If I hadn't stopped to admire and listen to the church bells along the way, I would have caught the train. Sometimes missing one thing is better than catching the other.
I lingered, thinking about tomorrow. Tomorrow would be a Sunday, and I would be doing something I had never done in Cornwall. Singing in the St. Ia choir! When you stay for the post-church cup of tea, you meet all sorts of fine people and give them a chance to figure you out a little.
The organists's wife heard from dog-Tess's mistress that the American lady used to sing in a church choir long ago. The organist - who is no ordinary organist, but one with a reputation elsewhere who leaves the congregation wanting more every week - said, "Splendid!" when HE heard. All of this made the SconeLady feel welcome and excited about donning a robe, making the Processional, and following the great Cross as it traverses the nave to its rightful place.
By now I have memorized all their choral responses, but might not know the hymns. Hymns in this country are often different to the ones in America. Sometimes the words of a hymn here are different to ours even though it has the tune we are used to. Then sometimes the tune will be different but the words are the same. Once in a great while you will find a hymn that matches both the lyrics and the tune, AND the title. And that is an especially red letter day, because one needn't look at the book at all, but can stand blaring it out with everybody else (Blaring it out runs in our family).
Pausing in the churchyard en route to the train, I suddenly remembered the time. 11:10! Train time is 11:12! Picking up the pace, I made my way down the lane in front of Rosamunde's house with only the tiniest glance (and it was looking gorgeous, by the way, in all that sunshine). And there the train was, already approaching, stopping, screeching, and then moving off. I watched it go.
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"I'm afraid you've missed it, Madam," said a knowledgable man on the bench. He had been jawing with a group of other knowledgable people, discussing the dreadful mess they felt the government was making of everybody's finances.
"They'll have us all eating Corn Flakes three times a day, at this rate!" he was saying, when I missed my train.
"But - Corn Flakes?" I asked, quaking a little because I am not knowledgeable in their politics (I did see Corn Flakes on their grocery shelf, though. Does that count?)
"Oh, I only meant that prices have gone up so high that Corn Flakes are probably the only thing we'll have left when the dust settles." There was a general consensus on this amongst the group.
"In the meantime," he said, brightening, "the best option for you today, is a bus. Go to the top of this hill, turn left, and cross the road. There is a bus stop that leaves every 15 minutes."
I thanked him, climbed the hill and squeezed into a double-decker crowded with families. As the bus descended the main road into St Ives, the sidewalks were burgeoning with tourists. So THIS is half term holiday in England! There were children, dogs, pails, shovels, wind breaks, blankets, wet suits, swim suits, picnic baskets, water bottles, sun screens, and harassed parents/grandparents, all along the route. When the bus stopped, my fellow passengers and their stuff joined the throngs.
I followed the general stampede toward the sand, and saw an interesting change coming over the children. Whereas they had squirmed, cried, and been annoying in the bus, the closer they got to the beach, the happier they became.
They quit their quarreling and made a beeline straight for the water. I couldn't tell who was happiest - the kids or their parents, and it was probably a tie. But if somebody had asked me, I would have to say that absolutely none of them was worrying, at that moment, whether Corn Flakes would end up their final meal.
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