span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><iframe allowfullscreen='allowfullscreen' webkitallowfullscreen='webkitallowfullscreen' mozallowfullscreen='mozallowfullscreen' width='320' height='266' src='https://www.blogger.com/video.g?token=AD6v5dyShkndrE_IGnECSrsxHNGDQzsXjZ-DhswTy_ZoX8GT6QjbThxdUrEc7mS92n_LyeQr_HW7ZAymRbP0b6jz1Q' class='b-hbp-video b-uploaded' frameborder='0'></iframe></div><br /><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: medium;">Having a father who insisted his children learned to read music, play multiple instruments, and be on a stage, opened doors for all of us. We joined church choirs, sang in worship bands, or recorded albums. Now we watch as children and grandchildren do the same sweet things, to the tune of a different generation.</span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: medium;">Ah, lovely...in the year 2023, standing with a group of Englishmen and women singing their hearts out on something wonderful like "Holy Holy Holy", on a Trinity Sunday, in St Ives. Yes. <i>Fun.</i></span></div></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: medium;">And next up? <i>WILD CHURCH!</i></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: medium;">See you along the way!</span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: medium;">the SconeLady</span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiussae6lI6e-n98nHHBsg4iBmF9Co63l0bEJpRsJCyLVbcW_SwJiuBVV0pGx4fObbupGp_9uDOnyhAioCyabje8xdCXiEMySwYV7xYJhmMn6x0WdtacYgMIPeCFMZUmvvkSy6unnjHngTJNSarKecWg7-0Kw-DvPx1xw-DS0j6hsadwp0wIJystYzOGA/s640/IMG_9431.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="480" data-original-width="640" height="283" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiussae6lI6e-n98nHHBsg4iBmF9Co63l0bEJpRsJCyLVbcW_SwJiuBVV0pGx4fObbupGp_9uDOnyhAioCyabje8xdCXiEMySwYV7xYJhmMn6x0WdtacYgMIPeCFMZUmvvkSy6unnjHngTJNSarKecWg7-0Kw-DvPx1xw-DS0j6hsadwp0wIJystYzOGA/w377-h283/IMG_9431.png" width="377" /></a></div><br /><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: medium;"><br /></span><p></p>SconeLadyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02334705708671697585noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6340690384595953425.post-61319083887975580002023-06-04T11:20:00.002-07:002023-06-05T08:17:50.641-07:00(Cornwall Day 27) The Estates - Part Two<p><span style="font-size: medium;">Continued...</span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">In order to give you peace of mind, here is what</span><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: medium;"> finally happened:</span></p><p><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: medium;"><br /></span></p><p><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: medium;">1 I called my cottage friend and set the new time for 2:00.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: medium;">2 the train reached Penzance.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: medium;">3 the same train left for St Erth.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: medium;">4 the same train broke down.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: medium;">5 it hobbled back to Penzance.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: medium;">6 I got off it and took a bus to St Ives. </span></p><p><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: medium;">All through this long list of events, I thought my husband would have to come from America and rescue me with a white straight jacket! This idea of a straight jacket scared me so much that I got another idea: I would do what any tech-savvy (but slightly ditzy) American should do: GOOGLE IT. </span></p><p style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: large;">"Is there a train non stop from Lelant to Penzance?"</span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj8xXIHj6MCokPtRolmlqYz0SdYtBoPU5bPzN308ANfeGPAddNFF6U2weXGcCcNHueolWqtjUzJ_VSGIvewpfWlTFvssA8oF9oCWo6lpR5iVlqKIakS4YLLaNp2QsoOABxsv9YenkzUKet6V9GgHjREDpz6dzs7NMiluhRiVe24lzUvkwgjZTk2F9fUaQ/s640/IMG_9283.png" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="640" data-original-width="296" height="432" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj8xXIHj6MCokPtRolmlqYz0SdYtBoPU5bPzN308ANfeGPAddNFF6U2weXGcCcNHueolWqtjUzJ_VSGIvewpfWlTFvssA8oF9oCWo6lpR5iVlqKIakS4YLLaNp2QsoOABxsv9YenkzUKet6V9GgHjREDpz6dzs7NMiluhRiVe24lzUvkwgjZTk2F9fUaQ/w200-h432/IMG_9283.png" width="200" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: medium;">In all the 13 years I have visited St Ives, I'm telling you there has NEVER BEEN A DIRECT TRAIN FROM LELANT TO PENZANCE. Maybe there really was a direct train, but I just didn't know it. It was clearly a rotten way to find out.</span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: medium;">See you along the way!</span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: medium;">the SconeLady</span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: medium;">P.S. The cottage was viewed and all four stories admired. I don't know yet whether we will become "second homers" (and perhaps not yet, because four flights of stairs is likely a sad idea). But it sure is fun to look. </span><span style="font-size: medium;">Even if our tour guide's day gets wrecked.</span></div>SconeLadyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02334705708671697585noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6340690384595953425.post-64072467999335568612023-06-04T05:39:00.000-07:002023-06-04T05:39:45.103-07:00(Cornwall Day 27) The Estates - Part One<p> </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: trebuchet;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiGMCT6frJnKkbi5e-yHE_pWx1mNGt9BatnFDNynATVQWTvoFiM8F_gYqjcqiWb10F7xwF-b_cN0yn64TsC2umPrHN_EqtCSoj5pws8rpRGm909E8e3eEtjQoT7eQerCwz6cLq_NG_C68NQ46RM9S-bTLAcgcKe4cdiaeC-ABzCU03tM6sCF_RIXT80Eg/s640/IMG_9251.png" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="309" data-original-width="640" height="155" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiGMCT6frJnKkbi5e-yHE_pWx1mNGt9BatnFDNynATVQWTvoFiM8F_gYqjcqiWb10F7xwF-b_cN0yn64TsC2umPrHN_EqtCSoj5pws8rpRGm909E8e3eEtjQoT7eQerCwz6cLq_NG_C68NQ46RM9S-bTLAcgcKe4cdiaeC-ABzCU03tM6sCF_RIXT80Eg/s320/IMG_9251.png" width="320" /></a></span></div><span style="font-family: trebuchet;"><br /></span><p></p><p><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: medium;">It is hard to feel very sorry for those who live in the 'estates', because - well, it looks almost heavenly.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: medium;">Our favorite walking tour guide pointed out last week that the people of St Ives cannot afford to live in it. This is because of "second homers" who swoop in and buy up the fishermen's cottages to refurbish them - </span><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: trebuchet;">having watched the British version of 'Fixer Upper.' on the British version of HGTV.</span><span style="font-family: trebuchet;"> This drives up housing prices, and then the locals (and their children) cannot afford to buy them and have to live in the Estates.</span></span></p><p><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: medium;">I have stayed in these St Ives holiday lets and wished I could maybe buy one, but made the mistake of mentioning this to our walking tour guide. It wrecked his day. But did I realize it was a major no-no to confess something like that to a LOCAL? </span></p><p><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: medium;">Then I saw a British friend yesterday on the wharf. </span></p><p><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: medium;">"Have I told you yet that we are selling one of the properties?" she asked.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: medium;">"What!" I almost screamed. "Where?"</span></p><p><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: medium;">"Mere yards from here!" I hopped a little hop. "But," she continued, "we can't show you it until noon. Come see it then."</span></p><p><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: medium;"><br /></span><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: medium;"></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: medium;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiAYoyfXomIoThXNhs-t1nv86Hyo-M7FzKEW7Ve3lV11yUuvxSrRvAwZfFeRT_M56ar9QVANXz1MNvgfiiXBKW5gKC7Z2k629QkWQx34N32nBlhWf6MDlh8WaRpTfboDlt9p8vH7vblYt4uMDaDfzf2Cxtw6mYTXez4Tc3gsum9raWhCUk4TLHdJxk0Uw/s640/IMG_9311.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="640" data-original-width="480" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiAYoyfXomIoThXNhs-t1nv86Hyo-M7FzKEW7Ve3lV11yUuvxSrRvAwZfFeRT_M56ar9QVANXz1MNvgfiiXBKW5gKC7Z2k629QkWQx34N32nBlhWf6MDlh8WaRpTfboDlt9p8vH7vblYt4uMDaDfzf2Cxtw6mYTXez4Tc3gsum9raWhCUk4TLHdJxk0Uw/s320/IMG_9311.png" width="240" /></a></span></div><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: medium;"><br /></span><p></p><p><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: medium;">This means I had time to walk to Lelant and observe the silent beauty of Rosamunde's house. To be sure I was on time, I went to the little rail station nearby. </span><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: medium;">And who, dear Readers, do you supposed I saw sitting on the railway bench? The Corn Flakes man! The one who had held forth that they would all end up eating government Corn Flakes in the end.