Are you of the belief that there is no such thing as a perfect day? I suppose you're right. There's always some small irritant, some blemish, something that you would fix.
But what if so much goes right that you can't recall a single imperfection? What if all day long the sun pokes in and out from behind a hazy mist, and you experience random friendship? What if the food you eat isn't what you expected but is great nonetheless? What if?
Well now. Let's begin with the honorable meal:
Breakfast at the Trevose Harbour House is unbelievably well thought out. There are the pastries, the croissants, all that stuff that I must pass on because of everything else. There are the berries and all varieties of other fruits, the yogurts, the organic granolas and organic thises and thats, the fresh juices. Then there are the cooked options. Britain in general is generous with its approach to breakfast, but these guys offer so many delicious choices that your head spins from indecision. I finally take plain scrambled eggs, with smoked salmon, roasted mushrooms and tomatoes. Sort of a Scottish classic -- one that will usually carry me through the day until evening. (The English couple to my left studies the menu, then does what the English nearly always do -- orders the full English breakfast, which includes eggs, sausage, baked tomato, and beans. The grumpy Alabama couple eats earlier and retires to their room.)
(Breakfast is with a view toward the blue sitting room.)
After eating all this, I have to wonder -- are Angela and Ollie (the guest house owners) in the food preparation business?
What they are is a cool young couple with a cosmopolitan background and a lot of professional experience in what is called the hospitality field (they are graduates of the Lausanne school of inn-keeping, which is as good as it gets). I say 'cosmopolitan' because they aren't actually English. Or at least between the two of them, only 1/4 is English. The rest? Italian (1/4) and Swiss (1/4), and Dutch (1/4), but that neglects her childhood in Majorca and his mother's inn keeping outside of Paris.
Basically, we're European, Angela tells me, but even that reveals only part of the story because when they searched for a place to open their guest house, their first choice initially was... Brazil. I ask -- but do you speak Portuguese? She shrugs her shoulders. We're fluent in Italian, French, Spanish and English. So we took a year of Portuguese. Easy, if you know the other languages. Oh, those Europeans with their language skills! Should I start teaching Snowdrop French? Italian? I must consult with her parents when I get home.
So here they are in St. Ives, with impeccable inn keeping credentials and a boatload of great ideas and a desire for a certain flexible life style (they have two kids -- a four year old and a two year old), with a 2.5 month break in winter. They are among the legions who cannot believe how bad Americans are at giving and taking vacations.
Late in the morning, I leave my cozy blue and white room and walk to town, passing clumps of friends lingering to chat in the dab of emerging sunshine.
And then I veer off to the south.
Probably this will be my most ambitious hike of the trip (I am prone to firing off the challenging ones at the very beginning, after which I get lazier). I want to walk the coastal path toward Land's End. I can't quite get to the trail's end (the tip of England, as it were), but I tell myself I will be happy with doing a 2.5 hour trek out and then a return. There are no villages along the way, no good ways of getting back by bus or otherwise. I'm on my own.
At first, Angela had suggested other hikes: there is one you can do to the north and then stop at a cafe and get a nice lunch...
But I want to do the coastal walk heading toward Land's End! It seems rugged and beautiful!
It's pretty wild. A lot of climbs and descents... No place to stop...
I like the idea of Cornwall wild. I'm reading the book "Wild" at the moment. It does this to you: it makes you believe you can do more than you think you can do.
Here, you have to understand the positioning of St. Ives a bit: the town is on a peninsula: to the northeast, you have the long expanse of beach and coves and coastal life. To the southwest you have the rugged cliffs and wild heath: heather, gorse and scrub and not much else. This is where I'm heading.
There are a few walkers toward the town end of the path, but pretty quickly, the trail empties out. I am nearly alone. Selfie time! This photo is of a fragment of a stone circle. There are speculations about its ancient origins, but they are only that. One fable has it that they stand for 13 local farmers and a 19 year old virgin from St Ives. The writer informs us that you'd be hard pressed to find more than one 19 year old virgin in St. Ives. (Do note that I have shed my one layer of fleece and am in the purple layer purchased here. By the end of the hike, I will want to be only in my undershirt. Upon my return to town, I will quickly add back all the layers.)
The views toward the sea are grand! I think a bit about death and how easy it would be to slip and tumble on the wet and muddy trail. (Most of the trail does not touch the edge too much, which is a good thing as I really do not like sheer drops.)
But its not only the sea that takes your breath away here. The misty view inland is of pastures and hills, golden gorse and last year's heather.
And of crumbling stone structures, sometimes belonging to old mines that once dotted the landscape here.
I take note, too, of the beautiful spring sightings: of the wild and true English primrose...
Of the wild iris emerging by a cascading brook.
Of the birds! This one has an especially beautiful trill! What is it? A goldfinch? I cannot tell.
And speaking of bird watching, I must take note of the three couples I encountered on my hike -- one with a pair of dogs -- I caught up to them and passed them each way. They were busy calling to their pooches to stay away from the cliff side. But they did remark how great it is to get out and appreciate the beauty of the land around you. I agreed. The second pair were the two avid bird watchers. They walked with binoculars and paused frequently. The third was already on the retreat when I was still heading out. We paused to exchange notes on the state of the trail (boggy at times; my shoes were caked in mud).
