July 10. Wet, wet, wet
It goes without saying that it rained all day yesterday, although ‘rain’ seems a singularly inadequate word to describe what we endured. This wasn’t soft summer rain; it was cold, hard, slanting winter rain, driven in on a chill westerly gale.
Fortunately, a bus runs every hour from the Trevalgan Farm campsite (which I strongly recommend) into St. Ives, so I decided to console myself with a good lunch, at the Blue Fish, behind the Sloop. I went for calamari, followed by sea bass with noodles, samphire and chilli jam, off the fixed price £14.95 menu, washed down with a bottle of house Sauvignon. The calamari were exemplary; the sea bass was rather overwhelmed by its accompaniments. The waitress’ black
thong added considerable further enchantment to the view.
It goes without saying that it rained all day yesterday, although ‘rain’ seems a singularly inadequate word to describe what we endured. This wasn’t soft summer rain; it was cold, hard, slanting winter rain, driven in on a chill westerly gale.
Fortunately, a bus runs every hour from the Trevalgan Farm campsite (which I strongly recommend) into St. Ives, so I decided to console myself with a good lunch, at the Blue Fish, behind the Sloop. I went for calamari, followed by sea bass with noodles, samphire and chilli jam, off the fixed price £14.95 menu, washed down with a bottle of house Sauvignon. The calamari were exemplary; the sea bass was rather overwhelmed by its accompaniments. The waitress’ black
thong added considerable further enchantment to the view. The Sloop from the Blue Fish - too wet even for the seagulls
It was still tipping down when I left at 3.00, so I decided to while away an hour or so with a pint and The Times crossword at the Golden Lion (a Good Beer Guide entry whose doors I have never previously darkened). The all-day drinkers were going strong in the back bar. The focus of conversation was a gentleman who suffers from a speech impediment I have not previously encountered. He was incapable of saying anything just once; it had to be repeated at least three times.
“What was it Pericles did? What was it Pericles did? What was it Pericles did?”
We never did discover.
The conversation became progressively more surreal, as the subject of spinach somehow intruded into a debate on Che Guevara.
“Can Che Guevara save the world? Can Che Guevara save the world? Can Che Guevara save the world? With spinach. With spinach. With spinach.”
To which his equally pie-eyed friend replied, with commendable logic under the circumstances:
“Not any more he can’t. He’s dead. The CIA done ‘im in. And bugger your spinach!”
I decided against a £4.75 visit to the Tate St. Ives. Having been left distinctly cold by the contents of the Guggenheim in Bilbao, I didn’t hold out much hope of getting my money’s worth
of cultural inspiration at what is a distinctly poor relation.
It was still tipping down when I left at 3.00, so I decided to while away an hour or so with a pint and The Times crossword at the Golden Lion (a Good Beer Guide entry whose doors I have never previously darkened). The all-day drinkers were going strong in the back bar. The focus of conversation was a gentleman who suffers from a speech impediment I have not previously encountered. He was incapable of saying anything just once; it had to be repeated at least three times.
“What was it Pericles did? What was it Pericles did? What was it Pericles did?”
We never did discover.
The conversation became progressively more surreal, as the subject of spinach somehow intruded into a debate on Che Guevara.
“Can Che Guevara save the world? Can Che Guevara save the world? Can Che Guevara save the world? With spinach. With spinach. With spinach.”
To which his equally pie-eyed friend replied, with commendable logic under the circumstances:
“Not any more he can’t. He’s dead. The CIA done ‘im in. And bugger your spinach!”
I decided against a £4.75 visit to the Tate St. Ives. Having been left distinctly cold by the contents of the Guggenheim in Bilbao, I didn’t hold out much hope of getting my money’s worth
of cultural inspiration at what is a distinctly poor relation. Sunshine at last
It stopped raining at 6.00 precisely. I squelched my way down to the coastal footpath and sat on a bench, to watch the sun move across the waters, and listen to the larks and the sea.
It stopped raining at 6.00 precisely. I squelched my way down to the coastal footpath and sat on a bench, to watch the sun move across the waters, and listen to the larks and the sea.
Today, the weather has been much better. So much so that I fell fast asleep in the afternoon sunshine on Gwynver beach, just down the cliff from what is another excellent campsite (Trevedra Farm near Sennen), and was two hours late for my round of golf at Cape Cornwall. I got round by 9.30.
Cape CornwallIt isn’t the greatest golf course in the world (some of the holes are deeply silly), but it does have glorious views. Having played at mainland Britain’s most northerly course, just a few miles from one of its two Capes, I felt I was completing the circle by playing at its most westerly, just a few hundred yards from the other Cape. And I bettered my handicap by a shot.
Tomorrow, the Scillies.
Tomorrow, the Scillies.
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