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: medium;">"You again!" he said as I appeared. "St Ives train? You'll have to get on the upcoming St Erth train, stay on it, and it will bring you straight back to St Ives. No problem!" What a relief. I didn't want to miss seeing the cottage.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: medium;">The man didn't talk about Corn Flakes, but he did say the government had imposed a hose pipe ban on everybody in the country because of a drought. In case you are an American and aren't sure of what a "hose pipe ban" is, well I had to ask. A <i>hose pipe</i> in England, is just a <i>hose</i>. A hose pipe ban means people can't water their lawns, flowers, or pots, and cannot wash their cars (These restrictions don't apply to farmers, so they can carry on watering). The hose pipe ban really bugs this man, who said he was "cheesed off" about it.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: medium;">But the really strange thing about this (long, and getting longer) story, is what happened next.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: medium;">The St Erth train arrived, picked me up, and would take only 5 minutes to get to St Erth. I stepped into the train restroom. When I came out, it felt like we were going awfully fast for the little train to St Erth. We kept not slowing, and not stopping. What!?</span></p><p><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: medium;">After a while I looked out the window, and saw - ST MICHAEL'S MOUNT! What!?</span></p><p><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: medium;">I couldn't be at St Michael's Mount. Honestly, people, this was a crisis - not so much that I would miss a cottage, but that I must be missing my <i>brain</i>. How had I managed to reach St Erth, gotten off that train and onto the Penzance train (and not remember it), in the time it took to go to the bathroom?</span></p><p style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: large;"><i>I had to be in the Twilight Zone.</i></span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">To Be Continued....</span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhQ2YOQVV4BYJagkX4F9yktPwwstsPtufBPbNTYueut163H9IjRc36Y67Tn9MQPTkdOeFQMMNk5R3_WYzZHh2pY-1TuAcskmHWcg80Widy1LumcezZejXaogG-vwxG7QXyzdTKMkIF1hzk0GC0w3zFP1Blx0XFwbzO_9a9tJBu3snB2B6di3a97oIr3kQ/s640/IMG_9254.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="640" data-original-width="480" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhQ2YOQVV4BYJagkX4F9yktPwwstsPtufBPbNTYueut163H9IjRc36Y67Tn9MQPTkdOeFQMMNk5R3_WYzZHh2pY-1TuAcskmHWcg80Widy1LumcezZejXaogG-vwxG7QXyzdTKMkIF1hzk0GC0w3zFP1Blx0XFwbzO_9a9tJBu3snB2B6di3a97oIr3kQ/s320/IMG_9254.png" width="240" /></a></div><br /><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: medium;"><br /></span><p></p>SconeLadyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02334705708671697585noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6340690384595953425.post-14357346022563554112023-06-02T13:58:00.001-07:002023-06-05T13:20:51.828-07:00(Cornwall Day 26) Sunset in St Ives<p></p><div style="text-align: center;"><i>June 1, 2023</i></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh6Xe6K00BrzB8DjqNOcT1-_XXpL7EOkyAhRSmCb0rOXi1aAsGJvn1GgYYH9ogMbOvbKlkeqkg2ZbjRhSGBR0tQ0adaZUwsI4Cyi0RYZmMJZNlUC5umrBH2VG0q0bouzWrQtGiW4dj2hXaICHk9FfGurTUQ7rvnB0ArxqTif0iuDEZiAZfmdtDmFt1Y_A/s640/IMG_9148.png" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="443" data-original-width="640" height="253" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh6Xe6K00BrzB8DjqNOcT1-_XXpL7EOkyAhRSmCb0rOXi1aAsGJvn1GgYYH9ogMbOvbKlkeqkg2ZbjRhSGBR0tQ0adaZUwsI4Cyi0RYZmMJZNlUC5umrBH2VG0q0bouzWrQtGiW4dj2hXaICHk9FfGurTUQ7rvnB0ArxqTif0iuDEZiAZfmdtDmFt1Y_A/w364-h253/IMG_9148.png" width="364" /></a></div><br /><p></p><p><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: medium;">Someone said, last week, that there are no sunsets in St Ives. I felt this could not be quite right, but was willing to consider all sides. Decades ago while living in New Zealand, someone told my American friend and I that, although the sun rises in the east and sets in the west <i>in America</i>, it does the exact opposite in New Zealand. We had felt this could not be quite right, but fell for it all the same. Thus becoming American laughing stocks.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: medium;">So of course I knew there are sunsets in St Ives, it's just a matter of finding them. Which is simple. Half an hour before sunset time, I walked westerly until I came to the surfing beach. And there the sunset was, in all its glory.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: medium;">And not only the sunset. There were hundreds of people standing, sitting, laying around on the grass, waiting for it to set. They were hushed. Their children were hushed too, as if something magical was about to happen. The Rather Stunning Son called just then, and (in hushed voices) we talked and I sent him photos of the great sinking orb out there, hovering above the waters. Magical.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: medium;">St Ives is also exquisite when it comes to sunRISES - only you have to get up really early right now in order to see one. In fact, I have not seen one sunrise this trip. Which is strange, because I am an early riser. </span></p><p><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: medium;"><br /></span></p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhrNnCpFXWrxAgUj8JLGN1hiE5TCr9eUj57SwsbY8HlaMDXdsa4A-3za7MoxF60ZIX5enUe5X-hwvJ1mQRvXpxswMD7TXRMbADfpyOVg3soSSs5kd2vxNhxod1fEcgGZFTDUlD1B0BFy9W3iNHh8flkhCU34jyPffA3onsRFhXDTRrArrvuiRlZiqC99w/s640/IMG_8795.png" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="640" data-original-width="480" height="360" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhrNnCpFXWrxAgUj8JLGN1hiE5TCr9eUj57SwsbY8HlaMDXdsa4A-3za7MoxF60ZIX5enUe5X-hwvJ1mQRvXpxswMD7TXRMbADfpyOVg3soSSs5kd2vxNhxod1fEcgGZFTDUlD1B0BFy9W3iNHh8flkhCU34jyPffA3onsRFhXDTRrArrvuiRlZiqC99w/w270-h360/IMG_8795.png" width="270" /></a></div><br /><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: medium;">This sunrise photo was taken on October 6, 2021, at 7:57 a.m. Tomorrow's sunrise will take place at 5:15 a.m., so you see it is a disadvantage to travel to St Ives in the month of June, if you want to see a sunrise. </span><p></p><p><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: medium;">When that magical thing happens, it reminds us that sunrises and sunsets happen every day, even when we don't see them. We know they are there, but maybe sometimes hidden. </span></p><p><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: medium;">There is actually a better word for all this stuff, you know. All of the intricate, fabulous, phenomenal, surprising, revelatory stuff that is here - for you. Even when you don't see it:</span></p><p style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: medium;">Miraculous.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: trebuchet;"><i>("The Heavens declare the glory of God, and the skies proclaim the work of his hands." Psalm 19:1)</i></span></p><p><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: medium;"><br /></span></p><p><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: medium;">See you along the Way!</span></p><p><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: medium;">the SconeLady</span></p><p><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: medium;"><br /></span></p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><iframe allowfullscreen='allowfullscreen' webkitallowfullscreen='webkitallowfullscreen' mozallowfullscreen='mozallowfullscreen' width='320' height='266' src='https://www.blogger.com/video.g?token=AD6v5dxGIAz04cgF9y8dMQqGgzSbFLQ7wq9FZZzBwjaQIrQl_qXdAgP1ooi2dGwslDpvKldz64LuWJohQEHqRJxuuQ' class='b-hbp-video b-uploaded' frameborder='0'></iframe></div><br /><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: medium;"><br /></span><p></p>SconeLadyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02334705708671697585noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6340690384595953425.post-21587276762863537592023-06-01T11:37:00.000-07:002023-06-01T11:37:07.121-07:00(Cornwall Day 25) Along The Way To Land's End<p></p><div style="text-align: center;"> <i> Land's End</i></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiOSyIqD_wweIH3AQc2soecM-wmFfCh2RMFf_cEcSH-rwi0Zc1hP6KYxPktcdBtCRa0M5f4_T-av6F2A8xtjW_EcX-beGeeecMDcf0wv61AL-yEgQIjjJ-RDi2Xt2COipv44TGA9j_X2lYOPAEnNgbt5xk2r1BPLObCqOYIvmERDToBF4M8CVSqD41p_g/s640/IMG_9106%20(1).png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="480" data-original-width="640" height="278" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiOSyIqD_wweIH3AQc2soecM-wmFfCh2RMFf_cEcSH-rwi0Zc1hP6KYxPktcdBtCRa0M5f4_T-av6F2A8xtjW_EcX-beGeeecMDcf0wv61AL-yEgQIjjJ-RDi2Xt2COipv44TGA9j_X2lYOPAEnNgbt5xk2r1BPLObCqOYIvmERDToBF4M8CVSqD41p_g/w370-h278/IMG_9106%20(1).png" width="370" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: medium;">It is almost the end of Half Term. Yay. I want my streets back.