The Humble Type

 

St Michael's Mount

We are in Oxford now, and it is hot. The temp started to rise yesterday somewhere around Reading, just as the train's air conditioning went south. The idea of a First Class ticket had been ignored when mentioned, but we are now its biggest devotees. That whole section of the train was wonderfully cool. We noticed this while walking to the first class toilet that looks like a throne. You have to be careful or it might open while you are resting there. 

As the atmosphere in our train car began to ripen, my two traveling companions kept their cool. They were reliable, dependable, and funny when things tried to get the better of us. Together they discussed and dreamed of the future, even though this world is just a tad bit nutty right now. 

Kindness is a gift, and it is being given to me every day by these two. Yesterday we climbed high above the waters off Marazion to the great Mount, at last reaching the Castle. We visited the statue of St Michael himself as he offered Lucifer the hand of Mercy. 

One young visitor asked, "Did Lucifer accept?"

"Ah... no," replied the Docent. "He didn't." And although we knew this, it reminded us again of the great tragedy that has wreaked havoc upon us ever since. And yet... are we not ourselves offered the hand of Mercy, every moment of every day? So when someone asks if we accept the offer, I hope and trust that the answer has been a firm 'yes!'

We learned from another Docent that the Mount is jointly owned by The National Trust and the St Aubyn family. The family continue to live on the island (there is a basement!), and manage the visitor experience. The National Trust is responsible for the conservation and upkeep of the property, and so it's a win-win. There was never enough money to keep that magnificent place from crumbling, until in came the National Trust - everyone sharing and receiving something of what they had wanted. (although some might say living in a basement isn't all it's cracked up to be).

At the bottom of the Mount, we were getting ready to leave before the tide came in. A workman saw us and said, "Be sure and look inside the milk house! A lot of cows used to live here, grazing and chewing their cud." Then he added, "The milk house has wonderful acoustics, too. Have a listen to those."

We went in.

"How do we have a listen to the acoustics?" I asked. Then the sound of a deep baritone voice echoed around us in the most beautiful tones. Surprised, I looked around and saw that it was the voice of Hudson, singing and echoing. It sounded like a group of Benedictine Monks! Pretty soon, people began to filter in to the milk house (they had heard Hudson from clear up in the church!), looking for the wonderful voice. They searched and searched, but because Hudson is the humble type, they never discovered the source! 

See you along the Way!

the SconeLady

A Last Hurrah

St Michaels Mount

 Have you ever been to a British organ concert inside a gorgeous 1100AD church that has no straight lines left in it because it is so old? What a rare treat for the SconeLady and so many others. We attended the first one of the summer season at St Ia, and if you can go to any of the other ones, you should! In the US, sometimes a person can get to feeing that there are no more organs or organists left on the planet. But it's not true! They abound in England, and in particular to me, in Cornwall. 

This first concert was performed by Jeffrey Williams, the Musical Director at St Ia. And he really pulled out all the stops! Or at least most of them, and all to a purpose. His footwork was splendid too, giving his songs the richness they deserved. When we played organ at our church in the 1960's, and did footwork, we wore our socks; but this organist had on professional looking shoes that had special soles to help him get from one foot note to another, without slippage. It was grand!

 The organist's wife was in on it too, standing peacefully by and turning the pages whenever he needed her to. One observer said (and I agreed with him) that the church had certainly gotten two for the price of one. We sat on straight-up wooden pews, each pew with its own hand-made crocheted kneeler and shelf (very handy). Someone announced that we should put all our phones into Airplane Mode, and being the obedient creatures we are, we complied. This did not appear to have helped, though, because some phones made phone noises anyway (not mine).

As a sort of last Hurrah in leaving darling St Ives, we trooped across the street to MooMaid, ordered, and walked outside onto the street. 

One of us said, "But what about the seagulls?" and the other said, "Hmmm?" and kept walking. 

"No, really," the first one asked. 

Wham! from behind my right shoulder a seagull rested its claws, opened its beak, and snatched away the lovely Belgian Chocolate cone I had only had a few bites of. I screamed.

A man sitting at an outdoor table laughed much louder than I thought he should. It's awful being embarrassed in front of about a gazillion strangers who hear you screaming and then laugh at you. 

All of a sudden I had a foul taste in my mouth. 

Whaat? Did something disgusting get in there? Yes! In typical disgusted fashion I used my fingers to get whatever it was OUT. Which didn't work.  

