to Brighton!

I leave St. Ives on an eery morning, initially of just fog, then of receding fog and a receding sun as well. My hosts tell me we are to have an almost full solar eclipse  (94% in Cornwall).

Should I look up? Should I take note? Will it burn my retina, even if there are wisps of fog passing before it?

I haven't the time to research any of it. I have an early train to catch.

After the completely delicious breakfast of porridge (and fruits and nuts and yogurts and, were I to be a complete piglet -- croissants and breads and jams and eggs and, well, you get the idea)...



(an appetizer before the porridge)


I say good bye to my wonderfully talented and energetic hosts and make my way to the train station, from where I do look up and around -- first, toward St. Ives which is cast now in shadows, even as the sky is nearly blue...


 



... then eastward, toward the sun and the cove, which is cast in the eery glow of a most unusual light, darkened in part by the foggy clouds (which actually made it possible for me to look and take a photo) and in part by the near full disappearance of the sun (here, it's still 10 minutes away from its peak moment)...







...one more glance up at the hills and just momentarily, at the nearly hidden sun (as the birds flew in circles, perhaps thrown off by the intense light and non-light).







And then I catch the little train to St. Erth. One last look at the sands -- this time showing signs of a receding tide and, too, looking desolate in the strange light of the eclipse:


 



Not daring to miss my connection, I have given myself too long of a layover in St. Erth, but no matter: there is a small gift shop-cafe and I spend my time admiring copies of old posters that used to advertise rail service to Cornwall. The woman who works here is a retired school teacher and what's more, after asking me where I was from,  she informs me that not only does she know where Wisconsin is but that she actually visited the state some forty years ago, on a lark, for a friend's wedding. She remembers nothing of it except that it was very green. I'm thinking she did not visit it in March. As I leave, she waves a cheery hand and tells me -- give my love to Wisconsin!



(outside, a passenger looks up, the safe way)



My five hour ride to London is an exact replica of my five hour ride to Cornwall, except that I'm less exhausted and the Internet is even less functional and of course, it is in reverse. Remembering the words of the first conductor, I make sure to take in the landscape.






In London, I must change not only trains, but also train stations. Will I see London differently now that the sun is out and the air is a good ten degrees warmer?






Not really. I am again in the same area of park and indifferent blocks and I have only 65 minutes between trains (and google maps tells me it's a 41 minute walk, without the burden of a little suitcase) and so I do not pause and take only the rare photo.



(taking your horse out to the park on a sunny afternoon)





(walking your daughter home from school)





(pretty, but so inferior to Cornwall!)


I am in such a hurry and so suspicious of Google's estimate (do they account for red lights? or uphill routes? Do they time you to the periphery of a station or the heart of it?) that I really put the motor on. As I enter Victoria...





...I hear the announcement of the last call for the Brighton train. But it's the earlier train! I've cut ten minutes from the walk and I can run for the 16:07! And I make it just as the doors close behind me. (Why rush? Well, why hang around a train station when I can have a few more daylight minutes in a new place and one that's by the sea?)

The train ride to Brighton is on a speedy link, with limited stops: a mere fifty-eight minutes for the eighty miles.

Oh, the rail surely had an impact on the development of this coastal town! It came here in 1841 and from then on, Brighton became a seaside destination for Londoners. It joins other towns along the coast just south of London in forming a block of watering holes for the harried and hassled northeners in search of fresh sea air. Brighton's population is 160,000, but if you link the nearby coastal towns to it, we're talking closer to half a million. There is a beach: miles and miles of pebble rock line the sea (or more accurately, the English Channel) and you can imagine how crowded it gets during the summer months.

St. Ives seems a world away.

I'm here for only one night. I needed a place to stay that isn't too far from Gatwick Airport and that would offer an interesting set of hours before my afternoon flight on Saturday.

I walk the twenty five minute walk to my guest house. It is an uninteresting walk, but I am not completely surprised. Most cities have a seedier commercial face around major stations. I very few photos. Here's one of tweens, after school, at a bus stop. I think this has to be the toughest age for girls. Here, they're downing soda almost as if in defiance (there is a campaign in the U.K. to fight soda consumption and snacking; given the number of times the snack trolly rolled down the train carriage, I'm not sure it's all that successful).


 



And thisnext  picture tells me that Poles are here in great numbers. (My innkeepers say that you wouldn't move to Brighton to start a family -- it's not geared for that. Jobs are in the food and hotel industries which, traditionally pay less. So it makes sense to me that unskilled workers from Poland would migrate here.)






Still with suitcase, I detour to the shore, just to take a look. Brighton is known for its pier -- one that has some of the Jersey like concessions and amusements.






It's not especially a draw now. Looking west, in the strange yellow light of an almost setting sun, I see the remains of the second pier which burned sometime ago and has never been restored.






Perhaps this detour to the waterside was a mistake. It's as if I allow that to define my image of Brighton. And it isn't a sparkling image.

But I'm keeping an open mind. Why? Because the Bournemouth inn keeping couple I met in St Ives loved this place so much. And they spoke so highly of my guest house owners.

As well they might! I walk up now past interesting blocks of homes and guest houses spilling out toward the waterfront.






And I come to the lovely front door of mine -- called simply The Twenty One. (It's just a few houses from the shore, but I'm not certain if the shore is crucial to your well being in Brighton. It's as if it creates the space and expanse, but the pleasure of life has seeped into other Brighton areas.)






My hosts upgrade me. I had booked the cheap single, I got the lovely double on an upper floor.






With a mirror facing the bed.






It's certainly different that the St Ives accommodation but it is absolutely deserving of its gushing Tripadvisor reviews. The room is quiet, lovely and well stocked. I could not ask for more.

I had written my hosts asking for a restaurant suggestion, given that it's my last night in England. I told them that I wanted fresh and honest and somewhat British. I was told to try the Ginger Dog.

It is absolutely the right suggestion: informal and good, with a more modern pub fare.



(see trout with kale)




(informal dining; also the only place I will have seen sheep close up on this trip)


I made friends here: the couple next to me are foodie types and the amount of words they exchange on the wine alone (these are all fairly inexpensive wines) makes me smile. And so we talk. About why they chose to live here (like my innkeepers, one guy followed the other who wanted sea air and an easy commute to London), about England, about food, about Brighton, about America. They had a lot to say about America, since they'd traveled there numerous times.

I walk home past shops that do remind me I am in England. Who back home would call their liquor store The Boozy Cow?





Still, Brighton, to me, is different than your average English town. I get that from my hotel hosts and from my "friends" at the pub. I think I know what to look for tomorrow. I don't have a full day here, but I'm really energized. There's a lot to be said for Brighton. You'll see. Tomorrow.

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.