a day of threes

A day of threes: three galleries, three beaches, three meals, three hours of trekking (compare, please: first day had a five hour hike, second day's was four hours; there is a trend!).

But let's start with breakfast. You know how much I believe in a good first push forward.

I take a break from my usual Scottish and go for the porridge. I'm a sucker for good porridge, as you can surely tell from my farmette breakfasts. And my guest house does all cooked breakfasts very, very well.






It is a beautiful morning! A view this time from my window toward town:






It begs for a hike! But, I have neglected the art world of St. Ives and so I must make room for it today. You cannot hope to understand this place without digging a little into its ties to the artistic communities -- past and present. And in fact, my hosts arranged for me to join a private showing of the home, studio and paintings of Sandra Blow, who lived here in the last years of her life.

Of course, I'd never heard of her. If you haven't either, I've done my homework for you: she was an abstract painter and she used scraps of cheap material to complete collages on her rather large canvases. She died unfortunately just before the market crashed in 08 and here's another unfortunate aspect -- at least from the perspective of her estate: her remaining canvases are so huge (10' by 10') that there aren't many collectors willing to take them in.

I walk up to her former studio and home, enjoying the morning sunshine. Ah, here we go again: another mom and grandma out for a stroll with their little one, with a totally charming gesture of grandma holding the girl's hand:






Alright, I'm at the Blow home and Jon, the estate executor is here to show us around. I see right away that the man and woman who are the primary viewers know their stuff!


 


He is a London pub owner (with art!), but his dad is a major collector (he emphasized the word "major" several times). I almost asked if his dad was, by chance, very old and if there are siblings to consider, as we were all rather jocular by then, but I held back. He may have found this to be tactless, even with allowances for British humor and sensibilities.

Sandra Blow canvases aren't off the wall pricey -- yet. The most expensive painting sold for 100,000 pounds, but everyone admits (me too! why not be agreeable and feign a knowledge I do not have?) that the art market is finicky and peculiar. In her life, Blow was ranked alongside the likes of Ben Nicholson (we're asked -- you know Nicholson of course? and they nod and so I nod as well, because what if, what if one just doesn't not know Nicholson?) and now his art sells for millions! Millions! And why? Well, it's all in the hands of a good agent and it helps if you infiltrate the American market (says Jon the executor).





Apparently many of my fellow country men and women have money and not a whole lot of places to park it. Out of desperation, they look to art, which, I learn, in stable times, serves as a garage for their cash overflow. These have not been stable times.


I bow out after an hour. So much to do, so little time!

And as I walk down to the coast, I come across something that I swore yesterday didn't exist here: a farmer's market! True, it's not outdoors. And I have to say, it is so limited that I stand by my words that St. Ives doesn't really have a year round farmers market. This one has one vendor with produce, but mostly it has something that looks to me very much like a bake sale -- lots of brownies and slices of cake and quiche, alongside some very ordinary looking slabs of bacon. It may be quite fine bacon, but there isn't a sign to advertise its superior qualities.






I think some of the brownies and such are to be enjoyed at one of the tables to the side of the room, while you're chatting to your friends. I see, in fact, a congregation of young moms who appear to be hungry for conversation even more than they are for that brownie.






Alright, time for the hike.

You may remember that I walked the coastal path west of here (toward Land's End). And I walked the coastal path from Hayle due east. Well there is a missing link here and it's perfect for a day with limited hours: the coastal path between St. Ives, approaching Hayle.

It's an easy walk -- a few ups and downs but nothing significant. The interesting part takes perhaps two hours, but after, I detoured inland for obvious (daffodil related) reasons, giving me the sum total of three.

The truly beautiful aspect to this walk is that it provides splendid views onto the sandy coves. This is where I spotted the dogs playing (on the horizon you see the vague contours of the beach I had naviagted the day before, on my way toward the seal rocks)






...and then one of them bowing out of the frolic, to sit and contemplate life and eternity while gazing out to the quiet sea.






It's so peaceful here now! The beaches are empty, there is not a sound to disturb your inner harmony, but for the occasional wave that gently washes the sands.






One cove after the next, until you come to the inlet.

