Let Them Eat Torte

How terribly sad, I have forgotten to snap a pic of the Chocolate Torte! The closest I came was this photograph of its demise, when we had very nearly obliterated it. I feel certain that there is no other place in town with a torte like that, and it would be needless to search. We weren't the only customers in the Italian Coffee House who had one, either. It disappeared slowly but surely as people came, and went.

But I am getting ahead of myself. Even before we'd had the lovely lunch and torte, we had been to the Barbara Hepworth Museum. The Barbara Hepworth Museum is worth looking at, dear Readers, and we 3 ladies thought that 4 of us were going to go inside. That had been the plan. We attempted to do this, until Ted suddenly quailed and said, "I'm going to sit in the sun..", easing his way back in the direction of the Harbor. 

"What?" we said. "What about the Hepworth?"

"The Hepworth will be just fine without me." 

I won't go into the details of his attempt, and prevention, and eventual escape, because some things are not needful to mention. Suffice it to say that 3 of us did ultimately see the Hepworth, and that our Ted did not. Suffice it to say that we all got what we wanted, in the end.

The sun came out as we observed, and read, all about Barbara. This lovely sunshine threw the entire Hepworth studio into a favorable light, both indoors and out. We learned of her Yorkshire childhood, when she would ride past the moors with her father and develop ideas for her sculptures. We learned of her two marriages and 4 children, and of the day when a property she loved suddenly came onto the market, and she bought it. We learned that she had died tragically of smoke inhalation from a fire due to the cigarette she had been smoking in her bed. I had known about this because the Hepworth gardener had said so, in 2014. Only he said it had happened in her summer house, whereas today's Docent said it had happened in her studio. It is a conundrum, one which I will probably never be able to solve because I don't know where to find the Hepworth gardener who had said so.

We wandered around in Barbara's beautiful garden, all dotted about with her sculptures, and tried to figure them out. I don't think I did ever figure them out, but I do have a theory or two. Which I will share with you. One day. When I think you would like to know.

The day did not end at the Hepworth, but went on to include a very interesting Cornish tin mine, an actual mine we actually got to go into. It is a mine very near the activities and excitements of the television series called 'Poldark', and this is very exciting. But since I am too tired to describe it right now, is it ok with you if I wait until tomorrow? It's past my bedtime.


See you along the way!
the SconeLady

A Bit Peckish

I saw the kitty yesterday, the self-same kitty who had seemed to wait for me each morning near the 'Jesus Saves' sign across the way. We would step companionably together along the cobbles to the Norway Store, in search of yummies. But this time he (or she) was up on Fore Street just minding his (or her) business. No one else was out yet, so it was just me and Kitty-woo under the brilliant sun, renewing our old acquaintance.

"Ck-ck-ck-," I said, kindly.

"Mrow..," kitty replied, seeming to remember me and beginning instantly to follow. The Norway Store was bustling with customers, almost out the door. Most of these customers were fathers out with their small children, who noticed Kitty-woo and thought they should make friends with it (only kitty wasn't so sure). The presence of fathers at the Norway Store with their children may mean that the mums had said, "I'm not going," for fear of rain. So there the dads were, picking out things from a soggy list, looking slightly baffled.

"What is it you need, sir?" said the helpful lady behind the counter.

"Well, ah, it is a certain kind of oil, I believe.. perhaps it is an Olive?"

   The coffee is as good as the conversation

"Ah yes, Olive Oil," said the woman, coming around the counter to help him. By this time the cat had gone, there being so many pairs of shoes to avoid, and I did not see it again. The elements battled against me as I retraced my steps, clutching the croissants and realizing that the forecaster's gloomy predictions had come true. It hardly seemed fair.

"It's raining!" I said as I came through the door with the croissants.

