So many bulbs on the roses!

 

Kings may come and kings may go, but the sea goes on forever - July 25th/26th 2013

Is there something about Ginsters Pasties we ought to know? We are heading East, following a huge tanker full of them.

Note the pasty-sized opening at the back

A delightful conception. No we don't want corrections, explanations, nor balloon-popping ideas on a postcard, thanks. Some things are best left to the true scientists among us. There's a chemical process involved see? You pour liquids in the top and pump pasties out the bottom. Perfect.

We still haven't cracked the white camper conundrum. A Google search is out of reach whilst travelling, but we suspect filthy lucre is at the bottom of the white van plot.
The Duchess falls somewhere between vintage and old. (We have so many things in common.) Her value is therefore purely sentimental, so we could contemplate violating the white coda, painting her some other shade of pale. It is harder than you think to buck the norm. Blue? Yellow? Orange? (Don't get me started...)
What if no one wants to buy her when she's painted ?
We aren't selling are we?
Just asking...
Are we enjoying our trip? we ask each other this, just to check.
Yes we are. Very much.
Well that's your answer then.
Mmm. Lilac?
Maybe a few swirls, not just plain. Swirls are in fashion. New carpets, curtains, paint the cupboards, give the old girl a revamp.
When this will happen is not specified. It would take me a good month,
And which good month would that be?
The spare one between August and September, slightly left of summer - that one.
Oh well, that's all right then.

We have no idea where we are going today - apart from Devon by teatime. A quick stop at St Michael's Mount for a unisex wee - the tide is in, so we can't cross the causeway. The carpark features a bizarre outbuilding hosting three toilet cubicles, outside of which two coachloads of cross-legged OAPs are queuing. Faint yells for help are heard from inside, and two husky surfers appear from the nearby cafe. they obviously know the drill and wrench at the door until it bursts open. A very relieved  old lady exits, complaining about the state of the lock, sees who has rescued her and flutters her eyelashes. The queue shuffles over to mingle with the other two ever-increasing lines. We praise the Lord for delivering us a campervan with indoor amenities, and after taking a few pics set off once more.

 Soon the road signs tell us we are approaching Perranporth.  The Duchess must have had memories of holidays here with previous owners because we hadn't planned this visit. She takes us to a car park and we climb out to give her time to catch her breath. It is possibly Cornish Mablethorpe. A man and his ten year old son stride by with brand-new full-sized galvanised buckets and garden spades. I like an obsessive father, and try to get a photo, but they are gone too fast; sand waits for no man. The town is overrun with parents and sprogs in various states of stickiness, all heading for the beach - safe for sandcastles - careful of the sea though. Two flags stuck in the sand allow you fifty yards of water to swim in out of a calm blue mile. There's even a little rocky island for the kids to climb up and fall off. The very stuff of family fun, but even more essential is the multiplication (no, not a multiplicity) of shops. The original shop was cloned and now has at least twenty offspring. They all sell a rich pick and mix of all things sweet, pencils, beach gear, plasters, nougat and clotted cream, No one knows why this happened, The Roslin Institute refuses to take responsibility, but all of them have made a life for themselves on the hospitable shores of North Cornwall.
Unlike Carne Bay, Perranporth is heaving with bodies and windbreakers, all on the right side of it for some reason. Is the left side pre-booked  by a coach-load from Scunthorpe? Or is something more sinister afoot? We hope the local dragon will enter stage left and whip off the nearest uninformed maiden as she bends over her sandcastle in a floaty white chemise. We like a drama - and are disappointed. Here might be no dragons but there's certainly something very Looking Glass going on. Things are backwards that should be forwards. We are standing in front of the hotel on the cliff overlooking the sunbathers.
'Why's everyone staring at us?' BB asks, embarrassed.

'What do you mean?' I'd been looking at the sea, that's what you do at a beach.  You don't come to ogle the other punters revealing huge white baps and rolls of the non-wheaty variety, which they butter in plain view. That sort of staring would normally be rude.
 Apparently not in Perranporth. For some reason the buttered bathers are gazing up at us with uniform adoration. They should be gazing, as we are, out to sea so what is going on? 