</span><p></p><p><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: medium;">It's been fun, though, seeing so many children enjoying St Ives. I think I might miss them. It isn't their fault that their numbers have overwhelmed one of the grownups. </span></p><p><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: medium;">Most of the babies I have seen have either been asleep in a pram with a binky in their mouths, or asleep in the arms of their young fathers because mummy is exhausted and still in bed. Very few of the babies have screamed.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: medium;">The young school children have been fun, too. They have gotten redder as the days pass, and some of them are beginning to peel. I wonder if sun screen has been in their mother's needful bags? because just about the whole family is red. I mean, these people were red the FIRST DAY they came. No working up to it gradually. The backs of necks are particularly uncomfortable looking.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: medium;">The middle school kids on vacation have been a blast to watch. I see them as I sit on an open top bus, watching the passengers board. Today on the way to Land's End I saw a tousle-headed boy of about 9 appear up through the bus stairwell (a little bit self conscious), and look for a seat. He was followed by a second boy, maybe 11 and also tousle-headed, coming up through the well after which a third, 13, appeared, and a fourth important looking kid of about 16, who looked responsible. Behind them, a haggard looking mother and father climbed wearily up. </span></p><p><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: medium;">I had no end of a good time hearing their jokes, laughter, and all around good time. It gave me a positive feeling about the youth of Britain.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: medium;"></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: medium;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhSCiVU-jDCXJrFqVjzpoXeig7OmakP41YRAU6cUBB_BNKWoWi0GU2HNAQ0ENjo_HJVTFNk3S9-trB2_wpme6qtuN7RjmRD4fMLXC7aVep0aLR6-GC9TZ50hHYiUNunZcU3Ufx1Q7tDpNF1fFtBfo9ABcponXLlA5se5TPUNey6HD9Vv7T9EgBwTM9gsA/s640/IMG_9104.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="282" data-original-width="640" height="141" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhSCiVU-jDCXJrFqVjzpoXeig7OmakP41YRAU6cUBB_BNKWoWi0GU2HNAQ0ENjo_HJVTFNk3S9-trB2_wpme6qtuN7RjmRD4fMLXC7aVep0aLR6-GC9TZ50hHYiUNunZcU3Ufx1Q7tDpNF1fFtBfo9ABcponXLlA5se5TPUNey6HD9Vv7T9EgBwTM9gsA/s320/IMG_9104.png" width="320" /></a></span></div><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: medium;"><br />So tomorrow is changeover day, through which I hope to pass without losing anything. Last year there were the Apple Ear Pods which were left in the bed because I'd been listening to a Rosamunde Pilcher book, and forgot about the Ear Pods. The Pods were white and the sheets were white, which meant I didn't see them and the housekeeping people didn't either. </span><p></p><p><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: medium;">Two weeks ago I left two plastic containers of the best chewing gum in the world ("Ice Cubes"), in a drawer. It was almost worse than the Ear Pods! This best gum in the world does not exist in the UK, and therefore the loss was distressing. There seem to be no lost-and-founds in the travel world.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: medium;">My changeover day will be spent with Cornish friends, well away from the bustle of people down here packing up and leaving. By around 4:00, I should find out if I've finally got my streets back. I hope so, but... I still might miss those kids.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: medium;"><br /></span></p><p><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: medium;">See you along the way!</span></p><p><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: medium;">the SconeLady</span></p><p><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: medium;"><br /></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><iframe allowfullscreen='allowfullscreen' webkitallowfullscreen='webkitallowfullscreen' mozallowfullscreen='mozallowfullscreen' width='320' height='266' src='https://www.blogger.com/video.g?token=AD6v5dwYQWy--Q3vylPGmA_wZfmkyI1Cw77t9PRxzWtoBX0oHLmhMYgnAbMd2KKV_xK2ZYlj1exbg6OEr_5SUjtTGQ' class='b-hbp-video b-uploaded' frameborder='0'></iframe></div><br /><p><br /></p>SconeLadyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02334705708671697585noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6340690384595953425.post-81088013043138751232023-05-31T13:06:00.005-07:002023-06-01T08:08:09.730-07:00(Cornwall Day 24) Cape Cornwall<p> <span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: medium;"></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: medium;"><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjygjMxLSc02WMCt09nVoR12iUillLpcaOCn_Pi10vOKjZzIpNbLB8RxoV_3kQg5ZMykAUKBEiBgafzlc7V77sMCRQ0Ym0Z-mAn_TxnBfsg93WM1iR0SQCSOM7yl-mFISpaqa8nGSf2iEfzcsio4By9XzNCq4bOXNhE_3LZnxhpEZUDCfwChQikH-ADCg/s640/IMG_8972%20(1).png" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="557" data-original-width="640" height="193" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjygjMxLSc02WMCt09nVoR12iUillLpcaOCn_Pi10vOKjZzIpNbLB8RxoV_3kQg5ZMykAUKBEiBgafzlc7V77sMCRQ0Ym0Z-mAn_TxnBfsg93WM1iR0SQCSOM7yl-mFISpaqa8nGSf2iEfzcsio4By9XzNCq4bOXNhE_3LZnxhpEZUDCfwChQikH-ADCg/w222-h193/IMG_8972%20(1).png" width="222" /></a></div></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div></span></div><p></p><p><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: medium;">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.</span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><p style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: medium;">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).</span></p><p style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: medium;">The dog's owner whipped out his poo-bag and, red-faced, reached down in. </span><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: medium;">I felt sorry as much for him as for the workmen. </span></p><p style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: medium;">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. </span></p><p style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: medium;">Right then a bus pulled in, and I could not believe it. It was a Coaster bus!</span></p><p style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: medium;">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. </span></p><p style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: medium;">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).</span></p><p style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: medium;">You may have visited Cape Cornwall, or heard it mentioned in the song, "Cornwall, My Home":</span></p><div><i><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: trebuchet;">I've stood on Cape Cornwall<br /></span><span style="font-family: trebuchet;">In the sun's evening glow<br /></span></span><span style="font-family: trebuchet;"><span style="font-size: medium;">On Chywoone Hill at Newlyn</span><br /></span><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: medium;">to watch the fishing fleets go.</span></i></div><div><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: medium;"><i>Watched the sheave wheels at Geevor</i></span></div><div><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: medium;"><i>As they spun around</i></span></div><div><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: medium;"><i>And heard the men singing </i></span></div><div><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: medium;"><i>as they go underground.</i></span></div><div><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: medium;"><i><br /></i></span></div><div><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: medium;"><i>And no one will ever move me from this land.</i></span></div><div><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: medium;"><i>until the Lord calls me to sit at His hand.</i></span></div><div><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: medium;"><i>For this is my Eden, and I'm not alone,</i></span></div><div><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: medium;"><i>For this is my Cornwall </i></span></div><div><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: medium;"><i>And this is my home.