At low tide, the sands are vast. I mean, really vast. But the hiker needs to leave the sea coast here and follow the inlet to a point where there is a crossing (a mile or two away from the sea). And you'll see how the expanse of sand bends too, to follow that inlet. If you haven't grasped the vastness of this beach, then consider, please, that in the photo below, the dots on the center far right are people.






Looking over my shoulder, I see St. Ives.






It's a beautiful, for me, set of hours!

Turning toward the village of Lelant, I encounter a handful of strollers taking to the sandy terrain along the inlet. Colorfully dressed, they add zest to the landscape!






Away from the waters now, I pass a classic old church yard...






... and I walk along a sidewalk that shows England's true love for the garden flower.






And I am delighted to listen already to the sound of honey bees.






But wait, I'm close to those daffodils again! Wouldn't you walk an extra bit to face those ribbons of gold once more?






Of course you would.






Retreating now to a bus stop, I pass this cow, who has an interesting way of reaching the turnip growing on the other side of the electric fence.






And now I want to be back in St. Ives, to finish my artsy circuit (hence the bus back to town), even as I am reluctant to go to the Tate St.Ives, having listened to the discussion between the art connoisseurs earlier in the day. That photography show at the Tate Museum? It's rubbish! What's that all about anyway?  Apparently curators make a name for themselves by choosing the unconventional and edgy artwork, even as the public prefers the tried and true. Toward the end of the day, I do make it to the Tate and though I am a photograph exhibition buff and seek out these photo shows in many strange places, I have to admit that most of the one at the Tate St. Ives leaves me yawning. Here's another pair that walked through at lightening speed.






I must mention that before the Tate, I drink my tea in that familiar by now Digey Cafe, where I was urged to go my first day in St. Ives by the hikers who warned of boggy trails. Today I could not pass on this:





Because of that clotted cream, I may as well call it my second meal.






I want to post, too a photo of another trilogy: buildings on a St. Ives street that show off the three building materials commonly used here: stone, white plaster, or slate (which looks like a gray shingle, but isn't).






Out of today's art trilogy, I've saved the best for last here and this truly was sublime, even as I hadn't great expectations, being too full of sea air and daffodils to focus on the renowned greats who once lived and created art here. I'm referring now to the small museum and absolutely gorgeous sculpture garden of Barbara Hepworth. If you're curious and you find yourself clicking on the link, just scroll down the photos to the side. They give a terrific idea of her life and work.



(from the museum)


I should have remembered the name. Anyone who knows sculpture would know of her. Too, as a U.N. brat, I was in New York at the time a foundation commissioned her work to stand before the headquarters of the United Nations  in 1964. But, I was a kid then and I am terribly uninformed about the modern art scene now -- it's as if my visual orbit somehow got arrested with Matisse or Modigliani and I can go no further.

Let me just flag a few scenes from the sculpture garden. Obviously, the landscaping is important here and the options remain limited at this time of the year, but I think it's just sublime and especially so because in March, you can have the place to yourself. Here you have it -- the garden, introduced to you and me by the resident cat:
















And now it's evening and again, the temperatures are dropping to the freezing point.  I have just a short walk to the restaurant that really may be one of my favorites in this country -- the very informal, very delightful Black Rock. I have Cornwall scallops with garlic, followed by a slow cooked beef dish (they describe it as "Trevaskis Farm sticky blade of beef slow cooked in porter, with celeriac puree and dressed kale" -- I had to ask what they mean by "sticky blade of beef!") that rivals anything prepared across the channel (and the French pride themselves at doing a slow cooked beef very well). I could not pass on the dessert -- a rhubarb and custard tart with Lelant honey ice cream (I saw the bees in Lelant that made that honey!) on a piece of meringue. Perfect, thin crust, heavenly flavors in the custard and ice cream. Who knew St. Ives could offer this!






The tide is low when I walk home. I can hear the sound of waves, but it's a distant noise. The stars are out, but my attention is drawn toward the bay and the lights of the buildings lining the shore.