We notice something else.
 Almost without exception the family windbreakers are set up to obscure their view of the sea.

'Now I know why I prefer the South coast,' mutters BB, no sunbather he, but smart as a whippydoodle. 'Sun's in the wrong place on this coast.'
He is right, but I'd never thought about the two coasts in those terms before. Everyone knows the North coast has bigger surf - like the spectacular six inch breakers today. The south, notoriously lacks waves of any kind, but at least you can see the sea whilst you roast and baste.
I'd never thought of us as sunflowers before, turning our faces, windbreakers  and pop-up tents as the sun wheels through the sky. If I was Van Gogh I'd whip out my paintbrush and do justice to this bizarre sight. But I'm not, so you'll have to make do with a photo.

We are standing here, on the cliff

Personally I can think of better things to do than roast my body under a big orange microwave. I'm with Canute on that one, the sea is for remonstrating with, head-on challenges, not hiding behind canvas barricades and blushing pink.
I seem to remember him roaring, 'Oh sea, North Sea, just listen to me!' Immortal words learned at Primary School, so they must be true.
Afraid I've had to add a line or two to patch the holes in my memory, but at least I've made it scan. The bits where it doesn't are original, although by whom, no one seems to know. Here goes....

One sunny day in early May one thousand and thirty three
King Canute took his bathing suit, and came down to the sea.
The sea was cold - the King was old, and he very soon changed his mind 
He sat down there in an old deck chair and his courtiers stood behind.

"Although I am King, not a single thing is ever done to please me
My bath was not what I'd call hot, and now you try to freeze me?"
"It is not we, your Majesty the fault it is the sea's
We told it precisely to heat itself nicely to sixty-five degrees!"

"If it declines, though the sun still shines, the remedy, Sire, is yours.
Speak to it strongly for acting so wrongly, and banish it from your shores."
"Thank you my man, an excellent plan - I'll show it I'm not afraid
A king should swim when it pleases him and never be disobeyed!"

"Oh Sea, North Sea just listen to me, My orders are clear and plain!
You will leave this beach at the end of my speech and never come here again!"
From far and wide they watched the tide to see the retreat begin
And got ready to shout as the sea moved out - but still the sea moved in

"Oh sire we beseech, repeat your speech, the sea could not have heard."
But King Canute stood firm and mute, refusing to say a word
The sea crept on till the beach was gone, advancing upon his toes
But still he remained in obstinate vein as the water relentlessly rose.

When his Majesty felt it reach up to his belt he shouted out firm and clear
In spite of the cold and the fact he was old there wasn't a sign of his fear.
"Oh Sea, North Sea! Just listen to me, my orders are firm and plain
Come right in shore as you did before, and then go out again!"

The folk on the pier raised cheer upon cheer, It was marvellous to behold them,
As the waves rolled in, and in, and in, Exactly as he had told them.

On this one occasion corrections will be happily accepted on a postcard, and if anyone wants to add the final couplet, be my guest. Rumour has it that the original included
'Kings may come and kings may go, but  the sea goes on forever'
When I was six I personally thought this rather ruined his magnificent stand, but it turns out this was the only line that came near to the truth. Canute only wanted stop his courtiers brown-nosing and prove the Almighty was, well, almightier than he. This poem was the standard teaching of History back in the day. No doubt our current esteemed educational Fuhrer, Michael Gove would reinstate it into our modern curricula along with Our Island Story given the chance. If you don't remember that version of Our Glorious Past, and maps of the world being Predominantly Pink, just be grateful.

There is a limit to how much fun you can have with no galvanized bucket and spade in Perranporth. So we buy the clotted cream, sit at the hotel picnic table to write postcards. We ask the Duchess if she'd enjoyed her trip down memory lane. She's a bit overwhelmed. Last time she'd been it was a small fishing village. She mutteres something about a pier, a deck chair, and a shouty man, but she does get her beaches confused.

Where next? Whilst the Duchess grumbles, Molly, our intrepid Navigator advises us to get a move on and chooses Trago Mills as the next Station Stop. (Why did British Rail cease using that term? Mocked it then; miss it now.)