Three kindly faces acknowledged this undeniable fact, but refused to be disturbed by it. "There is always the Tate!" said friend Rosie. "A rainy day is the perfect day for the Tate. And it has a cafe!" This raised even the spirits of the SconeLady as we each layered up and grabbed umbrellas. Along the way, we became distracted by the presence of the Italian Coffee House, and went inside. Our coffees were great, but then we noticed something even more great. It was amazing.. spectacular.. sensational! There, beneath its glass case nestled the most delicious looking Chocolate Torte I had had the privilege of seeing. You could tell just by looking that IT WASN'T DRY. Moistness simply seemed to ooze out from it. We stared.

"Let's get it.." someone said. "But we've only just had breakfast," said someone else. "Ok. We'll come back after the Tate," said a third, "and get it then."

(How can this be fair?)

This was agreed upon, and so we trooped back out into the rapidly deteriorating weather. By the time we got there, 'wet' wasn't half the word! But the three Brits were undaunted. What was a little rain, compared with the glories of the Tate Museum? So we perused, and wandered, and watched - the three women discussing it all in great detail - until poor Ted had finally had enough, and abandoned us for the comforts of The Sloop. Dear Readers, are you beginning to see a pattern here? Perhaps. But it's OK! We know how splendid is The Sloop. There is no place like it, and we don't mind if Ted sometimes prefers it to looking at art, or clothing, or pharmaceuticals. What man wouldn't?

We never did go back for that Torte, and now I'm feeling kind of lonely for it. But I think we will get some tomorrow, because there is nothing quite so comforting as coffee and chocolate on a day of 'weather' in Cornwall. 'Peckish' isn't half the word.


See you along the way!
the SconeLady

Please, Sir - I'd Like Some MORE

It is always a question of the weather, in Cornwall, because you really never know what you're going to get. For this part of the journey, almost every weather map threatened straight on rain, which the SconeLady promptly rejected. They rarely know what they are talking about when it comes to forecasts, and anyway, it always changes. So I look ahead with hopes of blue, and then usually get them.

This is now the third day of glorious skies, bluer than any blue we see in California, and with the addition of soft, scattered, puffy white clouds. Walking in such loveliness almost lets you forget the masses of people pressing and crushing into the tiny streets along with you. We have not seen this town this busy, ever. One can see why, though. The microclimate of Cornwall is wonderfully welcoming...until it isn't. But by then, people have made their reservations and plunked down their money. They must take whatever it is that they get.

Since this is a Sunday, I found myself once again in the Parish Church, participating in the celebration of the Eucharist. Lovely it was, to be with others who were there for the same reason, and welcomed me with smiles and cups of tea. As we drank the tea and had the biscuits, I glanced around and saw something I had not yet seen - the Stations of the Cross, around on the walls of the church. There were 13 of them, each one hand carved and numbered and splendidly displayed. I found #1 and went from there. It was a sermon all on its own, clear and concise, true and awful and wonderful. 

the gulls wheel and cry above us, all day long

Our little group of four wandered around the streets of the town soaking it in, peeking into galleries and shops to our heart's content. When the subject of food came up, as it always does, no one could figure out quite what to do or where to eat. Should it be in, or out? Should the SconeLady cook, or someone else? This went on until Ted finally settled the issue. "You can talk all you want, but I'm for the Sloop," he said, with decision. You can't really blame the poor man, he had followed us hither and yon, up the streets and down, shopping. In the end, we all felt that we were going to be 'for the Sloop', too, and found a table outside in the sun.  

As we sat, I remembered a significant detail about today's service, something our small fry would want to know about: as the great Cross was being borne around the church and down the aisle, the incense ball, held this time by a white-robed gentleman, went round in a FULL CIRCLE, as smooth as you please, just as we'd been hoping it would all along. He went back to the half swing for a time, and then, almost at the altar itself - around it went a second time! It was like an icing on cake, because an incense ball swinging normally is a wonderful thing, but an incense ball swinging right around in a full circle, surpasses all.