At first, I made nothing of these fleeting encounters. But the truth is, in the five hours that it took me to hike out and back, they stood out and I must have stuck in their memory as well because later, back in town, that third couple hailed me over to chat and told me where I should go to get the best Cornish cream tea in town. So these were my friends for the day. I honor them here.
And let me note the point in my hike where I turned and began my trek back. A large stream creates a delightful waterfall -- you can just catch it at the center left of the photo. I am in a bay of sorts and you can't see them here, but there are two seals having a fine old time bopping in the waves. The color of the sea is absolutely stunning.
And so it was a perfect hike!
And of course, you feel so noble and strong at the end of it. And certainly deserving of that cream tea -- as a reminder, a cream tea will always include scones, strawberry jam and clotted cream which is sinfully rich. I did tell the server to please take off that second scone. You shouldn't undo all the good you brought onto yourself in one sitting!
This is indeed the place you must go to for a cream tea when you are next in St. Ives:
In the remaining daylight hour, I visited a children's clothes shop and stared at lovely little summer frocks and playsuits, all made in Dorset -- not too far from here. You may find this silly, but it took me a full thirty minutes to decide if Snowdrop would be wearing a 3-6 month piece, or a 6-12 month number this July (when she will be exactly six months old). I mean, what would you choose, given that the first may be just right or too small and the second looked awfully large for that wee little girl? Such are the dilemmas of a person who is not in a rush, who can linger, who can reflect.
In the evening, Ollie struggled to find me a place to eat supper (and I surely was hungry for it!). He'd picked spots they like for the remaining evenings, but today stumped him as the one other favorite appeared to be still closed for the season. Finally he blurted out -- would you like to go to a great little burger place? I balked. I haven't eaten a burger in years. If ever I'm in a place where there may be a credible burger that doesn't offend (meaning the meat is sourced in a way that I do not find reprehensible), there is always something else on the menu that I prefer. But he insisted this wasn't just a regular burger joint. Three women got together and opened something special: a place where food matters, even as the emphasis is on the burger. I was intrigued.
Here it is then, my dinner, with the burger of the day from Blas Burgerworks: Cornish beef with Ragstone unpasturized handmade goat cheese, beetroot, soft herb salsa and baby lettuce laves.
The place has four large communal tables, but it's not crowded tonight and I watch one couple to the side have a romantic evening over a fancy burger, topped off by a liqueur. Oh, young love!
It is my great luck to have had this, yes, perfect day. It is beyond wonderful to have more days of exploration still before me.
But what if so much goes right that you can't recall a single imperfection? What if all day long the sun pokes in and out from behind a hazy mist, and you experience random friendship? What if the food you eat isn't what you expected but is great nonetheless? What if?
Well now. Let's begin with the honorable meal:
Breakfast at the Trevose Harbour House is unbelievably well thought out. There are the pastries, the croissants, all that stuff that I must pass on because of everything else. There are the berries and all varieties of other fruits, the yogurts, the organic granolas and organic thises and thats, the fresh juices. Then there are the cooked options. Britain in general is generous with its approach to breakfast, but these guys offer so many delicious choices that your head spins from indecision. I finally take plain scrambled eggs, with smoked salmon, roasted mushrooms and tomatoes. Sort of a Scottish classic -- one that will usually carry me through the day until evening. (The English couple to my left studies the menu, then does what the English nearly always do -- orders the full English breakfast, which includes eggs, sausage, baked tomato, and beans. The grumpy Alabama couple eats earlier and retires to their room.)
(Breakfast is with a view toward the blue sitting room.)
After eating all this, I have to wonder -- are Angela and Ollie (the guest house owners) in the food preparation business?
What they are is a cool young couple with a cosmopolitan background and a lot of professional experience in what is called the hospitality field (they are graduates of the Lausanne school of inn-keeping, which is as good as it gets). I say 'cosmopolitan' because they aren't actually English. Or at least between the two of them, only 1/4 is English. The rest? Italian (1/4) and Swiss (1/4), and Dutch (1/4), but that neglects her childhood in Majorca and his mother's inn keeping outside of Paris.
Basically, we're European, Angela tells me, but even that reveals only part of the story because when they searched for a place to open their guest house, their first choice initially was... Brazil. I ask -- but do you speak Portuguese? She shrugs her shoulders. We're fluent in Italian, French, Spanish and English. So we took a year of Portuguese. Easy, if you know the other languages. Oh, those Europeans with their language skills! Should I start teaching Snowdrop French? Italian? I must consult with her parents when I get home.
So here they are in St. Ives, with impeccable inn keeping credentials and a boatload of great ideas and a desire for a certain flexible life style (they have two kids -- a four year old and a two year old), with a 2.5 month break in winter. They are among the legions who cannot believe how bad Americans are at giving and taking vacations.
Late in the morning, I leave my cozy blue and white room and walk to town, passing clumps of friends lingering to chat in the dab of emerging sunshine.
And then I veer off to the south.