I malign Molly, in fact 'twas I that chose Trago. Thought I too would relive some fond memories - maybe find a birdbath for our plant-sitter. Found neither memories fond, nor birdbath in any form. The place is stuck in the 80's, the chips reconstituted sticks of potato flour; statues once politically topical, now say more about their creator. Feels like BNP country. Was it always so and we just didn't notice because the goods were so cheap?
The duchess snorts. We suspect that is our answer.

Moving swiftly on past the one modern statue we could relate to, we enter England over the Tamar bridge, a sense of loss always accompanying this transition. Loss of something timeless, not because Cornwall is beyond time, because our time now has boundaries. Being on the road, driving the Duchess without plan or purpose, is an adventure. Now we see dust kicking up as the Devon farmers gallop towards us across the wide open range, fences in hand. I begin to understand Oklahoma. (Keep up: The musical, not the State.) The farmer and the cowman can't be friends. Ever. Don't even sing about it.


 We suppress our sadness and drive into England, home of small fields, high hedges and and even higher house prices.
A feast awaits in Ivybridge with Old Best Friends. We catch one of them trying to escape as we approach, cheered on by one of those Cornish piskies.
'None of that Dipsy!' we cry, hauling her back just in time. 'We haven't had tea yet!' She is a famous cook, so no wonder those damned piskies wanted to lead her into the bushes.

We discuss youth, an eternal source of amusement to all born during the Pink Map years.
'Back in the day, when my lad left school I made him get up at 7, dig my garden. Then dig his Gran's, then his auntie's, then the neighbours'. Proper 8 hour shift he did till he got a job. Soon sorted him out.' Buggerlugs gives an evil chuckle.
Ah, those were the days to be back in. Imagine trying that now....
They'll have you up for child abuse if you don't pay pocket money at the going rate.  Kids no longer do chores as part of being a family, they get paid per chore for their pocket money. Official Radio 4 stats, honest. By the way....If you aren't one of those kids, it might be worth trying the European Courts of Human Rights.
If that fails, remember, Things Move On, by the time you are a parent, you will not only still be paying off your student loans, your mortgage, your parents care bills, you will also be legally required to pay pocket money to your sprogs at the going Minimum Wage rate.
We set off to find our last wild campsite, up towards the moors, through Cornwood. There is an open space overlooking Plymouth and we park up, batten down, and later regret our choice. Too many night time callers pull in for ten minutes, leave their engine running, and then shoot off again.
 'What are they doing?' I whisper, twitching the curtains to no avail.
 I have it on authority from He who shall be Nameless, May He Live Forever,  that nookie requires killing the engine.
'Perhaps things have speeded up,' I say, 'This is the age of Speed Dating, fast Broadband, all that. Maybe it isn't just mobile Libraries that park up and leave their motor running.'
He frowns.
'Don't ever recall having sex in one of those.'
'You weren't ever a Librarian.'
Innocence is a wonderful thing. I doubt he'll look at those mobile vans in quite the same way again, all those dear old ladies queuing up with Great Expectations not only in their hands but in their eyes.

 Next time we'll choose a space for one vehicle, not five fast bonks.
 However, waiting out the early morning rush hour was worth it. The view across the Vale of Plymouth is lovely, complete with one wild pony. (No I know it's not called the Vale of Plymouth, but it should be, from where we are viewing.)
'Unusual to see one pony on its own, wonder if it needs a vet.' Apparently not. The reeds shake and a foal stands up. Mother and daughter approach for apples -  a bit of Dartmoor magic before we drive back into town to pick up the Diddly - ready for the journey home.

Anne Boleyn and the German Hand Cream July 24th 2013

We sleep, decide to walk to the Minack Theatre. We are assured it is only about 15 minutes across the cliffs. There was a clue I probably should have heeded in that description:
 Cliffs.
'Could we bike over?' I ask the OAP taking our money.
'Well, I suppose you could, yes. Might be a little steep in places.'
She obviously hasn't walked that route since The Ark Ages. She might have given Noah good advice on boat building, but there is something about her 1950's perm that makes us opt for Shanks's pony. A Shetland would have been better, but in the absence of that my pannier is loaded up instead: picnic, two sticks, a brolly and waterproofs. BB has his camera. It weighs a lot. Rain is forecast for exactly when the performance of  Anne Boleyn starts.
Never mind, we're British.