</i></span></div><p style="text-align: center;"><b><span style="font-size: x-small;">-Harry Glasson</span></b></p><p style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: medium;"><a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=FNCcSJiZR1I">https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=FNCcSJiZR1I</a></span></p><p style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: medium;">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. </span></p></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg1EpsbKNJWyLjH4q_I_vKUgYqzf6FPmH-RfKTpu3iG3FKiXXbUPG_qS6Onq3KsPkkPsPsYTGvGRodIF8c5sukAOl02KmPtNsWb8p9I5v4nUA-TBhSEG0JokqrYEl6CM9AEE_5WkVBle1Mmormfvp2jYBNZRDkqEFRrxaBEXWWOZ4u_G3lnx_Sw4UORMw/s640/IMG_9034%20(1).png" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="640" data-original-width="619" height="347" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg1EpsbKNJWyLjH4q_I_vKUgYqzf6FPmH-RfKTpu3iG3FKiXXbUPG_qS6Onq3KsPkkPsPsYTGvGRodIF8c5sukAOl02KmPtNsWb8p9I5v4nUA-TBhSEG0JokqrYEl6CM9AEE_5WkVBle1Mmormfvp2jYBNZRDkqEFRrxaBEXWWOZ4u_G3lnx_Sw4UORMw/w336-h347/IMG_9034%20(1).png" width="336" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><p><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: medium;">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. </span></p><p><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: medium;">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. </span></p><p><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: medium;">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.<br /></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: medium;"><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiObuBQ8VnMp-ye1HFOUFwCdiPG66elDBkgpggAlCi4Pvx8pDBJJlxCDjr8JRyshSvDqlsl1vENyk-RtbUW1Y0E16-dsykYUDcqvW65m0gnOR1QyFphfEwvset_TOpKdj0eWT1Rrm1Kb3ruZfaammXxDthAYbdj_4no3SCvYewuQUEVfcPB23KC499ISw/s640/IMG_9018.png" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="640" data-original-width="480" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiObuBQ8VnMp-ye1HFOUFwCdiPG66elDBkgpggAlCi4Pvx8pDBJJlxCDjr8JRyshSvDqlsl1vENyk-RtbUW1Y0E16-dsykYUDcqvW65m0gnOR1QyFphfEwvset_TOpKdj0eWT1Rrm1Kb3ruZfaammXxDthAYbdj_4no3SCvYewuQUEVfcPB23KC499ISw/s320/IMG_9018.png" width="240" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div></span></div><p></p><p><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: medium;">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.</span></p><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: medium;"><i>For this is my Eden, and I'm not alone,</i></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: medium;"><i>For this is my Cornwall </i></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: medium;"><i>And this is my home.</i></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: medium;"><i><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><iframe allowfullscreen='allowfullscreen' webkitallowfullscreen='webkitallowfullscreen' mozallowfullscreen='mozallowfullscreen' width='320' height='266' src='https://www.blogger.com/video.g?token=AD6v5dwkWKs6D-K_de7-Ojey7O86YQLb5wo-rpiUFv29WwYpOBig53oLyD_MGTarwqurGqFda3IyWHX0bC7LnJHE8A' class='b-hbp-video b-uploaded' frameborder='0'></iframe></div><br /></i></span></div><div><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><p><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: medium;">See you along the way!</span></p><p><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: medium;">the SconeLady</span></p>SconeLadyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02334705708671697585noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6340690384595953425.post-2101220062885245702023-05-30T11:38:00.003-07:002023-05-30T11:41:32.017-07:00(Cornwall Day 23) Fisher Grandchildren<p> </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi_11w0UPJ8eUWWsbXPkQK5OQ58E3-4zsoK8V4SKqgU9cI55IY1tRNCkBZAG9Yx1ntusYcaKw_mobxU8HFDQef6LY_POuHIVkngSPok0JvpMNU8dJ1UVL6ZHWNssbDY6k1vK7_RuujWF8_D6Va-Gfl3jJC50_mcDhl7y35wL5_I9wPwSOKiOT5T3D3eIQ/s640/IMG_8828.png" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="640" data-original-width="480" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi_11w0UPJ8eUWWsbXPkQK5OQ58E3-4zsoK8V4SKqgU9cI55IY1tRNCkBZAG9Yx1ntusYcaKw_mobxU8HFDQef6LY_POuHIVkngSPok0JvpMNU8dJ1UVL6ZHWNssbDY6k1vK7_RuujWF8_D6Va-Gfl3jJC50_mcDhl7y35wL5_I9wPwSOKiOT5T3D3eIQ/s320/IMG_8828.png" width="240" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: medium;">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.</span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: medium;">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.</span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh9cqDW9bGzCn0UM-Tf53Yw3jvunqzxK5zDx9i1pHYRXM16ZU9Yl985dNA_PvjGivUhQmZnRhvPu_JrY8Z-ns0Mn0g53YZ5uAWOxMAUUKQluQG1acU-pVJzc-7m44J-dhNGpbLm77iNProjctnyUdCodtaZUzoYPK4_c7xVr6PxCfJi1c1arFcRLUW-_g/s640/IMG_8830.png" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="640" data-original-width="480" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh9cqDW9bGzCn0UM-Tf53Yw3jvunqzxK5zDx9i1pHYRXM16ZU9Yl985dNA_PvjGivUhQmZnRhvPu_JrY8Z-ns0Mn0g53YZ5uAWOxMAUUKQluQG1acU-pVJzc-7m44J-dhNGpbLm77iNProjctnyUdCodtaZUzoYPK4_c7xVr6PxCfJi1c1arFcRLUW-_g/s320/IMG_8830.png" width="240" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: medium;">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.</span></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg6OSrtdpHRBACeyuT90yAhPFgXoeBQ8Whj9e8_MahVaXC171UcpmN5tFuyA51FRZ85Ln7uTAZLXury6CdPrkc6K-_UHjdG7GztKs8q3u_ulHYksdTi3BUDwhS2_sqQRkkhW0sCe2_9zE65YWtvFama_rI9wI145Bnp8Wj8_RsOA-dv8c98Ueq93Ov9pQ/s640/IMG_8829.png" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="640" data-original-width="480" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg6OSrtdpHRBACeyuT90yAhPFgXoeBQ8Whj9e8_MahVaXC171UcpmN5tFuyA51FRZ85Ln7uTAZLXury6CdPrkc6K-_UHjdG7GztKs8q3u_ulHYksdTi3BUDwhS2_sqQRkkhW0sCe2_9zE65YWtvFama_rI9wI145Bnp8Wj8_RsOA-dv8c98Ueq93Ov9pQ/s320/IMG_8829.png" width="240" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: medium;">"What if they get loose?" asked the boy cautiously.</span><div><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: medium;">"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.</span></div><div><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: medium;">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. </span></div><div><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: medium;">"How is your son doing?" Stuart's son is a younger fisherversion of himself. </span></div><div><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: medium;">"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. </span></div><div><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: medium;">"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!</span></div><div><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: medium;">"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.</span></div><div><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: medium;">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. </span></div><div><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: medium;">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. </span></div><div><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: medium;">See you along the way!</span></div><div><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: medium;">the SconeLady</span></div><div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhpncXyVw1pGLytImLaCgVvrwVJAJIaciQ-NO5Qd6Hmqn7Ya7SsV6Dkp5c412DX3XughypQvn8hWhcYOLQfS9EcLGMir6asfmoOQRwJk9QmWQzGMnK83CFaYu54yLzE3u5xfckJLCHHb-KAZx5up3hTEyMVyJ_7nkSt1omGdCOjxYJ7QQrRJQVNxBqzNQ/s640/IMG_8826.png" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="640" data-original-width="480" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhpncXyVw1pGLytImLaCgVvrwVJAJIaciQ-NO5Qd6Hmqn7Ya7SsV6Dkp5c412DX3XughypQvn8hWhcYOLQfS9EcLGMir6asfmoOQRwJk9QmWQzGMnK83CFaYu54yLzE3u5xfckJLCHHb-KAZx5up3hTEyMVyJ_7nkSt1omGdCOjxYJ7QQrRJQVNxBqzNQ/s320/IMG_8826.png" width="240" /></a></div><br /><p></p></div>SconeLadyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02334705708671697585noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6340690384595953425.post-33580522334255004272023-05-29T09:31:00.005-07:002023-05-30T00:26:21.959-07:00Cornwall Day 21 (Wild Church)<p> </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi2gL-o85t8LgtDBIZn0XkyrD5P5dpBjmgLcCi_PiouyXKk-2lL0vR5Dgn_YcdKOn1wYbqM-rYtz5BBGO-tCKbc1-e8f3oafEJo_cqrrSRYK1NH2nqwcx4v7vrqChS5KtqtP671E-3c3Ed3rQ0J5ThYaDd8sn9Hd2fgWztSTAI9WOPGM_Ng9wjACj8XBA/s640/IMG_8890.png" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="311" data-original-width="640" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi2gL-o85t8LgtDBIZn0XkyrD5P5dpBjmgLcCi_PiouyXKk-2lL0vR5Dgn_YcdKOn1wYbqM-rYtz5BBGO-tCKbc1-e8f3oafEJo_cqrrSRYK1NH2nqwcx4v7vrqChS5KtqtP671E-3c3Ed3rQ0J5ThYaDd8sn9Hd2fgWztSTAI9WOPGM_Ng9wjACj8XBA/w411-h200/IMG_8890.png" width="411" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: medium;">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!</span><p></p><p><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: medium;">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.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: medium;">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.