I get sentimental on my last night in a place that I have grown to like. I think about returning to relive it all again. Sometimes I do, other times I move on to discover something new. But if great walks, good foods and a wonderful room with a view are what I search for, then shouldn't I return some day?

tiny delay

I am aware that for regular Ocean readers, predictability as to postings is valuable and checking for an update is boring. So a heads up here: though when in Europe, I typically post during my mornings (I am currently five hours ahead of Madison time), today I have a train to catch and I want to edit my writing a bit during the long journey east.

This little post is, therefore, just a tease, asking for your patience. In the meantime, consider the dog I observed just sitting there patiently, watching the tiny waves roll in from the sea:





What was he waiting for? I don't know, but wait he did, dreaming doggie dreams, displaying utter calm.

I'll be back with a real post later in the day.

the other side of the coast

I had seen them out the train window: Cornwall's fields of gold. Daffodils grow here both for export and for Britain's markets and in March, the rows of planted bulbs look stunning. I could not photograph them through the window of the moving train but this morning, as my bus wove its way along the coast from St. Ives to Hayle (north of St Ives), I saw them again and this time I vowed to make time for a closer look. And so on the return bus, I ring the bell to get off and I come closer to this carpet of spring.

I'm starting this post with the daffodils not because walking among them produced the best set of minutes of the day (although they were pretty spectacular), but because looking at a picture of this rhapsody in yellow will surely put you in a good mood and in fine stead for considering the rest of my Cornish ballade. And as in a musical ballade, I will return to the daffodils because predictably, I have more than one photo of them to offer Ocean readers.






A fantastic weather report for the day turns out to be completely accurate: plenty of sunshine and temps touching the fifties F (50F = 10C). Caveat: by the sea, there is a bit of a haze, which you will see especially in the coastal shots pointing due west. Too, the winds are very brisk and so the jacket stays tightly zipped. English people keep telling me it's cold and I of course think -- it actually feels wonderful! I am a sucker for sunshine in March. (And I am very glad to have spontaneously purchased a facial sun screen at the Detroit airport. A coastal sun, even from behind a light haze is potent stuff!)

Red sun in the morning is a traveler's love song.






Breakfast -- a repeat of yesterday.


 



I listen to my hosts talk to other fellow diners -- one couple has their own guest house on the coast, in Bornemouth (must look it up!), the other pair is somehow connected to the Kempinski hotel group. If you're an innkeeper, do you compare and contrast every night you spend at another inn?

The Bornemouth wife tells me -- we saw you at Blas Burgerworks last night... It is true that the solo diner always stands out: she is a rare thing. And if she uses her camera as much as I do, she will be especially remembered.






Today, I follow the suggestion of my hosts, Ollie and Angela, and I catch the public bus... (here's a view towards St. Ives from the bus stop)


 


.... to Hayle from where I can make my way to the beaches and coves just east of here. I ask the driver to drop me off as close to the shore as possible.
Where are you going? -- he wants to know.
Godrevy...  I'm a little uncertain if Godrevy is the name of the beach or the light house there, but he perks up at the name.
There's a great cafe just there! It's run by the National Trust. Yes, I have been told of it. I dare not pass it by!
Get off here, he says, dumping me unceremoniously in the middle of nowhere. Just walk up that road -- you'll be okay there.
And the bus back?
Oh, just stand on the opposite side of the road. he'll stop for you. It comes every half hour. Or so.

I walk up the road. It's not a short walk, but there isn't much traffic and the cars are not speeding. It's as if they're in vacation mode: take it easy, we left the hurry back in the office. (You'll recognize this roadside flower by now...)






My hosts were right: the beach here is wide, long and beautiful.






I notice a few brave surfers...






All this takes place against the backdrop of a splendid lighthouse perched on a cliff just off the coast.






I'm to cross this beach and then pick up the coastal path on the other side. I pause, first because a dog insists on playing ball with me (there are a number of dogs here having the best time -- even as there are signs prohibiting dogs on the beach. I suppose in the off season it hardly matters. It's not as if they are disturbing beach goers).






And then, too, I pause at a set of rocks right at the water's edge. They are covered with mussels! (When I tell this story to Ed later, he immediately says -- oh, the rocks must at some point in the day be covered with water! To which I answer -- where were you when I needed that information?)






I take my time with positioning my camera for a time release shot...






