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.