And do you want to know what happened next? 

A SEAGULL (perhaps the same one) hovered just above my left eyebrow, and pooped on my head and eye. It was probably my ice cream cone he had digested and then come back for the Deposit! 

Don't you think it's about time something was done about these flying poop machines? I do.

See you along the way!

the SconeLady

Confirming The Obvious

 

Apparently I slept, but of course my husband did not. With multiple delays (and at least one notification that said his flight was delayed overnight!) someone needed to be be in their right mind, and as usual, it was you-know-who. 

At some point a photo appeared of Hudson on a plane, smiling. Of course! Even inside a delayed airplane with no indication of when or how the flight would go, he looked fine and in control. Troubleshooting in a center seat while others on their phones were doing the same. 

Then Airplane Mode descended, and the silence was long. It included walking in the drizzle and the occasional message that, since the plane had been late, so would be the train. I knew this feeling. The great Domino effect, one slip leading to the next. But somewhere on Fore Street my phone buzzed and Hudson's name showed up on my watch face! I felt instantly that Customs, Declarations, Heathrow Express and the Great Western Railway had all been achieved - without me! And Airplane Mode would be mercifully OFF for the next two weeks. 

I shouted his name, surrounded by noisy gas line men and drills. Hudson heard the half-yell and said,"Grandma! Don't worry, it's OK. I'm alive!"

Alive. Now how did he know to say that? It was lovely, obvious, and comfortingly important; just what a grandmother needed to hear. The perfect confirmation.

See you along the way!

the SconeLady

Hawaiian Air Points

 

Note the Hawaiian Leis packed with dollars 

Someone nice is coming over here! Of course, there is much more to him than just niceness, but the word fits him well. The perpetual smile, the work ethic at 17, the all around goodness and pride in cap and gown. We have a long history of successes with this one, and it's all been FUN TO WATCH! 

This is the boy (man any day now) who made us grandparents. When he was born in Hawaii, the SconeLady began a habit of criss-crossing the Pacific, to-ing and fro-ing more times than gramps could count. But the dollars flew and the Hawaiian Air points grew, until the baby became a toddler and came back home. Now he will come to us on a British plane, so off I go on my little errands for things he might like. What will he like? Shall we make him a British dinner 'in', or maybe a visit to the Thai food place? 

I once made a list of '17 things to do in St Ives' which has been helpful to other visitors. But with planes, trains, cabs, dragging bags, and jet lag, we don't want to wear the poor thing out. I think instead we will simply turn up at the train station, find that boy (man any day now) and hug him. The rest will take care of itself.

My errands today took me around the local shops and streets. First I went to the little building where the ACE Cab company sits and rules the destinations of many. For some reason, every time I go in there, or even just phone them and they can't see me, I get nervous. Even something as simple as "can you pick us at 6:30pm and take us to such-and-such a place?" either I can't understand them, or they can't understand me. Maybe it has to do with last year when my plane was 4 hours late, then my train was 3 hours late, and then the Cab was forever late because the man didn't believe me when I said I had booked a ride with them. Let's just leave it at that. No one came. 

After the Cab company man (who turned out to be nice), I stepped down High Street and met the massive noises of enormous digging machines that are trying to dig down to the gas pipe in front of the Guildhall. What a racket! They are doing this all over the town. Not only are the men digging and peering down into the hole to discover where the gas pipes are, but they aim to fix them and then put them back together to (hopefully) be ready for summer hols. Well. I hate to have to break it the town, but those guys won't be finishing with all that racket anytime soon. I'd sit down if I were you.

Turning away from High Street, I came upon just the thing our graduate will love. A Moomaid Ice Cream sign! I had momentarily forgotten the fact that our cottage is just across the street from them, and INSTANTLY ACCESSIBLE. So that just about takes care of what he will like, and what he will want to do.

I think the digging men have temporarily packed up, so I walk home in peace. The fresh news here is that our graduate is now at the airport being told multiple times that his flight is being delayed. Whaat? A repeat? And it's bedtime, which means I won't hear the outcome for hours!

Coming to the conclusion that there is absolutely nothing I can do about any of these things, we settle in and wait. For the time being, Airplane Mode rules.

But it feels like miles to go before I sleep.