</span></p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiFf5nQOKSsOqXSGPqo2MiFRlKmz5Mvt4OgnlaZXN-8W9oJnwDFGv33LE3omKlQUY4IQWQara11litNRJE6S_ru2H5jFM3VjRTYbjEtEXANAgSpzRou6At8n4KvLCG2DefLxT7BZiH-HrbZSA7GL7NHXm2n4_cYJQ1cYMbjBv6DkmXY4fWu7TfAXHQelQ/s640/IMG_7971%20(1).png" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="480" data-original-width="640" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiFf5nQOKSsOqXSGPqo2MiFRlKmz5Mvt4OgnlaZXN-8W9oJnwDFGv33LE3omKlQUY4IQWQara11litNRJE6S_ru2H5jFM3VjRTYbjEtEXANAgSpzRou6At8n4KvLCG2DefLxT7BZiH-HrbZSA7GL7NHXm2n4_cYJQ1cYMbjBv6DkmXY4fWu7TfAXHQelQ/s320/IMG_7971%20(1).png" width="320" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: medium;">Wild Church takes place in the Vicar's garden. One approaches the Vicar's garden through an opening to the right of the church. </span><p></p><p><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: medium;"><br /></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: medium;"><iframe allowfullscreen='allowfullscreen' webkitallowfullscreen='webkitallowfullscreen' mozallowfullscreen='mozallowfullscreen' width='320' height='266' src='https://www.blogger.com/video.g?token=AD6v5dy8tehHyn0pT49k1OzJpzYb3sviQJ6VA-t_OgXzzdONJnEzoP3_elS_A1FKfSZSjR1AU1Q_6TPKoSZZqP0oyA' class='b-hbp-video b-uploaded' frameborder='0'></iframe></span></div><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: medium;"><br />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. </span><p></p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjOiaSaPyD2veYKNLEiNjni8XMgF_7CfWcO-QygxkgVPPuRkqAKkS-NHP3GrP_Xyoi_ifsFIjpbZfla2f0CwxAj27xkbNEnjOjjqzhHNrF-biCAS5QTB9No-RFbLqBtqvBJuyZO6DYGC_AakMpcfFTlOd_AickeoLldhQSrgnLrSg5zXXk0qPpZLmDGIA/s640/IMG_2209.png" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="640" data-original-width="480" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjOiaSaPyD2veYKNLEiNjni8XMgF_7CfWcO-QygxkgVPPuRkqAKkS-NHP3GrP_Xyoi_ifsFIjpbZfla2f0CwxAj27xkbNEnjOjjqzhHNrF-biCAS5QTB9No-RFbLqBtqvBJuyZO6DYGC_AakMpcfFTlOd_AickeoLldhQSrgnLrSg5zXXk0qPpZLmDGIA/s320/IMG_2209.png" width="240" /></a></div><br /><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: medium;">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.</span><p></p><p><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: medium;">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! </span></p><p><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: medium;">After this, the Vicar spoke to us (the theme was The Holy Spirit's coming, at Pentecost - read <b>Acts 2:1-31</b> -, 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.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: medium;">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, <i>in</i>. </span></p><p><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: medium;">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.</span></p><span style="font-family: trebuchet;"><div style="text-align: center;"><i>the Vicar</i></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; font-size: large; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgoFyjQ_awDDU2PXrIKppHFEY0uW7g9OruDi-KpNUAQ8DlGZulh0ITnHtpJdG3ZGvTeKLPWcgSX4809Hcvibpr0a3_xWwfxWxK2TVNjbq6GPvcTYR9tcP23kl5SO3DSdq0H-E0ts26qsOp_r4L_HJLMvhqj_ehIdfqfssGCDvYpAAym9cNMj6yOXQtmYw/s640/IMG_8866.png" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="640" data-original-width="480" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgoFyjQ_awDDU2PXrIKppHFEY0uW7g9OruDi-KpNUAQ8DlGZulh0ITnHtpJdG3ZGvTeKLPWcgSX4809Hcvibpr0a3_xWwfxWxK2TVNjbq6GPvcTYR9tcP23kl5SO3DSdq0H-E0ts26qsOp_r4L_HJLMvhqj_ehIdfqfssGCDvYpAAym9cNMj6yOXQtmYw/s320/IMG_8866.png" width="240" /></a></div><br /></span><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: trebuchet;"><i>chocolate layer cake</i></span></div><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiXEjFAoBi2sOa8MSaFBmy84EtdV6g6aaYtDglrsioC6YBdUHfToBT3zGIqcr5gpK6puu42sG1gYBJKXkMKW4GoRSfja4B05Mv06roQhBlGYyCutDKZdrSq-DDzpYxzcNN6F6QCeombhxi3jJndb_3mmlsz9EFBClfDVp2cdzO1emTnZrudWIpziiqarQ/s640/IMG_8864%20(1).png" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="640" data-original-width="480" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiXEjFAoBi2sOa8MSaFBmy84EtdV6g6aaYtDglrsioC6YBdUHfToBT3zGIqcr5gpK6puu42sG1gYBJKXkMKW4GoRSfja4B05Mv06roQhBlGYyCutDKZdrSq-DDzpYxzcNN6F6QCeombhxi3jJndb_3mmlsz9EFBClfDVp2cdzO1emTnZrudWIpziiqarQ/s320/IMG_8864%20(1).png" width="240" /></a></div><br /><p><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: medium;">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!</span></p><p><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: medium;">When it was time to go I was able to say, "See you next week!" Smashing. </span></p><p><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: medium;">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.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: medium;">See you along the Way!</span></p><p><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: medium;">the SconeLady</span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><i>the bus!</i></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj--4zC9ZLTl9Za7ftVkXLNucs5Q_8HeT4R3NKKFsk5r5BGFKM5HtMX-BovQ-dq4cVrH4OE9_QoXx7hY-k5nlzoR3PNop0cHW47tEsDJ2JTS9r5GCWVggkVsnZu2bw-ZXN_GuGok0bIr-lntJAIR8z8ZbLTbN26gTlEBBDQ615bZ-1ImtXGEbLzlK5fVA/s640/IMG_8861%20(3).png" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="468" data-original-width="640" height="234" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj--4zC9ZLTl9Za7ftVkXLNucs5Q_8HeT4R3NKKFsk5r5BGFKM5HtMX-BovQ-dq4cVrH4OE9_QoXx7hY-k5nlzoR3PNop0cHW47tEsDJ2JTS9r5GCWVggkVsnZu2bw-ZXN_GuGok0bIr-lntJAIR8z8ZbLTbN26gTlEBBDQ615bZ-1ImtXGEbLzlK5fVA/s320/IMG_8861%20(3).png" width="320" /></a></div><br /><p><br /></p><p><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: medium;"><br /></span></p>SconeLadyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02334705708671697585noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6340690384595953425.post-89751861048091947292023-05-28T11:27:00.003-07:002023-05-30T11:41:04.721-07:00(Cornwall Day 20 ) Singing In A Church of England for the First Time<p> </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi1zejnEyW96aser2QlWsipDQIhES_9BDGtzjYN6q4oRhVsxYLTm6qF_Yoq1pYAuHad4-IBA2BFDN5qHhBWkcNMvFSt36cH8fzsJq3hHq9oHpakQIs5tZe7rNJHX8uusyyMHLSIcuZAZk6RTJz0fQ_7tIV-jwVOJlC75x_zklUMFPGrczFTbbxrWYM6iw/s640/IMG_8718.png" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="640" data-original-width="480" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi1zejnEyW96aser2QlWsipDQIhES_9BDGtzjYN6q4oRhVsxYLTm6qF_Yoq1pYAuHad4-IBA2BFDN5qHhBWkcNMvFSt36cH8fzsJq3hHq9oHpakQIs5tZe7rNJHX8uusyyMHLSIcuZAZk6RTJz0fQ_7tIV-jwVOJlC75x_zklUMFPGrczFTbbxrWYM6iw/s320/IMG_8718.png" width="240" /></a></div><br /><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: medium;">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).</span><p></p><p><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: medium;">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). </span></p><p><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: medium;">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. </span></p><p><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: medium;">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.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: medium;"></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: medium;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj8JFRiIrybYiGvO_U9Ih9lu1p3FXe6_PVFUx4_yihsHTnyjO_513blT8HYZH-a5RI25JKM2d6W-L_5Q5ccNCz8yQCZzB2P9MEwAD6QlTRr7KbXgsm-CCFykcfFAm4L7S3cmuHBcNCQc4wXlsy8Yb0ymTsmVUY1XZ2-98YUubkZZ5uAdWg1pTqesRZJbA/s640/IMG_6795.png" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="640" data-original-width="480" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj8JFRiIrybYiGvO_U9Ih9lu1p3FXe6_PVFUx4_yihsHTnyjO_513blT8HYZH-a5RI25JKM2d6W-L_5Q5ccNCz8yQCZzB2P9MEwAD6QlTRr7KbXgsm-CCFykcfFAm4L7S3cmuHBcNCQc4wXlsy8Yb0ymTsmVUY1XZ2-98YUubkZZ5uAdWg1pTqesRZJbA/s320/IMG_6795.png" width="240" /></a></span></div><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: medium;"><br />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. </span><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: medium;">"She's one of us, now." It was the sweetest thing.</span><div><p></p><p><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: medium;">And, there was dog-Tess at her spot, watching carefully for her cue to stand. She did it without a hitch.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: medium;">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.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: medium;">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.</span></p><div><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: medium;">See you along the Way!</span></div><div><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: medium;">the SconeLady</span></div><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p></div>SconeLadyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02334705708671697585noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6340690384595953425.post-57621828758757204762023-05-27T10:50:00.005-07:002023-05-27T10:53:57.140-07:00(Cornwall Day 19) Something I Have Never Done In Cornwall<p><br /></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><iframe allowfullscreen='allowfullscreen' webkitallowfullscreen='webkitallowfullscreen' mozallowfullscreen='mozallowfullscreen' width='320' height='266' src='https://www.blogger.com/video.g?token=AD6v5dySE4_pP80V1o5K8h5A45_bddrq3p-_TMwif1R3RpIxaOH4pMccpFZsq6I_1Coo3Qa-72TwNOlYWlrXsWDPYg' class='b-hbp-video b-uploaded' frameborder='0'></iframe></div><br /><p></p><p><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: medium;">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.