After all of these things were done and a long walk had been had, the SconeLady did indeed cook the supper. Her favorite casserole with hamburger, noodles, mushrooms, onions, and a myriad of other tasty things, all topped with cheese and baked to perfection, met the expectations of her friends. The fact that each of them asked for seconds (and were there thirds? I do think so!) won my heart. 

The thing was awfully good, I thought, while holding up my plate, and asking, please, for "more".


See you along the way!
the SconeLady

The Astonishing People You Meet On Trains

The train was crowded, but I had a nice seat right next to the window and 3 fellow passengers. These passengers were laughing. In fact, I thought they were the happiest passengers I'd yet seen on this trip, and couldn't help but laugh with them - even though I didn't know what they were laughing about. That kind of infectious joy just draws you in.

Interrupting this laughter, someone over the loudspeaker mentioned the Dining Car, and I didn't think I'd better go there because It sounded expensive. But then it occurred to me that if you are sitting in the car just next to the Dining Car, and someone invites you to go in, then perhaps you ought really to. "There are two seats," he said, "only two seats still available in the Dining Car, ladies and gentlemen. If you wish to dine in the car, please make your way to it now, and we will seat you." Well, I thought - why in the world not? and went.

Having seen Murder On The Orient Express about a hundred times, I envisioned white table cloths, napkins, multiple eating utensils, and real glass goblets. Surely posh people would be sitting in the Dining Car, and I suddenly wondered if I were under-dressed. But there was no time to change now, and so I made my way along as the announcer had instructed, hovering at the entrance.

A waist-coated waiter approached. "One for lunch, Madam?" he enquired with a slight bow.

"Oh, yes sir," I responded. "It's just me."

"Then come right this way." Apparently I had snagged one of those two remaining seats, lucky girl that I am.

I glanced around as I eased myself into the seat indicated. Murder On The Orient Express had got it right - white table cloths and napkins, multiple spoons, forks and knives and real glass goblets, all sitting there lined beautifully up for little old me. Splendid! I looked across the table at the two passengers sharing my table, and recognized instantly that I WAS UNDERDRESSED. It was like one of those nightmares where you've forgotten to put on your pants. But there was nothing for it but to smile and act as though I were dressed in a gown.

"Hello," said the woman in a cultured British voice.

"Hi," said the man. An American! Interesting. She was lovely, with straight dark hair and dark eyes, and wore a red shirt and black Chinese jacket that looked smashing on her. He must have thought so too, because whenever he looked at her, his eyes shone out with respect. It was really rather sweet.

He, of course, was handsome and young, but with prematurely graying hair. They went back to their discussion, their voices so low that I only heard bits and pieces, but he seemed to be saying that Health Care in the US was better than Health Care in the UK. She disagreed, genteelly, and then the conversation switched to the topic of Brexit. His very reasonable voice was reasoning with hers, over and over, only I simply could not divine exactly what it was that they were saying! But I am sure it was fascinating.

Our meals were ordered and brought, and at some point they realized that I, too, was an American. "Why are you in England?" they asked, so I told them about Rosamunde Pilcher and how every book she writes makes me want to be in Cornwall. They did not know about Rosamunde Pilcher, but by the time I had finished my description, they were writing it all down and wanting to go there too. It was lovely.

We parted good friends, and I went back to my happy little group, who soon asked me what I was doing in England. I gave an abbreviated version of what I'd told the posh couple in the Dining Car. Only these people knew all about Rosamunde Pilcher. In fact, they knew Rosamunde Pilcher! The lady had lived in Rosamunde Pilcher's house in Lelant, the house I take photos of every time I pass by it. And the real kicker is that just the day before, these two people had been to Buckingham Palace, and the Queen's Garden Party!


"Whaat?!" I nearly shrieked. "The Queen's Garden Party? I saw pictures of it in the newspaper, with Prince Philip in his top hat!"

Not everyone gets invited to Buckingham Palace, you know, and certainly hardly anyone ever gets to speak with the Queen. I wondered why he had been invited. "Well, let's just say I did something that the Queen appreciated, and so she invited me." Before I had a chance to learn anymore, they had gathered their belongings, and gotten off the train. I was suddenly alone in my part of the train. 