See you along the way!

the SconeLady

To Be A Pilgrim

 

I was surprised a few days ago when I suddenly had a burst of energy that made me want to join the folks at Marvel Comics. I felt I could, if I wanted, to run, or fly, or stretch myself into odd and effective shapes, helping the human race to survive. Someone like Scarlett Johansson! She clearly does not need my help, but I felt she might like it if she only knew.

I'm thankful for this small energetic blessing because my husband and I did something difficult today; something I needed all that energy for. We walked St Michael's Way. Can you believe it? 11 miles. Such a walk had been in our minds and hearts for years, probably 7 years, and yesterday we decided now was the time. We ran our eyes over the Apple Maps info as best we could (not always perfect), went to the Library, and bought their little booklet. It wasn't perfect either. But we headed out anyway, each carrying a Cornish pasty and a couple of chocolate Hazelnut flutes.

This walk is linked to the Santiago de Compastela, in Spain, and is a sort of sister to it. Pilgrims have walked this path for their own reasons, centered upon giving their lives to Jesus, to repent, and devote themselves to Him. Here in Cornwall many people have walked the 10 miles between Carbis Bay/Knill's Monument and Marazion. In Spain the trek is much much longer, and requires more from its Pilgrims. 

John Bunyon (1628-1688) wrote his famous poem, 'To Be A Pilgrim', that has inspired me along many of my walks. I did not know that it appeared in the second part of The Pilgrim's Progress, until yesterday. 

He who would valiant be,

'Gainst all disaster;

let him in constancy,

follow the Master.

There’s no discouragement

shall make him once relent

his first avowed intent

to be a pilgrim.

Whoso beset him round

with dismal stories,

do but themselves confound;

his strength the more is.

No foes shall stay his might,

though he with giants fight,

he will make good his right

to be a pilgrim.

It is a hymn now, a famous one sung by choirs and individuals in good times and in hard. Yesterday had its moments - rocky paths, steep climbs, mud up to the ankles (ew) cows galore, and...bulls.

Once in a while we would spill out into a lovely great pasture, literally filled to the brim with cows. Which is actually encouraging, because England seems to be doing quite well in the areas of milk and hamburgers. They were chewing, mostly; their cud. Whatever that is. And then I would hear my husband say, "Bull". 

"Oh dear.." I would mutter, glancing around for the offending creature. And there one would be. "Don't run," was the best advice ever. But they were much more interested in their 'cud' than they were in us, and we were left to step the Pilgrim's path, finally climbing an enormous stile to escape.

We had done this once before, I think 7 years before, and we remembered stopping for our lunch pasties upon a wooden stile. So we walked until we found it again. My goodness, did those pasties ever taste GOOD! And the Hazelnut flutes! The last word in Hazelnut flutes. 

We were just finishing our flutes when along came a man and woman who were also on the Pilgrim's path. We chatted a little minute, and off they went again. 

You know that Pilgrims have a habit of helping each other out, right? These two kept appearing along our way, being helpful with information when we (I) had lost the way. It turned out that my husband had been right, and I, not. Haha! There were good reasons for both ways. When our helpful couple came along, they knew and confirmed HIS was correct. Of course - he is a navigator and has a sense for these things.

Before the journey's end, the woman came back and handed us an OS map she thought might help us if we needed it. Then at the journey's end, they appeared again and shared bus information that wasn't quite so welcome BECAUSE THERE ARE NO BUSES FROM MARAZION TO PENZANCE ANYMORE. We had walked too far already, and must turn around to Long Rock for a bus. More miles, again! Being a Pilgrim sometimes means backtracking, just when you least want to.

But we did backtrack and came upon The Mexico Inn, a pub that served us an enormous Coke. That Coke was about the best thing since sliced bread, dear Readers! I had been drinking water along the way, but THIS? This was Ambrosia. We drank it, and then crossed the street to the bus stop. The bus lumbered forward, and we climbed aboard. The jolly greeting of our British driver perked us up a little, and I think we (I) might have fallen asleep, weary but thankful; thankful for miles, for repentance, for pasties, for St Michael's Mount off in the distance, and for John Bunyan's words that encourage us all, to Follow the Master.

Since, Lord, thou dost defend

us with thy spirit:

we know we at the end

shall life inherit.

Then fancies flee away,

I’ll fear not what men say,

I’ll labour night and day

to be a pilgrim.

