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.

the coast

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.

arriving in Cornwall

I wake up (or rather arise, since I am quite awake for a good bit of the night) to rain. Yesterday, I had carried a hotel umbrella against the occasional drizzle. I can't do that today and I have a twenty minute walk to the train station. Well now, it is what adventures are made of.

Breakfast is at the hotel. It's called "continental," but whatever continent it hails from is not one familiar to me: everything a hungry lumberjack would need is on that continental table and I help myself to juices, fruits, granola, yogurt, bread, salmon and an egg. I had toyed with pre-paying for the more expensive "cooked" breakfast, to last me the day. Ha! Frugality is (finally) rewarded!






Goodbye, lovely hotel with the TV in the bathtub!






And look! The rain has stopped! The world belongs to the hardy and willing!

I walk rather briskly again. I've purchased tickets for today's travel online, but I have to pick them up at the station. I need time for it. Not many photos for you from this walk then. Just two: one showing that not all cabs here are black and the other -- well it's a hat store display and if I had put it up with the question "can you tell where I am?" I'm sure anyone would have guessed England.












And now I'm at Paddington Station. Here's my train.





It's nearly a five hour ride to the tip of Cornwall (a total of 305 miles to where I'm going) -- the train is  high speed until it reaches this southwestern county and then it becomes a local. But my seat is luxuriously comfortable and I have a computer plug and a table and a conductor who tells me that before June, the entire train will have free WiFi. It's spotty now. I must have reacted to that with a pout (not that I need WiFi) because he assures me that the scenery will be quite pretty and I should not ignore it. Though honesty gets the better of him, because he feels compelled to add that this will be the case only once we pass Reading.

In the meanwhile, the cart comes with the warm beverages and snacks. I listen to the passengers putting in their requests. Tea, room for milk, again and again. One asks for biscuits, another for fruitcake. I have never before heard anyone willingly ask for fruitcake. Yes, I am in England.

I so love train travel.

I have time for the paper. I learn in the Times that there is a national discussion taking place on whether the new requirement that students memorize up to 15 poems by heart for their GCSE English literature exams (16 year olds take these) is a good idea (you wont be able to bring in an anthology for the requisite analysis -- you must remember the poems to write about them). Jane Weir, whose poem "Poppies" is on the exam syllabus is saying no: memorize poems you like, not because you have to! But Seamus Heaney (the Irish poet who received the '95 Nobel Prize in literature) is in support: it's the beginning of a cultural ear!

You can read "Poppies" here. It was commissioned for The Guardian, as part of a response to the escalating conflict in Afghanistan and the Iraq. Weir commented in an interview that, ‘I wrote the piece from a woman's perspective, which is quite rare, as most poets who write about war have been men. As the mother of two teenage boys, I tried to put across how I might feel if they were fighting in a war zone.’ It's not a short poem. I should think it would be hard to memorize.

In other news, you might be interested to know that between now and the national elections (picking the P.M.) on May 7th, the British can cast a vote for a national bird. Polls indicate that the robin is a favorite. However, David Lindo, the guy who leads the National Bird Campaign (his claim: the Americans have the eagle, the French have the rooster, it's time for Britain to have a bird!), thinks the hen harrier, which is on the verge of extinction could come in from the back. He himself is hoping for the blackbird, whose song evokes "lazy, hazy sunny days." Other birds on the short list are (derived from a previous vote): barn owl, kingfisher, blue tit, wren, puffin, mute swan and red kite. Personally I'd go for the puffin, with the blue tit -- in its lovely blue and yellow -- being my close second. You can inspect the birds and read the Guardian's version of this story here.

Too, there is a campaign to eradicate the gray squirrel in Britain, an unwelcome American intruder who, it is said, "belongs in the oak and hickory forests of North America," not here. That's a gory story. I'll leave it to your imagination how such a campaign, in a country where there are four or five million American grays (and only 100,000 reds left) might proceed.

And so the train rolls into Cornwall.






In St. Erth, I change for the little train to St Ives.






St Ives.

As I was walking to St. Ives, I met a man with seven wives. 
Each wife had seven sacks,
Each sack had seven cats,
Each cat had seven kits:
Kits, cars, sacks, wives,
How many were going to St. Ives?

Am I the only one who remembers this nursery riddle?

But the question remains: which St. Ives does it refer to? Because there are a number of towns with that name in England! Half the nation believes it's about the St. Ives in Cornwall. This once was (and to an extent still is) a fishing village and so the reference to cats is understood. On the other hand, the St. Ives in Huntingdonshire is a huge market town and so that, too, makes it a fit.

As to how many were going to St. Ives? Well, who knows? At least one, possibly a hell of a lot more, depending on where everyone else was heading.

St. Ives: population 11,200. Named "best UK seaside town" in the last several years. It is on the Celtic Sea coast of the western and southern most tip of England. If you walk due west from it, you'll reach in about 25 miles Land's End and then you really are at the land's end.

