What An American Does With The Rain

It was a day of rain; undeniable, steady on, imperious. We stayed wisely out of it, having our coffee, and breakfast, and curling cozily up with our various pursuits. And then all of a sudden, the SconeLady jumped up.

"The Brits," she declared, shrugging into her meager rain gear, "would never do this. The Brits wouldn't worry about rain. They would grab up their rain coats, Wellingtons, umbrellas, and simply fly the coop!" She indicated the window. "Just look at them all out there right now, trudging through puddles. Weather doesn't bother them, so why should it bother the Americans?" 

She went to the door, and turned. "Want to come?"

He politely declined.

And with that, she was off.

For some reason, I went the back streets again, always turning upwards to where the highest street might be found, stopping for breath a bit, then heading forth. I hadn't quite found it yesterday, that highest street, and was determined to find it today. As the rains fell, the streets began to reveal fewer houses and flats, and more green space. Fewer people, fewer dogs. Until there it was, the countryside. It wasn't the Moors, as I had expected, but was soft, green, and civilized. I was enchanted.

One soft, green road led to another and I began to love this out-of-the-way place. Probably no American had ever seen it. There was a field, and a horse (a little pony, actually, having its sweet breakfast and not noticing the curious lady), while the rains took a momentary break. It was a perfect resting spot.

But then, further up! until I was on a tiny paved road with hedgerows bordering each side, sloping upward and beyond, and very remote. So remote that I thought, perhaps I should be doing this with someone; perhaps it would be wise to not be so far from the civilized world (my siblings are all saying, yes, sweet idiot!). Yes, perhaps. Around I turned. 

Coming down is always so much more satisfying than going up. You can see for ages, and make decisions about where you want to be. I skirted around to the right, and diverted toward Carbis Bay, which is lovely but it has messed itself up a bit with hotel construction and crews and noise. As I was passing the last of the noise, I heard a call. It was a female voice. I turned.

She stood struggling up the path behind me, with her bicycle. A bicycle! No one would bring their bicycle up this path, no way. It was narrow, and steep, and had steps!

"Hello," I said back. "A bicycle?!"

She nodded sheepishly. "Might you be able to help me?"

"I think so," I began. "We can give it a try, at least."

We went up the 3 rather muddy steps that were left of this part of the path. She thanked me, and I walked on. But in a while, I came to the LARGE number of steps that were built to go over the railroad. There were at least 30 of them! She would need some serious help. I stopped, and waited for her to come around the bend. She did. And saw the steps.

"Uh-oh..."

We looked up to the top of the steps and, wordlessly, started. But then I heard her say, "What is that? It's - it can't be... it's a MAN!"  We were thrilled.

He came down the steps toward us, and then noticed us. Rain-drenched, and with our bicycle. He looked as if he wished he hadn't.

"Oh, sir, do you think you could possibly help us take this thing to the top?"

The man was not eager. The man was not happy. He said something about having to go somewhere. But then he finally won his own struggle, and said, "Well, Ok. I'll take the front."

It was hard, and took several stops to reconfigure the thing. But we made it.

"Thank you!" she said to his departing back. He did not reply.

It was raining harder, and time for a pot of tea - and so she hopped onto her cycle, said "Thank you!" and left. I walked on, thinking of the story where one man is asked to do something, and says he won't do it. But he does it in the end. And the other man who is asked to do something, says he will do it. But he doesn't. I suppose our man today was the one who was saying "no", but found it the better part to be the "yes" man.

Not a bad lesson to learn.



See you along the way!
the SconeLady