John Bunyan (1628-1688)

See you along the Way!

the SconeLady

 

A Uniquely Winning Way

 The most notable difference about yesterday was the absence of the Vicar. There was a Vicar, don't get me wrong. It was just a different Vicar. Ours was on Sabbatical somewhere in England (no one was saying just where), and would be there for three months. Thus, the different Vicar.

I have enjoyed worshiping here for many years when in Cornwall, and have appreciated all their Vicars. Anytime a Vicar has announced they would be leaving, which happened several times over the years, I was saddened. They'd each had their uniquely winning way in presenting the Gospel.

The Vicar yesterday was very nice, humorous, and kind to the American visitor who popped up in the choir room. As the Warden helped him adjust his cassock, the Vicar said people often mistake him for the actor Rowan Atkinson. Right away I thought of Mr Bean, who is the main character in the Mr Bean shows. His shows are funny, I must admit (just think of one, and I'll bet you laugh.). I determined to find a Mr Bean movie soon and see whether or not he looked like the Vicar.

The morning service turned out to be lovely, and the Vicar turned out to be interesting and funny, a good but rare combination. The Musical Director's wife once again helped me with where I should walk, bow, stand, sit, and sing, because I did not really know. There were a few mistakes I probably made, but thankfully didn't actually embarrass anybody. 

We could not stay for tea and biscuits because we would be going up to The Badger for their Sunday carvery, and had to arrive at the stroke of Noon. 

The Carvery was again the best in western Cornwall, and the only mistake I made there was to pick up a Yorkshire Pudding with my fingers, when the rule was that you do NOT EVER pick up a Yorkshire Pudding piece with your fingers,

"DON'T pick up that Pud, Miss," said the chef. He was very busy and didn't have time to correct rude Americans in Lelant. 

I was so embarrassed! and offered to give the offending Pudding to my husband! but the chef brushed off this effort and called out, "Next?"

Rosamunde Pilcher probably NEVER picked Yorkshire Puddings up like that, having to apologize embarrassingly in front of a bunch of customers at the Badger Inn in her own home town. But the Carvery was so superb that I lost myself in its deliciousness and forgot the chef.

Here is a picture of it for my dear Readers (notice the two Yorkshire Puddings)"

See you along the way!

the Scone Lady 

((I would have been able to speak about the Vicar's sermon -Pentecost-, but our hearing aids were back at the cottage and we couldn't hear it))

Charlie Bucket

 

Charlie Bucket was a little boy who lived in poverty with his parents and grandparents (who went to bed and never came back out). I thought about Charlie today because of a Cadbury Milk bar. The Cadbury Milk bar grabbed my attention at the Norway Store, in our quest for something unrelated to chocolate. That is how such things happen, you know, with people and chocolate bars. They are walking along minding their own business, when a chocolate bar catches them.

I turned and picked one up, suddenly remembering the character Augustus Gloop (Charlie and the Chocolate Factory). He is naughty, falls into a chocolate river and is sucked up a pipe. I didn't like the pipe sucking part, but I very much liked the chocolate river part. That is what a Cadbury Milk Bar feels like when you take a bite and let it sit in your mouth. A lovely, soft chocolate river. 

The Cadbury's Milk Bar now resides in the refrigerator where it can be accessed at a moment's notice.

We once lived in England when the US Air Force sent us to where my darling could serve during the Cold War. This opened up the wonders of England to us, finally answering the question, "Will wonders never cease?" The answer is 'no', because they never have. 

It was such lovely fun. We could have all the Cadbury products we wanted, and still get Hershey Bars at the Commissary. A perfect score!

Family members came to visit us there, so we got to go to all sorts of fun places, such as the Tower of London, Shakespeare's birthplace, Stonehenge, Bath (which nearly froze us to death in December), and Scotland. 

We made a Thanksgiving dinner with all the trimmings for friend Rosie and her Ted, their four children, and our next door neighbor, cooking a wild turkey instead of an American Butterball from the Commissary. The only trouble was that our neighbor died the next day! 

We got to live in a house that had a swimming pool and have no end of friends to come over and splash. 

We learned to love all sorts of British foods, chief among them the taste and texture of a Scone with  jam and cream on it. 

The children got to go to a British school and be taught by the Headmistress how to 'Eat British' and get English accents. The only negative was that when the children came home from school each day, they had to re-learn how to 'Eat American', becoming so confused that they sometimes forgot and ATE AMERICAN at school, and BRITISH at home (there was no end of a dustup over that).