Probably this will be my most ambitious hike of the trip (I am prone to firing off the challenging ones at the very beginning, after which I get lazier). I want to walk the coastal path toward Land's End. I can't quite get to the trail's end (the tip of England, as it were), but I tell myself I will be happy with doing a 2.5 hour trek out and then a return. There are no villages along the way, no good ways of getting back by bus or otherwise. I'm on my own.
At first, Angela had suggested other hikes: there is one you can do to the north and then stop at a cafe and get a nice lunch...
But I want to do the coastal walk heading toward Land's End! It seems rugged and beautiful!
It's pretty wild. A lot of climbs and descents... No place to stop...
I like the idea of Cornwall wild. I'm reading the book "Wild" at the moment. It does this to you: it makes you believe you can do more than you think you can do.
Here, you have to understand the positioning of St. Ives a bit: the town is on a peninsula: to the northeast, you have the long expanse of beach and coves and coastal life. To the southwest you have the rugged cliffs and wild heath: heather, gorse and scrub and not much else. This is where I'm heading.
There are a few walkers toward the town end of the path, but pretty quickly, the trail empties out. I am nearly alone. Selfie time! This photo is of a fragment of a stone circle. There are speculations about its ancient origins, but they are only that. One fable has it that they stand for 13 local farmers and a 19 year old virgin from St Ives. The writer informs us that you'd be hard pressed to find more than one 19 year old virgin in St. Ives. (Do note that I have shed my one layer of fleece and am in the purple layer purchased here. By the end of the hike, I will want to be only in my undershirt. Upon my return to town, I will quickly add back all the layers.)
The views toward the sea are grand! I think a bit about death and how easy it would be to slip and tumble on the wet and muddy trail. (Most of the trail does not touch the edge too much, which is a good thing as I really do not like sheer drops.)
But its not only the sea that takes your breath away here. The misty view inland is of pastures and hills, golden gorse and last year's heather.
And of crumbling stone structures, sometimes belonging to old mines that once dotted the landscape here.
I take note, too, of the beautiful spring sightings: of the wild and true English primrose...
Of the wild iris emerging by a cascading brook.
Of the birds! This one has an especially beautiful trill! What is it? A goldfinch? I cannot tell.
And speaking of bird watching, I must take note of the three couples I encountered on my hike -- one with a pair of dogs -- I caught up to them and passed them each way. They were busy calling to their pooches to stay away from the cliff side. But they did remark how great it is to get out and appreciate the beauty of the land around you. I agreed. The second pair were the two avid bird watchers. They walked with binoculars and paused frequently. The third was already on the retreat when I was still heading out. We paused to exchange notes on the state of the trail (boggy at times; my shoes were caked in mud).
At first, I made nothing of these fleeting encounters. But the truth is, in the five hours that it took me to hike out and back, they stood out and I must have stuck in their memory as well because later, back in town, that third couple hailed me over to chat and told me where I should go to get the best Cornish cream tea in town. So these were my friends for the day. I honor them here.
And let me note the point in my hike where I turned and began my trek back. A large stream creates a delightful waterfall -- you can just catch it at the center left of the photo. I am in a bay of sorts and you can't see them here, but there are two seals having a fine old time bopping in the waves. The color of the sea is absolutely stunning.
And so it was a perfect hike!
And of course, you feel so noble and strong at the end of it. And certainly deserving of that cream tea -- as a reminder, a cream tea will always include scones, strawberry jam and clotted cream which is sinfully rich. I did tell the server to please take off that second scone. You shouldn't undo all the good you brought onto yourself in one sitting!
This is indeed the place you must go to for a cream tea when you are next in St. Ives:
In the remaining daylight hour, I visited a children's clothes shop and stared at lovely little summer frocks and playsuits, all made in Dorset -- not too far from here. You may find this silly, but it took me a full thirty minutes to decide if Snowdrop would be wearing a 3-6 month piece, or a 6-12 month number this July (when she will be exactly six months old). I mean, what would you choose, given that the first may be just right or too small and the second looked awfully large for that wee little girl? Such are the dilemmas of a person who is not in a rush, who can linger, who can reflect.
In the evening, Ollie struggled to find me a place to eat supper (and I surely was hungry for it!). He'd picked spots they like for the remaining evenings, but today stumped him as the one other favorite appeared to be still closed for the season. Finally he blurted out -- would you like to go to a great little burger place? I balked. I haven't eaten a burger in years. If ever I'm in a place where there may be a credible burger that doesn't offend (meaning the meat is sourced in a way that I do not find reprehensible), there is always something else on the menu that I prefer. But he insisted this wasn't just a regular burger joint. Three women got together and opened something special: a place where food matters, even as the emphasis is on the burger. I was intrigued.
Here it is then, my dinner, with the burger of the day from Blas Burgerworks: Cornish beef with Ragstone unpasturized handmade goat cheese, beetroot, soft herb salsa and baby lettuce laves.
The place has four large communal tables, but it's not crowded tonight and I watch one couple to the side have a romantic evening over a fancy burger, topped off by a liqueur. Oh, young love!
It is my great luck to have had this, yes, perfect day. It is beyond wonderful to have more days of exploration still before me.