Over the numerous stone styles made from giant boulders, topped with signalling arms Dr Beeching donated in the 60's. We lift and lower - just the job for electric bikes weighing as much as a pair of pensioners. A twisty-turny path with little coloured arrows lies ahead, no signs to indicate that we might (or might not) be going in the right direction. They point us both ways along the cliff, and in the absence of either a map or compass, we head down to what should be the beach. Still no signs, but there are some foreign people to ask,
'Is this the way to the theatre, please?
'Yes, it is, but I'm afraid you're too late!' The accent is guttural.
'Oh no!'
'Yes! It is now shut!' They smile, pleased to be so helpful.
Our faces fall, we wonder if a tornado is forecast. The theatre only cancels in the event of an act of war, God, or both.
'They haff shut it for the performance this afternoon! We tried to buy tickets! There were none left!'
You will notice there are a lot of exclamation marks in this exchange. What you might miss is the slight intimation that we have only got what we deserved for being late risers. Obviously only the early bird catches worms in their country. But we are in ours.

The view from BB's Rabbit Run

 'Good job we've got some tickets then,' says BB waving the distinctive Minack envelope. Seems we are better organised than they are after all - a bit of a cultural shock to all parties. They nod their heads with a new-found respect. We smile, and feeling ever-so slightly smug move along the increasingly busy path towards the sea, giant cliff looming. There is a faint scent of hubris in the air, but we are too near to our goal to heed it.
Still no signs for the theatre. BB thinks it might be up a random hill path, a 1 in 3 rabbit run.



He nips up, I stand with sticks, cluttering the narrow path but unable to take a single leap up this vertical bank. Attempting it will tip me backwards into the forest of Gunneras behind, and there is already a dead elephant ear on the path showing what a foible that would be.

I note that a toddler perished at this spot too, its dummy adorns a thistle. Very poignant. I need to proceed with caution.


BB appears at length, miles above me, and we agree I will follow the more orthodox route along the lower path. Relieved that I am not required to be a rabbit, I round the corner to discover four legs, a bleat and a pair of horns might help more than two legs and a pair of sticks. My squawk is more hen than goat.
Think 200 foot cliff, gibbon country, steps for giants, no handrails and the need for spring-loaded knees. I look at this amazing staircase rising up above my head, can't even see where it ends. The words, rock, hard place, and idiot spring to mind. The walk back to the car park and road is now too far behind me, there is nothing for it - up I go. At the first step I abandon my sticks and revert to being a toddler. Should've nicked that dummy when I had the chance. Hands still work, knees could do better. Young people skip past me, chattering, happy, some stop to ask if I am all right. Of course I am. I wave them on, resting on a step the height of a kitchen stool. This one I can't even rock myself up; I have to ask the Chinese girl behind me if she could give me a push.
'Every little helps!' I say merrily, slapping my bottom. She is flustered, turns out she doesn't understand a word of English, least of all a puffing old toddler enacting TV adverts. Suddenly I get a good old heave from behind, her mother has taken over bum duty. I thank them, recognizing there is only so much of this one can expect, or want, from a visitor to our shores. Pausing to catch my breath  I wonder what has happened to BB. I peer up, and peer down. I am equally stranded twixt top and bottom, unless a handy helicopter flies by. (Oh me, oh my!) I know it will, should I fall the hundred feet to the beach below, but then I'd miss the play. Perhaps I had the look of a jumper, because with more and more people streaming past, two young men ask if they can carry something. I want to reply, 'Yes, me!' but hand over my rucksack and the sticks with relief. Now I won't get tipped backwards by the weight on my back which is marginally heavier than the weight on my front. Must remember that for future mountaineering- a lighter pony pack. The lads kindly see me to the top as BB saunters down the path wondering where I had got to.
'Just be grateful you weren't there to see me crawl up this cliff,' I say. And looking at my red face, he is very grateful indeed.
 Sorry no pics of this episode. For some reason I forgot to ask those nice Chinese ladies if they could snap my arse before heaving it.