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: medium;">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. </span></p><p><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: medium;">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. </span></p><p><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: medium;">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).</span></p><p><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: medium;">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. </span><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: medium;">I watched it go.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: medium;"></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: medium;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEib_hvja0gxUD4bytrzzgS4sXKUIFkjbjYuV9GzxLbS989G2xTmnoX-ueHTO0tCBtfW3o40cUNgo7DLYcc_ne2-L9aWzppjF7Sze_m_M282_dt1TgxCQpp8P5Md2_DRF4m9REpdygWGpdZ1JE8nyUhEuLSD348XrKu0WB4QfTVClQZBj-6c8IzcRkTDMA/s640/IMG_7205%20(1).png" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="640" data-original-width="480" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEib_hvja0gxUD4bytrzzgS4sXKUIFkjbjYuV9GzxLbS989G2xTmnoX-ueHTO0tCBtfW3o40cUNgo7DLYcc_ne2-L9aWzppjF7Sze_m_M282_dt1TgxCQpp8P5Md2_DRF4m9REpdygWGpdZ1JE8nyUhEuLSD348XrKu0WB4QfTVClQZBj-6c8IzcRkTDMA/s320/IMG_7205%20(1).png" width="240" /></a></span></div><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: medium;"><br />"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. </span><p></p><p><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: medium;">"They'll have us all eating Corn Flakes three times a day, at this rate!" he was saying, when I missed my train.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: medium;">"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?)</span></p><p><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: medium;">"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.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: medium;">"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." </span></p><p><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: medium;">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.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: medium;"> 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. </span></p><p><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: medium;"></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: medium;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjesb1kTEZBbNGCfFwVTIlam6RnDKgL_fkQiwViWSv8wQhxTPQo2K8cczlR9XXzK0Oqw-3A58DbHjL7L2xRQL1y9hUIwzu9EdBJqCbYN6yj1dQjBDdJuz_N5i5TOBRiDt9mDY73kVJNwDVN6VAtx8CFU5KiGz_9FbOO61tthE8xoBhSOeZEYST8BXmtiw/s640/IMG_8809.png" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="422" data-original-width="640" height="211" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjesb1kTEZBbNGCfFwVTIlam6RnDKgL_fkQiwViWSv8wQhxTPQo2K8cczlR9XXzK0Oqw-3A58DbHjL7L2xRQL1y9hUIwzu9EdBJqCbYN6yj1dQjBDdJuz_N5i5TOBRiDt9mDY73kVJNwDVN6VAtx8CFU5KiGz_9FbOO61tthE8xoBhSOeZEYST8BXmtiw/s320/IMG_8809.png" width="320" /></a></span></div><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: medium;"><br />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.</span><p></p><p style="text-align: center;"><br /></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi_WhEE6m9FmRFuXxSb80Oz0tZvFY8-KfDV-SlxB5S5iE2NNioR1k1qThY1gp1_KJDBa3uuxwIeAOct6ypj-lS0inObPsBTADrKkN02nC7hBOnq-vfKF5k-h1T8zpaQXsSUoOeKViZACM8Yce33XChy133D5bsW4iDBybBxfTmP1d6M1s6YbsikrHhlmg/s640/IMG_8707.png" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="480" data-original-width="640" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi_WhEE6m9FmRFuXxSb80Oz0tZvFY8-KfDV-SlxB5S5iE2NNioR1k1qThY1gp1_KJDBa3uuxwIeAOct6ypj-lS0inObPsBTADrKkN02nC7hBOnq-vfKF5k-h1T8zpaQXsSUoOeKViZACM8Yce33XChy133D5bsW4iDBybBxfTmP1d6M1s6YbsikrHhlmg/s320/IMG_8707.png" width="320" /></a></div><br /><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: medium;">See you along the way!</span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: medium;">the SconeLady</span></div><p></p>SconeLadyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02334705708671697585noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6340690384595953425.post-8493652958286082812023-05-26T11:52:00.002-07:002023-05-27T00:13:38.689-07:00(Cornwall Day 18) A Cottage As A Pension<p><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: medium;"></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: medium;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjAOVjkHvbkZq0B0xuBp4AsuH9diFN7PXWy-5x4XlTixEhbSisIwXBRuhXtOEh3FZdNTb88yK-sn0dM94b3ObMzVwvgorEzh6KvInC5C2ao8zRRKeb_jN45ntmf_Ub7K5wWlnETWSy1yi_jCWeOHmLp3uwTrnRDBcd_j9msocZjMu29QnD4sxmfK7houg/s640/IMG_8755.png" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="480" data-original-width="640" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjAOVjkHvbkZq0B0xuBp4AsuH9diFN7PXWy-5x4XlTixEhbSisIwXBRuhXtOEh3FZdNTb88yK-sn0dM94b3ObMzVwvgorEzh6KvInC5C2ao8zRRKeb_jN45ntmf_Ub7K5wWlnETWSy1yi_jCWeOHmLp3uwTrnRDBcd_j9msocZjMu29QnD4sxmfK7houg/s320/IMG_8755.png" width="320" /></a></span></div> <p></p><div><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: medium;">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.</span></div><div><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: medium;">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. </span></div><div><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: large;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: medium;">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).</span></div><div><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: medium;">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.</span></div><div><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: medium;">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.</span></div><div><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: medium;">"And where are you from?" asked the man.</span></div><div><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: medium;">We explained, and he (approximately) said, </span><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: medium;">"Ah, California...that must be nice."</span></div><div><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: medium;">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."</span></div><div><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjmYLySi_7roruiEIHhVFe6k9zOSbGq47u03yU_FaeVDucHATQcVNbsqEKIzPQwrQAkAzZWs9EpADR0zqa1S8r38Kv6npuN__z3VdUz7gVeKxsKOHrMJewfd2fEZZ2W1BL4C9H2kF1djqpWpJ220FME-y8s8JdpdTNuE5hqsDAq0HpFriBkaO0g5T2LYQ/s640/IMG_8746.png" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="640" data-original-width="480" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjmYLySi_7roruiEIHhVFe6k9zOSbGq47u03yU_FaeVDucHATQcVNbsqEKIzPQwrQAkAzZWs9EpADR0zqa1S8r38Kv6npuN__z3VdUz7gVeKxsKOHrMJewfd2fEZZ2W1BL4C9H2kF1djqpWpJ220FME-y8s8JdpdTNuE5hqsDAq0HpFriBkaO0g5T2LYQ/s320/IMG_8746.png" width="240" /></a></div><br /><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: medium;">We learned that he lives in Cheshire, bordering on Lancashire, Staffordshire, Yorkshire, and ... I've forgotten the last one.</span></div><div><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: medium;">"But I own a cottage here, so being retired I can come down anytime I want!"</span></div><div><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: medium;">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! </span></div><div><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: medium;">"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!"</span></div><div><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: medium;">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 <i>this</i>.</span></div><div><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: medium;">Our coffees were empty now and the clock ticked away, nudging us up from the cozy bench and our new friend.</span></div><div><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: medium;">"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!"</span></div><div><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: medium;">More than one pair of feet dragged just a bit, along the cobbles.</span></div><div><br /></div><div><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: medium;">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.</span></div><div><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: medium;">"Have a good ride!" we yelled.</span></div><div><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: medium;">"Enjoy your crab sandwich!"</span></div><div><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: medium;">"See you next time!" she called. </span><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: medium;">There was a gradual move, and the end could no longer be delayed. </span></div><div><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: medium;">English trains are never late when you want them to be.