That's never easy on uneven surfaces and especially here, where most of the stone is covered with clinging shells. Satisfied that something came of it, I am about to jump down.

Wait, where did the beach go?

Well now, who knew that the tide can come in so rapidly?! I am surrounded and the water is rising not by the minute, but by the second! Quickly I take off my shoes and roll up my pants. I am very glad that I wake up in enough time so that I do not have to swim to shore. Very glad.







Somewhat amused with my own idiocy, I concentrate on making my way along the beach, admiring not only the view east, toward the light house, but, too, of the coast looking west -- toward St Ives and toward Land's End where I walked yesterday. It's shrouded in a fine mist now, keeping that image for me of something wild and mysterious.






On the other side of the Godrevy beach, I find the bridge that crosses over a wider river and leads to the apparently infamous cafe. I don't pause yet. I tell myself that this will be my reward on the return. Right now I'm still following the coastal path to the cliffs, because I've been told that they are a favorite spot for the gray seal.

Two things surprise me: that there should be cliffs running up the coast east of St. Ives. I had thought that the land here was full of coves and long, sandy beaches. That's what you see when you look at it from St. Ives. But I was wrong. Once you get past the Godrevy beach, the coast looks like this:






The second surprise is really more of a puzzle and not an altogether pleasant one. I'd noticed yesterday that a helicopter patrolled the coast, creating a racket as it swooped in one direction, then, a few minutes later, back again. I was not surprised. In France, I'd experienced the same buzz of coastal surveillance. But today, there are two helicopters and one parks itself in the air right above us while the other circles the lighthouse again and again and again. Fellow trekkers begin to comment and question this -- are they chasing someone? I suppose these are routine exercises but I must say, there is an irony to this ten minute loud roar above us. As you approach the cliff where the seals are often spotted,  National Trust sign warns you to talk in whispers and to keep your dog from barking: noise, apparently frightens and disturbs the seals. Well now!

Did the helicopters frighten the seals? I am anxious about that.

No they did not.






What? You can't see them? Those are not rocks on the beach. They're seals. Look closer!






It's a long way down that cliff and I don't use much of a zoom in my photos (too lazy to carry and change lenses), so I'll mainly leave you with that photo of their relaxed moments on the cold, shaded sand of the cove. But I do want to crop for you two photos and thus bring out a pair of seals that I find especially charming. These guys. In love. Because I swear, in the second photo, he has his fins around her and he's planting a kiss on her wet, sandy cheek!











The coastal path continues beyond the seal rocks and I follow it a little more, giving myself a two hour hike before turning back. They say that there are wild ponies on the heath here (and there's plenty of evidence of that!) but I don't spot any. Only the Cornish cows that gave the milk for that wonderful cream yesterday...






And of course, the lighthouse.






I also spot a huge floppy eared rabbit, half hiding in the scrub. As I take out my camera, a fellow trekker comes up and tells me -- that guy probably has Myxomatosis.  I look puzzled. It was introduced here, from Australia, to kill off rabbits. I should hit him over the head now to keep him from suffering, but of course, I wont.

Later, I look up the whole topic of the killing of rabbits in England, having already searched the topic of killing off gray squirrels here. It's a touch more complicated than the hiking person indicated, but I surely am noting that one person's friend is another's foe. As a gardener back at the farmette, I am not surprised farmers here dislike rabbits. To that list I'd like to add chipmunks and deer. Of course, I don't make a living off of the flowers I grow. I hand over a bunch each year to wildlife in the hope that most will remain.

As I walk away from the rabbit with the floppy ears I give him my great hope for a miraculous recovery. And in fact, the rabbits have become more resistant to the disease, so that now, nearly a third survives it.

The world of animals and humans interacting with animals is very complicated.

And so I take you now to humans interacting with humans, because this is the time for all good hikers to make their way to Godrevy Cafe, no?

No. Or rather yes, in that all good hikers do seem to congregate here, so much so that the place is packed, with a line streaming out onto the lawn. No, that's not for me. I prefer my quiet little cafe where I had the scone yesterday.  I tell myself I am neither hungry nor thirsty (both not true) and I hike to the bus.