I am at the Mountain Warehouse (a British sporting attire store), buying a thin fleece pullover to go under my fleece jacket. My hosts suggested it. On sale for twelve pounds. I took one walk on the coastal path and decided enough is enough. The sea wind is gusty and even if I only use it this one day, I know that it packs well and is a good thing to stick in my suitcase in these shoulder travel times. A much better idea than taking a warmer jacket. I say to the clerk (who looks like he'd rather be surfing) -- St Ives looks to be doing well!  I'm impressed that on the main shopping street, the shops, bakeries, eateries are all open. No closed and shuttered storefronts here. Fresh coats of paint on buildings.

The salesclerk shrugs. The people who come here are doing well. We locals, we're struggling. The season is two months long. By the end of winter, we don't have any money.

But I think there must be some variation to this. My (newly opened two years ago) guest house is fully booked. The place where I eat dinner is full as well and the waitress tells me that from Easter onwards, they wont have a quiet night.

Still, the clerk has a point: St. Ives is just a tiny bit upscale. I'm told it's a favorite for Londoners and Germans. You don't put a local branch of the Tate Museum (yes, here since 1993) in a hole in the wall. (The Tate, aside from its two London galleries, has this St Ives one and another regional gallery in Liverpool.) And St. Ives is not cheap: I had wanted to spend a week here, but after looking at the prices, I cut it to four days. I should note that the bed and breakfast -- the Trevose Guest House, is so worth it! It's beautiful!

And here's another thing that's absolutely stunning: the scenery. Oh, the views!  I catch a glimpse on the little train -- a ten minute coastal link, running back and forth between St Erth and St Ives. I take photos, but then erase them all because I know I'll have better ones once I'm out and walking.


From the St. Ives train station (if you can call it that) it's just a four minute hop over to the Guest House. It's rather conventional on the street side...






But inside, you really catch your breath: it's all about blue and white here and the spaces are light and airy.











I come at a time of a flurry of activity: the owners, Angela and Ollie, are off for their first ever parent teacher conference (they have a four year old girl; I ask them later how it went -- brilliant! the teacher says she's brilliant! Ollie grins, understanding fully well that she may not be the only one in class with that designation). Their assistant at the guest house checks us in. I say "us" because just at this moment, a couple from Alabama drive up. They are on a fiftieth wedding anniversary trip and they seem despondent. She trips on a step and her mood never improves after that. She admits that they had a few frustrating words as they couldn't find the guest house and yes, it's a long drive from London.

Me, I am in no hurry, so I let the inn keepers attend to the unhappy celebrators first. I sip an offered tea in the breakfast room and look around.






Everything about this place appeals to me. It still smells fresh, as if I am in its opening moment.

Eventually I am shown to my room -- which I picked because it was the cheapest, but also the most perfect for me. As they explain - it is the only room in the house where you can lie in bed and look out on the sea.






The view:






And now it is 4 p.m. and I am outfitted with my additional layer and I am raring to go. No ambitious hike for today: just a walk east (meaning back toward St Erth) along the coast.

I leave the town, noting that others aren't so put off by the still mid forties temps (they're coming in from a day of surfing).






Well, let me walk briskly. Ah, but that extra layer is good! The feeling of cold is completely gone, despite the wind. And I am in England and the English are perhaps the best in Europe at marking walking trails. They are such keen and spirited walkers! I pick up the coastal trail.

The views are tremendous every which way you look.






I walk down to the water's edge. A stream runs into the sea here, creating sand formations of different tones and hues. Colorful bath houses line the edge.






Along the trail itself, I come across the spring blooms -- some in the wild, some cultivated by the locals.






It is an exhilarating walk! Even if today I'm still under gray skies -- I have no complaints!






What I do have is a raging appetite. Again, breakfast seems far in the past. I let the guest house hosts pick the restaurants for me. My criteria are simple: fresh and honest food, not too expensive or stuffy. For tonight, they send me to the Sea Food Cafe.






Here, you pick your catch from their day's selection and they prepare it for you as you want it. The sea bass, grilled, with a Mediterranean sauce (their description) of red peppers and garlic. And a large salad. Oh, and a few local scallops to start me off. (No need for dessert. I'll save that for France.) I am in sea food heaven.






Later, as I lie in bed and listen to the noise of the sea gulls, I think about what it must feel like to live in England but really far from London. Berwick upon Tweed (last June's trip for me), on the Scottish border, is arguably further at 338 miles (St Ives, as I noted, is 305), but it is close to any number of larger cities. Cornwall has the feel of a more remote destination. At the St Erth station, I made my way to the tiny waiting room, because even the fifteen minute wait outside for the train was too cold for me. A young woman was there as well.
I stand by the radiator here when it gets too cold outside: it's the best spot to wait for the train, she tells me.
She looks to be around forty. I ask her if she is from here.
Yes, I live right by St Ives. That is, I moved away for a number of years, but then I came back. Now I can't imagine living anywhere else.

I get it. Even after only one late afternoon and evening here, I understand why she wont ever leave.