Having climbed 90 steps up, there is now a steep descent down to our seats in the stone amphitheatre, but a handrail is a wonderful thing. I mutter a prayer of thanks to their  patron saint. We are seated only a few rows from the stage, on hired cushions with backrests - £1 each, great value. The tickets were only £9, so apart from the marathon getting here, this is proving to be a great day out. The sea is churning not waving, the sky lowering not raining.  And we can eat our picnic overlooking the stage whilst waiting for the performance to begin. It is a spectacular venue, well worth getting scraped knees and soaked for.
The row in front of us is empty, but fifteen minutes before the show starts a coach load of young German students piles in to block our view. We are now sitting behind three tall jokers. A beautiful black boy, Chriss, who looks like he might advertise aftershave, or Calvin Klein knickers; a fair-haired crew-cut lad; and a standard spotty one. Chriss gets out his phone, puts it on video to film himself, checks and adjusts his already perfect hair. We watch this act of super-vanity with disbelieving delight. The wind is quite brisk, it undoes his manoeuvre with a nonchalant toss of the quiff, but fortunately Chriss is distracted by a strange demand.
'Chriss! Hand cream!' comes the shout, in English. We soon learn this is not because they speak perfect English, there is apparently no German word for this essential item.. 'Hand Cream!' the shout echoes amongst the boys in the group.
Are your mates taking the piss, Chriss? Apparently not: Chriss obligingly opens his little manicure bag, out comes a tube of hand cream and it is dispatched along the row of boys. Please note, this tube is not suncream, which might be sensible given that we are facing due south and should the sun come out we will all bake into a rows of crispy fried noodles faster than you can say Peking Duck.
Four times the cry goes up for hand cream. Chriss supplies four different varieties. What a star. These German lads must have the softest hands that do dishes in the whole theatre - while the rest of us have torn nails and grubby fingers from scaling those damned cliffs. I consider asking for a squirt myself, but Chriss and his admiring lads don't really do English, they giggle through the first half of the play, not at the words or actions, at their own  extraordinary wit. I keep thinking I will ask them to pipe down soon, but they are now effectively part of the show. Wouldn't want to miss any of it. We suspect they are here for reasons other than Thespian, and sure enough they don't reappear after the interval. Possibly the wind chapped their hands. The German girls, looking windswept and ordinary follow the whole play, laugh and clap in all the right places, no doubt with under-nourished hands, and are models of stoicism. What, we ask ourselves has happened to the German Male?

Dancing Queens

The play itself is very well acted by a theatre group from Stamford in Lincolnshire, and inspires us to actually read Wolf Hall on our iPads instead of keeping it for a rainy day.

One short shower of rain threatens our fun, but like good little campers we do not erect our brollies, oh no, but huddle under £1 macs from Poundsaver and a £1 tarpaulin. There is something oddly bracing about watching a play in the rain. If the actors can do it, so can we. Makes you proud.

Now it's time to ascend those very steep steps up the theatre and walk back to the campsite. Clouds are banking up, the sun a thing of distant memory. We take the main road down to the beach as the heavens open. By the time we reach the cliff tops on the far side, via numerous wrong turnings since those pesky piskies have stolen all the signs, we are leaking wet. But we don't care. We have waterproof skin under our macs, and the performance wasn't cancelled. We suspect the evening one will be declared null and void, an act of not just one God, but the whole damned raft of them.. It lashed down on the Duchess all night, but by this time we were in a paid-for electric hook-up site feeling we deserved that bottle of red and a fry up.

Carne, Candyfloss and Piskies- July 22nd - 23rd 2013

Carne, Candyfloss and Piskies- July 22nd - 23rd 2013

Onto our bikes, and into Truro to behave like grockles: shop, eat ice-cream, and stand around gawping at the town's touristy splendour in such a way as to block pavements, roads and generally get in everyone's way.