</span></div><div><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgqvvC2QN6HY6gis8re5v_9Zo5k1MCbs8JlWQp-n7v2J0vjWWIDekUhEtFhQF6VZ8F8iiwykXWb1QbcQ9LaNAMWTYEY1LLzF7altpQrW3m92Okqi3b38Zzfb2ox9MfNEgssipxjQzfmSqhD4zrpVMDBGi5wn7H3DV3QPVMSPvi7nS1OEkufY6u6qJJACw/s640/ef54a928-854d-4360-9a95-715baa8ea797.png" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="640" data-original-width="480" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgqvvC2QN6HY6gis8re5v_9Zo5k1MCbs8JlWQp-n7v2J0vjWWIDekUhEtFhQF6VZ8F8iiwykXWb1QbcQ9LaNAMWTYEY1LLzF7altpQrW3m92Okqi3b38Zzfb2ox9MfNEgssipxjQzfmSqhD4zrpVMDBGi5wn7H3DV3QPVMSPvi7nS1OEkufY6u6qJJACw/s320/ef54a928-854d-4360-9a95-715baa8ea797.png" width="240" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjdhoWUY7U9VKUy75YQhBIKjJ15UoJSv3u3qyvM6A_2JhC4Dk6LK7xWtSr2H1CSpb7iNgLghh_EOIPlwiFkFgfSwLWzVdN5EtkPSJ7aSfPbnGs6aOCickL94L4M7vf0Fp5whBOrxJ2fOlazd20tKxglkflvcDmAngLgrL6dxdMMdmw6dTG-qR79mRsjMA/s640/IMG_8553.png" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="640" data-original-width="480" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjdhoWUY7U9VKUy75YQhBIKjJ15UoJSv3u3qyvM6A_2JhC4Dk6LK7xWtSr2H1CSpb7iNgLghh_EOIPlwiFkFgfSwLWzVdN5EtkPSJ7aSfPbnGs6aOCickL94L4M7vf0Fp5whBOrxJ2fOlazd20tKxglkflvcDmAngLgrL6dxdMMdmw6dTG-qR79mRsjMA/s320/IMG_8553.png" width="240" /></a></div><br /><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: medium;">See you along the way!</span></div><div><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: medium;">the SconeLady</span></div><div><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div>SconeLadyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02334705708671697585noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6340690384595953425.post-60460443019403163982023-05-25T10:08:00.000-07:002023-05-25T10:08:11.871-07:00Cornwall Day 17 (Clacking Claws 2023)<p> <span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: medium;"></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: medium;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjeIeS3KYtnX3YbWeUP7-jLvDmS8CMXgg9Zn0_R-Du0P2xcnjpgw67DlMaVbTrCBtQd3W-S0ZKnkPuw7pf3-nNvWUnp1KDaPH7bvyxAswo-Fav_X50ovgfu46pu9sqQ0mZZl4ckJQWuIq4AHSUSlp5SjhDrqY2-LN3UScMqcO7X3OJGZpDz7cnG-MSYPQ/s640/IMG_8673%20(1).png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="640" data-original-width="432" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjeIeS3KYtnX3YbWeUP7-jLvDmS8CMXgg9Zn0_R-Du0P2xcnjpgw67DlMaVbTrCBtQd3W-S0ZKnkPuw7pf3-nNvWUnp1KDaPH7bvyxAswo-Fav_X50ovgfu46pu9sqQ0mZZl4ckJQWuIq4AHSUSlp5SjhDrqY2-LN3UScMqcO7X3OJGZpDz7cnG-MSYPQ/s320/IMG_8673%20(1).png" width="216" /></a></span></div><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: medium;"><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /><div style="text-align: left;">In compassionate solidarity with the lobster, our Em was hidden in her room two stories up. </div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">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. </div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi9lVvoGmW4NmWU_W9EduEDoYv8ApXuWB90ncGD34NlSNc2-1ctPq3uGubHgPkyi3gFV_JLPtuMFyd9y-j2LWLEDPhr6tZR3oFsUnVjB9JiZ5DUgIHyneKfjnw0Z1MbS7xkP9gww0Rk9YpuVYjUEu66onnAIVksRIbKo9y7KiQd94FoUuuCmhN6Xp9ZAQ/s640/IMG_8694.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="640" data-original-width="480" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi9lVvoGmW4NmWU_W9EduEDoYv8ApXuWB90ncGD34NlSNc2-1ctPq3uGubHgPkyi3gFV_JLPtuMFyd9y-j2LWLEDPhr6tZR3oFsUnVjB9JiZ5DUgIHyneKfjnw0Z1MbS7xkP9gww0Rk9YpuVYjUEu66onnAIVksRIbKo9y7KiQd94FoUuuCmhN6Xp9ZAQ/s320/IMG_8694.png" width="240" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgMAG93HWGijpGxHxQ8JZ3y1SMaA7rJvFI3a-n8qTaC41f3cMPmIUENVYf6u0wcHkXrVdqeeJlu6DQtAfEj10ix73Ar7hVCsUgBbhlAa_LY8WwA8wmMTMKZ-Dhf3Yov8j5VhEiMbFVtKwOEiu2fiIcIAJIALUuPgjfi-9phbY6qdEthpWX9SxcJ2rfNdg/s640/IMG_8697.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="640" data-original-width="480" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgMAG93HWGijpGxHxQ8JZ3y1SMaA7rJvFI3a-n8qTaC41f3cMPmIUENVYf6u0wcHkXrVdqeeJlu6DQtAfEj10ix73Ar7hVCsUgBbhlAa_LY8WwA8wmMTMKZ-Dhf3Yov8j5VhEiMbFVtKwOEiu2fiIcIAJIALUuPgjfi-9phbY6qdEthpWX9SxcJ2rfNdg/s320/IMG_8697.png" width="240" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><br /><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">"The lobster will feel nothing whatsoever as the knife goes into its head. Just be sure it is put into the right spot."</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">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.</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">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.</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">"Is it dead yet?" I asked.</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">"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.</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">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.</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">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.</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">"Hello, are y'alright?" he called.</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">"Oh yes, fine!"</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">"Having a nice walk?"</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">"Yes - but most of all, Stuart, the lobster was fantastic. Thank you so much!" He smiled.</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">The truck began to pull away, but he put his head out for a last word.</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">"Come see us next year, now, don't forget!" And he was gone.</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">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!</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">Here's to making it happen.</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">See you along the way!</div><div style="text-align: left;">the SconeLady</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEifKP7omQ0GejiUVbKeXLdo81AaHrS0fxYnBjXfY3sRLK1JIsm9w3dMB_bzPwaI4B2CwuIOhGs0a86PpQcL0YTRyZcHMNHSvCrhMzq9_dXt73eBbFI8dBDbXqQTmnteNu6o-ukBlJY8jJhDijfYpdK4rDWQda0X3lejH6OECqucAA5XKqhLga60rYLy7g/s640/IMG_3003.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="640" data-original-width="480" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEifKP7omQ0GejiUVbKeXLdo81AaHrS0fxYnBjXfY3sRLK1JIsm9w3dMB_bzPwaI4B2CwuIOhGs0a86PpQcL0YTRyZcHMNHSvCrhMzq9_dXt73eBbFI8dBDbXqQTmnteNu6o-ukBlJY8jJhDijfYpdK4rDWQda0X3lejH6OECqucAA5XKqhLga60rYLy7g/s320/IMG_3003.png" width="240" /></a></div><br /><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><iframe allowfullscreen='allowfullscreen' webkitallowfullscreen='webkitallowfullscreen' mozallowfullscreen='mozallowfullscreen' width='320' height='266' src='https://www.blogger.com/video.g?token=AD6v5dyaRpi_9ZFJM0Sihh-PAGkMxLI5QZucE6wgHX32Xm-hYaBxOuIo89AT5iuhHAmv23W9p9fjEJMCKgVx0ZAuhw' class='b-hbp-video b-uploaded' frameborder='0'></iframe></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><br /></span><p></p>SconeLadyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02334705708671697585noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6340690384595953425.post-76538413394959001122023-05-23T15:16:00.007-07:002023-05-24T11:02:23.601-07:00(Cornwall Day 16) Godrevey Lighthouse<p></p><div style="text-align: center;"> <span style="font-size: x-small;"><i>Godrevey Light House, today</i></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiuhfDqAewGhale-_viGl8enedhoRQ4UsncfMaQEJyWHuvwMe2LaFggxKBPVXcl2ym_PcFQoPPdGaMkjQKSwNKBPknXzrqMAPaO1DdMjpQ1cK9h-OHxK6a0Mj6d8Eamx2WQDihPuwP3B4pEX-0VLw_l7o6xbfrCw0TGsJ5zb3yuEsSYF_G_vwdBKStfgw/s640/IMG_8647.png" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="474" data-original-width="640" height="237" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiuhfDqAewGhale-_viGl8enedhoRQ4UsncfMaQEJyWHuvwMe2LaFggxKBPVXcl2ym_PcFQoPPdGaMkjQKSwNKBPknXzrqMAPaO1DdMjpQ1cK9h-OHxK6a0Mj6d8Eamx2WQDihPuwP3B4pEX-0VLw_l7o6xbfrCw0TGsJ5zb3yuEsSYF_G_vwdBKStfgw/s320/IMG_8647.png" width="320" /></a></div><br /><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><p></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">There are so many fun and interesting things we have been doing, that I don't really know what to tell you <i>first</i>. 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. </span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">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 <i>out</i> 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).</span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">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 o</span><span style="font-size: medium;">pen 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 </span>(well, maybe not telephone poles..)<span style="font-size: medium;">. And you are just inches from it all.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">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.