 |
| Note the pasty-sized opening at the back |
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.
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.
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.
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.
Almost without exception the family windbreakers are set up to obscure their view of the sea.
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 |
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.
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.
'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.
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.
You are driving about, although I am sure you would be 'gadding', with a Diddly, a Doodley, a Dipsy, a Diddly Squat, poking fun at beach-combers and holiday makers doing the same sight-seeing you are, albeit statically. You seem to be garnering cheap laughs by ogling people who possibly possess the physical characteristics of Old Best Friend. And the boy and his father with lifesize spades is as charming as the seaside snaps which could 100 years old or now. There is a sense of l'esprit du jour running through summer seaside towns. Where is a picture of the camper van you drive around in? You seem to enjoy mocking English life for a chortle in pursuit of a sense of superiority, laced with all the affectations of a Jeeves & Wooster or Mapp & Lucia. Could your Duchess be parked next to a camper van in Trago full of rolls of the non-wheaty variety eager to butter their baps in an orange microwave & drive around taking in English life and scenery through a clear lens?
ReplyDelete