Our first task is to photograph the Cathedral. We are forced to do this from the outside. For some reason Exeter University is holding its graduation ceremony in Truro's Cathedral. Why can't it use it's own?  We never find out. It is hot, we are photographically thwarted and find a delicious-looking baker's shop to compensate.
'We'd like one of those wriggly loaves in the window please,' I say, feeling slightly cheered at the thought of this treat for our hosts. The man looks nonplussed.
'It looks like worms,' I add helpfully, realising a bit too late that my description isn't flattering. He extricates himself from his counter, goes to the window and looks at the mouth-watering display. Evidently my description has him very puzzled. He peers into the window as if this was some other fella's display
'Oh, a German pull-apart! Sorry, none of those left.'
What a liar. We can see it. Perhaps he doesn't like tourists. He points to the shelves behind the counter. There is a single plain loaf displayed.
'All we've got left.'
'Why display such tempting loaves if you don't sell them?' I ask, feeling doubly thwarted now.
'We've all sold out - those at the front aren't for sale, they're fake.'
I forbear to ask why, at midday, he has only got a fake bread and only a single real loaf left. Does no one in Truro buy bread in the afternoon? Perhaps this is a form of Cornish Logik. We are mere visitors and feel slightly wrong-footed by unfamiliar local custom. We wander off in search of something more emmet-friendly.
Ah, just the thing: buskers, they like anyone with cash. As we get closer it seems not only Green Flag men are still in short pants, so are buskers.

Their mum probably wants them out the house,
'Go fleece a few emmets!' she cries. Never mind her little darlings are so shy we can barely hear them sing or play, but they do get E for Effort and some pennies in the hat.



We buy a cupboard shelf for the Duchess, wonderful idea, utterly useless, find a tiny gypsy van that makes us actually feel tall - a strange experience. No doubt this diddy home is ideal for a Cornish Piskie. Perhaps it belongs to our under-age buskers. Either way, it's for sale. Would the Duchess like a sprog of her own, or is she post menopause? We could tow it behind her, use it for stray cats, seagulls, orphans...

We cycle back along the river, but the sun has a pressing date elsewhere. BB gets some nice shots across the river to that elusive Cathedral in the fading sun, I fall onto my bum, and  we return to our hosts for a perfectly, but unintentionally barbecued fish supper.

Monday 22nd July
We set off for Veryan, reputedly a very pretty beach. The road is Duchess-width; she gets her ribs tickled by hedgerows that should know better, vanquishes lesser beasts on every bend, but faced with a giant pantechnicon we finally surrender the idea of our chosen destination and divert the Old Girl to Carne Bay instead.

Here is a big unmonitored car park, (£2 donation in a granite tombstone), access to a wide sandy beach with ramp and handrail, no shops, some shallow rock pools, hardly any humans - probably because of a lack of retail therapy, and a few strikingly purple jellyfish.

Idyllic. Sun shines, all is happiness, and there are woolly rocks as well. Must be sundried candyfloss.
We find a whole bunch of those pesky piskies mocking us on the sand. We never see more than their feet of course, and their shadows. They are the reverse of Vampires, much kinder on the throat.

It is time to move on, leave our lovely hosts, and make our way down to Land's End. We try Sennen cove, but the car park there says no overnight parking. Why are they missing such a wonderful opportunity for a bit more easy revenue? Perhaps unspeakable things happen on the Cornish coast at night. With a history of smugglers, wreckers and the like, a few tourist sacrifices would surely be the stuff of future legends... But no, they don't want either our money or the Duchess anywhere near this bleak promontory, so we drive on towards Porth Curno and the Minack Theatre. We are surprised just how many possible laybys there are on the way. Cornwall is turning out to be an good place to wild camp, but we are becoming fussy. This is Corrnwall for God's sake, we want a sea view. On to Treen where there is not only a grassy car park that welcomes overnight Motorhomes for £3.50, but has a distant view of the sea as well. Perfect - until another camper parks right alongside us.
Why? A whole field the size of two football grounds, accommodating only four motorhomes (all regulation white), and you snuggle up to us, you silver-blue newbie. I will say that white campervan owners have better manners. Their prides-and-joy might be lacking in colour, but they wave at you on the road, speak to you off it, and leave you as much space as possible when parked up. We suspect it is the herding instinct that makes this shiny surfing van creep so close, safety in numbers in a soporific Cornish village obviously crawling with lethal piskies. The moon wishes us goodnight, and we curl up, looking forwards to the day ahead.