And as you know, dear Readers, it was all of this that finally created the SconeLady. She simply had to get back and see it all again. There are Cadbury Milk Bars at home in our little British Emporium, the proprietor sounding just like they do over the Pond. But there is nothing like being there, hearing it all, tasting it all, and walking it all. 

Remembering Charlie Bucket makes me want to go get the book Charlie and the Chocolate Factory, and read it again. I know he wins the Golden Ticket, and that his grandpa jumped out of his bed and escorted Charlie to the factory, and that (spoiler alert) Charlie wonderfully inherited the factory. But I've never actually been in the town near Mr. Dahl's Repton School, where there were chocolate spies stealing chocolate secrets left and right. That would be fun!

Roald Dahl always found things children would enjoy reading about, turning them into life-long readers. I certainly am one, and that is a gift that keeps right on giving,

See you along the way!

the SconeLady

Life in England circa 1984

Are You Allowed To Sleep in a Library?

 

Marching your husband up to Knill's Monument

We are sitting in the Library's upstairs section where people can browse through books and watch the tourists wandering by below. You can even go to sleep, as long as you don't actually  lie down. This is what one of us is doing (while sitting straight up in the chair) because the next cottage keeps not being ready. He thinks (and I agree with him) that all this waiting is a load of codswaddle.

Nevertheless, changeover days must be tolerated because they usually end with an open door and a nice cup of tea. 

The tourists below this window are going in and out of one of my favorite shops here. It is called Colenso and has almost everything you need for a successful holiday. I have visited this shop many times looking for a flat iron ('hair straightener' in British), clothes pins for making pour-over dark Columbian coffee of a morning, an electric coffee grinder, and a bunch of other things I did not know I needed. The proprietor is happy to see his customers, and booms out at them, "I have exactly what you need!" no matter what it is you say you need. 

From where I am sitting, he has brooms, mops, coffee machines, other small appliances, chicken pots large and small, platters for roast chickens, paint, kitchenware, electrical and hardware items, ironmongery (what's that?) and tools. The proprietor is a local man whom the local people come to see on a regular basis. They call him 'John', and he also calls their names and their babies' names. He is the perfect Local.

If you go out of his shop and turn left, you will come to the Cinema. The Cinema is very important because it is where Rosamunde Pilcher used to go see films as a girl. AND, it is showing the new Tom Cruise movie RIGHT NOW. I know very little about this movie except that he is in it, and that lots of crazy things are going to start happening. There should be a nice looking young lady in the near vicinity, and a team of friends who know how to set up those crazy things right along with Tom. Am I right?

We will go to this movie some time soon, after purchasing/eating a double Chinese dinner, which, if we are too full to finish, the chances are high that it will come back home in my bag.

The SconeLady has not seen this film yet, so kindly hang on to your spoilers. The filmmakers are bad enough with well placed spoilers on the Internet. Just today I saw a parachute with Tom Cruise hanging on to it, explode. I really do think it exploded, and wasn't special effects. This is because I saw Benji Dunn helping to hold the parachute and pour an explosive liquid inside of it. Next thing you know there is the explosion! with Tom Cruise rocketing terribly quickly to the earth. To me that qualifies as a big spoiler.

The cottage company never did tell us it was time to enter our cottage, so I made a command decision. We grabbed our bags and went. Sometimes you just can't wait any longer, especially if you think all this waiting is a load of codswaddle.

Breakfast at the Porthminster Beach Cafe

Cloud Bread

 

Cloud Bread in the town of Looe

If man could live by bread alone (and I know he can't), I would vote for Cloud Bread. It's adorable and divine. Your mouths should be watering right now. We had some last year at the Sardine Factory in Looe and after my first taste of the stuff, nothing else mattered. What was Hake, or Scallops, or Hamburgers when you've had bread from a Cloud?

We were working out what to order when I saw a serving dish go by. My eyes followed it. It seemed to float above the serving dish.

"What is that?" I asked the blond waitress.

"That is called Cloud Bread. Would you like some?"

And of course I did, and of course I ordered it along with the hamburger choice. Everyone else ordered breathtakingly tasty entries worthy of the famous chef who was on a competitive TV show with other chefs, and won. But I considered the bread my entre, with the burger coming in second.