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">Stepping from the bus, we turned and were met by the lovely St Gothians Church:</span></p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi2Zb13_5Ik0F0txNQyqtrWrUkLbT8hRPEc1uSrvPsjSsFK-obVjGl0uh397Rvy_SLIVlhS24-Pw0ORcXCbc-r1yZtgIrU4VtwXH_xVbrfLUnBfdO7OgJgrxGN9I16M9OYzbZcixYbmhJvHMzG83e9Pqh2aYvdoVNNPsP3-OYyidsFxMT6_nJ2EBcY5mQ/s640/IMG_8611.png" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="640" data-original-width="575" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi2Zb13_5Ik0F0txNQyqtrWrUkLbT8hRPEc1uSrvPsjSsFK-obVjGl0uh397Rvy_SLIVlhS24-Pw0ORcXCbc-r1yZtgIrU4VtwXH_xVbrfLUnBfdO7OgJgrxGN9I16M9OYzbZcixYbmhJvHMzG83e9Pqh2aYvdoVNNPsP3-OYyidsFxMT6_nJ2EBcY5mQ/s320/IMG_8611.png" width="288" /></a></div><br /><span style="font-size: medium;">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".</span><p></p><p style="text-align: center;"><i>Pew kneelers</i></p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhs6cvLOGe0xoOxRUS8Vx9k1u06L4cixU5SSxNNB_UNR6Znl6y1yiTJEhU5rP5VdJbgeSdOwK_U7DkPAAzOO-n_CkEfHM8SjS5QijMTvs50P8bCWhFtvy6ZqjmW1N5GjULpQp6cr1vzbrgbbtOo-VYMnOP2urskRvjfXVRDTlfVxh_o-tWtcQMwFIPQkA/s640/IMG_8613.png" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="640" data-original-width="480" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhs6cvLOGe0xoOxRUS8Vx9k1u06L4cixU5SSxNNB_UNR6Znl6y1yiTJEhU5rP5VdJbgeSdOwK_U7DkPAAzOO-n_CkEfHM8SjS5QijMTvs50P8bCWhFtvy6ZqjmW1N5GjULpQp6cr1vzbrgbbtOo-VYMnOP2urskRvjfXVRDTlfVxh_o-tWtcQMwFIPQkA/s320/IMG_8613.png" width="240" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: medium;">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.</span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: medium;">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. </span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: medium;">"What is that bird there, Rosie?" asked Em.</span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: medium;">"Which bird?"</span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><i>"That </i>one.."</span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: medium;">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. </span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: medium;">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...</span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: medium;">"Canadian Geese!" I said. "Those birds are Canadian Geese!" </span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: medium;">Smiles all around. Maybe I still have a bird gene in there, somewhere.</span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: medium;">See you along the way!</span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: medium;">the SconeLady</span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjwk8zq-5tiVPAiVgWS92NrQG1Xcqa70AD_3_H1IDRAa4rf_UeBMayAU1CyB-qzQ2CtecUoIxfildxTaQFroc4fXskGDegAITlOnw_yy55YUnipCdD6rVQ8DbTOnd_XI9HgM4duy3zWgHeTZb22OjRrspsUDX8s_CHMnC8dWgcRT2gcyytYGg4W6dUfIQ/s640/IMG_8623.png" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="640" data-original-width="480" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjwk8zq-5tiVPAiVgWS92NrQG1Xcqa70AD_3_H1IDRAa4rf_UeBMayAU1CyB-qzQ2CtecUoIxfildxTaQFroc4fXskGDegAITlOnw_yy55YUnipCdD6rVQ8DbTOnd_XI9HgM4duy3zWgHeTZb22OjRrspsUDX8s_CHMnC8dWgcRT2gcyytYGg4W6dUfIQ/s320/IMG_8623.png" width="240" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhu4x1aow0fyKM2booWHc3eVX11-s3tkvIPv4R1TNc_oqY-EZ9IldkihB48v25x5vCqnqKhw5KMG-FCx-yuxSlZWVlY_SsF30idSESiVIFHMX0cb-LXUWg4DutQJFJ_SIwq33dkZ_uGkRkgVyJxtUrh_Z_YLsBEqGzzbgpDkAKwGRQr6IYnUcM4T7Svjg/s640/IMG_8626.png" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="640" data-original-width="480" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhu4x1aow0fyKM2booWHc3eVX11-s3tkvIPv4R1TNc_oqY-EZ9IldkihB48v25x5vCqnqKhw5KMG-FCx-yuxSlZWVlY_SsF30idSESiVIFHMX0cb-LXUWg4DutQJFJ_SIwq33dkZ_uGkRkgVyJxtUrh_Z_YLsBEqGzzbgpDkAKwGRQr6IYnUcM4T7Svjg/s320/IMG_8626.png" width="240" /></a></div><div style="text-align: center;"><i>Cornish pasties along the way</i></div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span><p></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></p><p><br /></p>SconeLadyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02334705708671697585noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6340690384595953425.post-51636631759961861792023-05-21T15:06:00.004-07:002023-05-21T15:06:46.410-07:00(Cornwall Day 15) Motor Bikers on a Sunny Sunday<p><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: medium;">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. </span></p><p><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: medium;">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.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: medium;"></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: medium;"><iframe allowfullscreen='allowfullscreen' webkitallowfullscreen='webkitallowfullscreen' mozallowfullscreen='mozallowfullscreen' width='320' height='266' src='https://www.blogger.com/video.g?token=AD6v5dyXUOX0dzeTWdY_BZhQAUqon631QbY1FLXn46L5_L7EH4LCwQoqFGk409kBYsp2KHzZad8kLosxeNfXa2Blgg' class='b-hbp-video b-uploaded' frameborder='0'></iframe></span></div><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: medium;"><br />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. </span><p></p><p><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: medium;">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.</span></p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><iframe allowfullscreen='allowfullscreen' webkitallowfullscreen='webkitallowfullscreen' mozallowfullscreen='mozallowfullscreen' width='320' height='266' src='https://www.blogger.com/video.g?token=AD6v5dyQ3U_wZTkUuIlSlo3Cvk647ioKi9HoLQVgXHm9fHyepV2v9A8x8UHvHsT54_G2H5hPT2i2dX5BNuDlEUilmw' class='b-hbp-video b-uploaded' frameborder='0'></iframe></div><br /><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: medium;"><br /></span><p></p><p><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: medium;">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. </span></p><p><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: medium;">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.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: medium;">When it looked like the parade was over, we turned and struck up a conversation with the beautiful couple nearby.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: medium;">"Do you know why they are here?" asked the man.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: medium;">"No," we said. "We have no idea."</span></p><p><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: medium;">"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.."</span></p><p><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: medium;">We ran out of things to say, then, and they wandered off. </span></p><p><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: medium;">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.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: medium;">Pretty soon he produced a flashing red contraption that looked like a police light. </span></p><p><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: medium;">"What is that?" I asked plaintively.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: medium;">"You'll see," he answered, then pulling up behind a car, he turned it on. The car stopped.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: medium;">What!? <i>Was he pretending to be a policeman? </i>Who on earth was in the car he had stopped? Great heavens!</span></p><p><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: medium;">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.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: medium;">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: </span></p><p><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: medium;"><i>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.</i></span></p><p><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: medium;"><br /></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: medium;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgj_1eBYr4rX4NmknKhm-mFavK4jzavfXidHRxJacmtq-10Y1lQDv4rAZJZn7lgE600YxwRejzh_6_SkgSmtybuhO4o_RiJSXGHE6nJQRR-SDeTNxRN-Q0dvovRfrOmoLjrRbCOZPrMSjW5DlHLH-ueUsY_QxG8d3yhZyQT1bpMuF2fBrDA162vei6AwA/s640/IMG_8505.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="358" data-original-width="640" height="179" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgj_1eBYr4rX4NmknKhm-mFavK4jzavfXidHRxJacmtq-10Y1lQDv4rAZJZn7lgE600YxwRejzh_6_SkgSmtybuhO4o_RiJSXGHE6nJQRR-SDeTNxRN-Q0dvovRfrOmoLjrRbCOZPrMSjW5DlHLH-ueUsY_QxG8d3yhZyQT1bpMuF2fBrDA162vei6AwA/s320/IMG_8505.png" width="320" /></a></span></div><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: medium;"><br /></span><p></p><p><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: medium;"><br /></span></p><p><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: medium;">See you along the way!</span></p><p><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: medium;">the SconeLady</span></p><p><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: medium;"><br /></span></p><p><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: medium;"><br /></span></p><p><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: medium;"><br /></span></p><p><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: medium;"><br /></span></p><p><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: medium;"><br /></span></p>SconeLadyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02334705708671697585noreply@blogger.com0