It was strangely quiet, and I missed my astonishing companions. Such interesting people ride the trains these days, don't you think? How could you ever guess that the person sitting right next to you had lived in Rosamunde Pilcher's very own house, and had been to the Queen's Garden Party? Astonishing.


See you along the way!
the SconeLady

Last Leg

All of this 'goodbye-ing', and I failed to mention that when the family boards their flight, I will board the First Great Western Railway and head back to Cornwall. This is all down to the fact that the SconeLady cannot resist it, and rarely does. If you are going to spend significant dollars getting to a place, you might just as well stay there. 

Our goodbyes began yesterday with the first of 5 conveyances (taxis, vans, trains, more taxis, another train, then another taxi), which our small fry all faced with equanimity. The hardest part may have been that of waving goodbye to friend Rosie. This is never an easy thing to do, for she is so splendid and they had been loved so well. But we did what we must, and then found ourselves being whisked away down the drive. The friendly taxi van man (who had conveyed us to the farm in the first place) asked if fun had been had by all, and was pleased to find that it had. We were deposited mere yards from the platform, and climbed aboard the Great Northern Railway into London. The children knew the drill by now and settled in for the journey. 

As we rocketed toward London, their father produced more nice things for them to chew and then said, "I would like to hear what each of you considers to be the Highlight of your trip to England, and then the funniest part and the scariest parts of the trip." There was a silence, as we all considered these things. And then one by one, everybody shared. 

"I liked the Tower of London the best," said one, thinking of Crown Jewels and chopping blocks.

"The scariest thing was in St Ives when the bad seagull came and took my ice cream cone - twice!" chirped his sister.

"I liked the time when your Grandpa stood and blessed our food at Rosie's big dinner in the back yard," said Grandma, who was remembering her kind husband's prayer, and smiling.

"I thought it was funniest," said someone beautiful, "when the lurching train threw two of you over onto the mean bicycle lady!"

As the train sped along, the laughter rang out over this object lesson in meanness. Be mean, it seems to say, and you risk having someone who is holding a heavy bag above his head thrown sideways into your very surprised lap. Be sure your misdeeds will find you out.

From Kings Cross, we were picked up by two cabs and taken, in what felt like a mad race, to Paddington. When we reached Paddington and went inside, the 7-year-old saw that there was an arrow and a line, pointing somewhere, along the floor. She heard that this was the route one must take in order to reach the Heathrow Express, which was our next stop. 

"Grandma," she whispered, tapping my arm, "we have to follow the arrows and the purple line." Grandma was not just exactly following the arrows or the line, but was weaving onto, and then off from, them. "We have to walk only on the arrows, to get there," she instructed. And so we all did as she bid, and made it to the Express in good and proper order.

I won't go through all of the other conveyances, because you get the gist. When Heathrow opened its arms and welcomed them in, we realized that our goodbyes must be said once more. It was not my favorite moment. They are still in the air, as I write.

It is strange knowing that they are so many miles high and so very far, from me. For a bit longer, no phone can reach them, no face time strong enough to make sharing easy. 

So I will simply have to wait. 


See you along the way!
the SconeLady

H&G (Hi and Goodbye)

It's much easier to say 'hello' than it is to say 'goodbye', especially when you have done so many fun activities in so short a time - all while being fed nice things and taken to nice places. When you are saying hello to someone, it is with the prospect of some kind of future with them, whether it be short or long. But the goodbye has a finality to it that we shy away from. We are shying away a bit today, for today is the train ride that begins an ending and is therefore rather a melancholy one. 

At the same time, in our conversations about today we have begun to hear the word 'home', quite a lot. One person can't wait to see his bed, and lie in it. Another mentions her friends and her best doll, the one she received just before this Adventure began (which doll is sitting on her California bed this very moment, waiting). And the third? Well, the third is right about where the SconeLady always is at this moment. He doesn't want to leave.