Because of this new taste of bread at the Sardine Factory (although I don't think sardines were anywhere on the menu), and the desire to keep eating it, I told friend Rosie and Our Em that it would be amazing if we could go back there sometime. So Rosie drove us all that long distance again. And once more, I came face to face with the Bread on a Cloud that is better than any other food. Really, dear Readers. It was sort of like, well, like the Manna in the wilderness the children of Israel used to eat. And grew weary of. If I had only Cloud Bread to eat, maybe I would get tired of it too like they did, spending my time kicking against Moses, and God, and Manna.

But it is late now, and there is no time to solve the food problems of the children of Israel. 

Tomorrow my friends will climb aboard their train and their car, and leave us behind. We are almost exhausted from all the fun things we did/ate. (And did I tell you yet that we went WILD SWIMMING every day but one?). People commented a lot about how brave - or mad - we must be, jumping into the ocean and freezing ourselves nearly to death. But it isn't madness that makes us do these things. It's the joy of being alive right now. 

See you along the way!

the SconeLady

Polperro, Cornwall

Lobster For Five

 

Stuart said that for five people, we would need 3 lobsters. Did you know that it takes a plethora of lobster to feed that many people? We did not. We learned that "more of a lobster is thrown away than eaten", so you must do what you can to swell the numbers. The shell is mostly what is tossed away but there are icky, gooey things in there too that must be deleted or people will feel ill looking at what is on their forks.

It is a very big deal to procure three lobsters, thank the fisherman, carry them home in a sturdy plastic bag, feel slightly queasy as they make movements inside the bag, place them gently into the bottom drawer of the refrigerator, and then prepare them to become edible. That is the sticky bit. We wanted to be nice to the lobsters because all of us feel a little bit bad for eating them. At least, we feel partly bad. 

The way we learned to be nice to the lobsters was discovered by friend Rosie, who read and said if you put the lobsters inside the freezer for two hours, they will fall asleep and not know what is happening to themselves. This sounded so hopeful that our Em almost stayed downstairs instead of peeking around the corner to shout, "Are they dead yet?" 

When there were 2 hours before the action would begin, friend Rosie slipped the poor dears into the freezer. Meanwhile, the SconeLady and her husband walked to the church for choir rehearsal. The director's wife very kindly sat and pointed out the notes as we sang, and then sang the part toward my ear so I could catch on. If it had been a Baptist church and Baptist music, I would have jumped right in. But since this was a Church of England and also a High Church, I mostly hoped no one could hear me. 

Then it was time to go back and see how the little dears in the freezer were faring.

By then, one lobster had already... finished its contribution, and was being shelled. The SconeLady's husband inserted the knife into a certain area of its anatomy and twisted, then bit by bit he got the lobster meat out. It was an intense process because of the many places the knife had to be put in and twisted. (our Em hovered on the second floor and waited.)

I won't elaborate about lobster numbers 2 and 3 because it is understandably repetitive. But the lobsters didn't make any of it easy. Which made me wonder why we had worried about their comfort and put them into the freezer to help them sleep it off.

The lobster dinner was a huge success. But it might be another while before we do it again. In spite of all our efforts, there was still a bit of a noise coming from the pot (not quite a scream) and this we did not like.

See you along the way!

the SconeLady

The SconeLady's Husband

for the SconeLady's husband

You just should have seen me (us) dashing in and out for the little things that can make a traveling man welcome, a man who did not sleep even a wink on the plane or the train the night before. What would he like for dinner? I (we) pondered. Should it be a British meal or an American? Would he even be hungry? British Airways tends to overstuff their flying customers so that they can fall asleep and not bother the flight attendants. 

We decided our traveler would like a savory chicken pot containing thighs, potatoes, carrots, onions, peppers and (smashed) garlic. The chicken was browned first for 5 minutes per side in butter and oil. Then it was turned over and cooked 5 minutes more. By now the aromas coming from inside that chicken pot were driving us crazy, (and I thought I might understand Esau and his stew a bit better).

A stock cube was now entered into the pot with some water and dried herbs. We wanted to put the chicken pot inside the AGA's oven RIGHT AWAY so it would be done enough by the time the husband arrived. The AGA wasn't as hot as it has been known to be in times past. But we should never have worried. Some husbands might never be satisfied no matter what you cook for them. But this husband will dive in and never come back out.