It's one of those things: if the bus comes every thirty minutes, then I must have just missed it because I am at the roadside for twenty-eight wondering what I should do if nothing comes this way.

But it does come and now here I am passing the daffodil fields again and I just cannot stand it -- I press the "let me out of here!" button and hop off, knowing damn well I'll have to wait for another bus equally long if not longer.

I walk down to the daffodils. And I am enthralled.






Just enthralled.






And then, another bus, a brief walk into the town's center... (I notice the roofers are finishing the task of laying new slates on the roof across the street from my guest house...)


 



...past the occasional cat of St. Ives (not seven, just one)...






... all the way to my simple but oh so beautiful cafe -- the Digey and this time I order gingerbread and tea ...






And I sit back and reflect on how good this day has been. (A mirrored selfie, framed by lots of window frames.)






So there should be a glitch somewhere. Something should not have worked perfectly, right?

Right. I have a spot booked at the Porthminster Cafe for dinner and as always, I'm starving and thrilled when 7:30 rolls around. It's up the coast a bit: maybe a ten minute walk (it virtually sits on the beach and in the summer it's one of the few places that offers outdoor dining). Tonight, the walk along the water's edge feels cold and I break into a run to warm up.  As I enter the well heated dining room I exhale. But what's this?  I find out that they mis-wrote the booking time. We waited for you at six, then crossed you off! Effectively, they have no space for me. But, I promise to east quickly and without dessert and eventually they relent and so here I am eating a very good and very original Indonesian seafood curry. The chef hails from Australia and is obviously influenced by the Indonesian flavors.






As I look around me, I try to pinpoint who is local and who is a visitor.


 


It's hard to tell because even those without a hint of Cornish brogue may simply be recent transplants. There is a very vibrant artists' community here and I note that at the table next to mine two older women and a man are talking about their paintings (the two women have long gray hair loosely pinned in back and the man, too, boasts long hair and a beard leading me to think that the trend here is not to fuss with hair trimming if you're a painter).

Would it take a while to adjust to life here? (Idle speculation -- I'm not planning a move.) Angela and Ollie did it, but his mom will be coming up for part of each year and, too, they have children which gives them a natural bridge to the community. Is it easy to come to St. Ives without seven wives?

And what's a Cornish person like? Open and welcoming like a Scot, or more remote, like a Dane (by reputation; I don't know any Danes)? I would guess the former: people initiate conversations with me, the intruder. That's always a good sign.

Are there downsides? I am told that the good, local foods here are harder to procure. And in fact, I haven't seen any open air markets here (as you would see year round in France's Brittany, which has a similar climate). My hosts say they have to establish separate relations with the right farmer for eggs, for produce, etc. I boast that Madison has superb farmers markets and I detect a bit of envy. For a few minutes, Angela reminisces about the beauty of Rome, where she lived for a while.

But the climate here is actually a delight (for the energetic!). It's brisk but mild in the winters. And the walks are superb. I see very many strollers with toddlers and infants,  some Snowdrop's age (I ask about them and brag about my own granddaughter back home), often accompanied by both mom and grandma. The inter-generational links here are strong. (By comparison, it's rare to see that threesome out for a walk back home and I consider myself lucky that my daughter so often invites me for a walk with her and Snowdrop.)





As I prepare to leave the restaurant,  I note that the Bournemouth innkeepers are eating here as well. I had looked up their property (the Beach Lodge Guest House) and I come over to tell them that I love their presentation and I congratulate them on their five star Tripadvisor rating. They smile and note that the reason they are in St Ives is because of the Trevose Harbour House, which, too received a five star rating on Tripadvisor. For those of us who (unlike Ed, for example) care about where we stay, travel has surely changed (and improved) in recent years. For an inn keeper, it's a hellish game: when you're up, you're up and when you're down, it;s hard to get back up. I remember Andrew, the innkeeper on the Isle of Islay telling me he was waiting for that grumpy visitor to give him a one star. There is much discussion as to whether you should respond or not when that happens.

I walk home more slowly. The food has warmed me. I see stars and the wind doesn't sound so furious now. The lights throw beams of color onto the bay waters.

Such a beautiful place to live in! Or, like me, to just pass through.