But leave we must, and so in a moment the SconeLady will simply have to start packing her bags. 

It has been sweet. Friend Rosie and her Ted have a way of enfolding and welcoming children, including them, leading them by example. It is a Gift, and who wants to leave something like that? Where else might you be invited to go and feed Polly, the donkey? or brush her coat? or go and help clean up the manure? They were, and did, scooping heartily along and then looking around for the next pile as if this were some kind of a scavenger hunt. It was hilarious. 

They, and we, will remember every stroke of it, having jumped into the deep end with great gusto. But it sure beats me how much fun those kids had cleaning up that poop. I've never seen anything like it.


See you along the way!
the SconeLady

What a work ethic looks like:

 Darling Polly being brushed

Ted's Breads

"Who wants to help me make some soda bread?" said Ted, one morning. This was quite an honoring offer to have been made, for Ted's breads are famous and lots of fun to make. He is not a baker who insists upon doing all the work himself. He lets small hands help him do it, instructing all the while. It sounded promising.

"We do!" said the three. "Where will it bake?"

"Why, the bread oven, of course. I have heard you are quite interested in the bread oven."

They certainly were. They were interested in Ted's bread oven because it was well spoken of by their Grandfather, who was always saying that he wanted one. He was always wanting an AGA too, and so was Grandma, only it would all become much too hot for southern California. They talked and talked about doing this, trying to figure a way around all of that heat. There is heat in a bread oven and heat in an AGA; and there is even more heat in California. So it was a conundrum.

But here was an actual bread oven in cool Norfolk, with Ted standing next to it, its flames flaming about inside. 

"First, we will heat this oven up very, very high, and then we will let it cool back down just a bit, making it exactly the right temperature to bake your bread. When you come back from town, we will begin." 

The children got ready in due time, and climbed into their grandpa's rental van (which is perfectly huge), off to explore. There was much to explore, for their mother had lived in the town for two years, and had told them all about it. She had told them about exploring the graveyard in her back yard, and seeing it from her bedroom window whenever she peeked out; she had told them about walking to the High Street by herself every Saturday for candy;  about the park where their uncle had broken his collar bone doing something daring (the Rather Stunning Son is still a daring piece of work); she told them about the local school where the Headmistress had made them 'eat British' at the Noon Meal, for it was the only proper way, and about going home for dinner and Grandpa (her father) making them 'eat American', for IT was the only proper way. This last bit was rather confusing, because they kept on forgetting which way was the most proper, and getting themselves scolded.


The children knew about all of these things, and thought them funny. It was strange to think of Mother getting into even a little bit of trouble, for she is a proper lady now; but they knew that she did, because Grandma had confirmed this sad fact - and then laughed. 

After all of this exploring and remembering, they all came back to Rosie's and found Ted chopping wood next to an enormous pile of it all stacked up and tidy. They stared at its enormity, in awe - there were simply hundreds of pieces of it. Probably even thousands. No one could ever imagine a day when all of the pieces of Ted's wood had been burned up. You could make almost a million loaves of Soda bread, and never run out.

Into the house went Ted, followed by his troup of small but eager Sous Chefs. Each one had a job to do and did it well, under Ted's kind tutelage. In the end, three loaves of the splendid bread were mixed, kneaded (only slightly, mind. Soda bread does not bear up under very much), cut, and placed. At some point they were set into the oven (the SconeLady did not see just when, because she had fallen fast asleep), and at some point they were taken out - done to a turn. 

There is nothing in the baking world that comes out quite as wonderfully as Soda Bread, in any form - but most particularly as toast, with lots of butter, and jam. Ted would probably say that all of that butter and jam might spoil the natural taste. And he is probably right. But we can't possibly help ourselves and so we reach for it, apply it liberally, and consider the whole thing finger-licking good.

It's the American way. The only proper way.

See you along the way!

the SconeLady