There were green beans as a side, and I can't remember anything else. I dashed upstairs, brushed my tangled and wind-swept hair, layered up, and sped down the hill to the railroad station. The train whistle blew, and everyone turned to watch as it pulled slowly in. Eeeeeeeek!

At first I could not see him, and wondered momentarily what I would do if he had missed his train. Such a disappointing thought! But then, his familiar face shone out amongst the others, and...ummm, why was my heart beating like this? 

It was actually quite a bit like our early days when he would come to see me on the front porch. Sometimes he would be holding a book, or a flower, or an orange. And those simple gifts would make my heart beat this very same way!

He hasn't changed all that much. 

See you along the way!

the SconeLady

The Director Was Eating a Pasty

Carvery at The Badger Inn

 Yesterday as we ate our Sunday carvery at The Badger Inn, the people around us seemed to be speaking another language. It happened as the group made their way to their tables, it happened in the line at the ladies loo, and as people gathered in the garden. This has happened on occasion as I wander around Cornwall, but not all at once and on the same day, so it was interesting.

Then friend Rosie said that a German lady just told her that they are going to be filming here tomorrow. Whaat? Filming? Who is going to be filming? It took a quick second for me to realize what this must be. It must mean darling Rosamunde Pilcher! After all, we were at The Badger Inn which has known Rosamunde for decades; she was born into what is called Riverview House (you will recognize that through her book, "Going Home") directly across the garden from the little Lelant rail station; her ashes have been buried in St Uny Church of England where she worshiped, and the Tombstone states that she is "A Lelant Girl". Our German friends across the water absolutely love Rosamunde and have filmed just about every Pilcher book in existence multiple times. And they were coming tomorrow!

After a little while, though, this piece of news began to fade because there were too many other things to think about. Today is a Red Letter Day for me/us, because the SconeLady's husband is coming! Terrific and very distracting news. He has flown throughout the night, landed at Heathrow in time to pass inspection, find the Heathrow Express to Paddington Station, found his train, climbed aboard, collapsed into his seat, and is now a mere hour from St Ives. Eeeeek!

Doing my little preparatory errands around the town, I ran into a large crowd of good-looking young people holding microphones and props and film gear, saying things like, "Could all of you please move down the block a bit? Just so we don't accidentally get you in the film, you see." 

I thought it might be fun to accidentally get into one of Rosamunde's films, but I moved down the block a bit, all the same.

The director finally said, "Ready? And...ACTION!" wherein a smashingly beautiful young woman began to ride a strange looking black bicycle cart that held all the tools of the Chimney Sweep trade. Most of them were brooms. But why would a film about Rosamunde's books have anything to do with sweeping chimneys? I couldn't get it. I still can't. But...

"CUT!" yelled the director. "Ah, could you please step back down the block, Ma'am?" I looked around to see who he was talking to. But oops - it was me. "Oh! sorry," I said. But he was standing near me so I struck while the iron was hot and asked, "Is this a movie about a Rosamunde Pilcher book?"

His eyes lit up, friendly like, and he said, "Yep. That's who this is all about!" Then he went back to his work.

This was all so satisfactory that I decided to follow the action, and we filmed in three locations We filmed on Fore Street in front of the Post Office, then a little further on in front of what used to be where Judith stayed in the book "Going Home", and then we filmed at Smeaton's Pier, in front of the Italian man's coffee shop. 

It was so beautiful outside through all of this that I felt they really had hit this nail square on its head. Tomorrow and tomorrow and tomorrow is meant to be rainy, and that would have been a disaster for lights, cameras, and action. 

It was around noon by this time, and I wondered how they would feed all this huge clot of people. As if reading my mind, the director said,"What about lunch?" to his assistant. "It's after 12:00." I would have thought this had been all planned out ages ago. But the AD had it all in hand.

"Don't you worry about it, sir, I've organized lunch. Pizza."

Later on I saw various members of the company sitting around the cafes and eating, but the director did not have a piece of pizza. Oh, no. For him, it was a Cornish Pasty. This director knew how to recognize a good thing when he saw one.

I walked past him, and waved. And then he waved. If I could have, I would have told him all about the Rather Stunning Son, who is about the director's own age and is in film editing, and can also yell, "CUT!" right along with the best of them. 

But I didn't tell him it. I walked on by, picking up speed now because of my Red Letter Day. He is now passing Truro. Eeeeeeeeeek!

See you along the way!

the SconeLady