Cornwall

I was afraid my choice of Penzance as our main base for exploring Cornwall was a mistake. But St Ives was booked up or exorbitant. Even the relatively economical place we booked in Penzance was nearly as pricey as our London hotel. I was also slightly concerned about the inn I picked.  It had no air conditioning or toiletries. But our inn was right by the sea, so the wind and the rain kept the room cool at night. We left the window a sliver open, and no more because I distrust the seagulls, and there was a mini-fan. For toiletries, I acquired a travel-size shampoo from a nearby Sainsbury’s, happened to have a Medimix on hand because I spontaneously bought one from a grocery store in Eastbourne (run by Malayalis), and the free in-flight body lotion I kept with me from our flight into London. These are the times I feel like a good little Amma.

There was a railway strike right when we were supposed to travel from Brighton to Cornwall, and the buses seemed thoroughly unreliable, so Mike rented a car for our duration in Cornwall. In the end, it was clear that we couldn’t have explored Cornwall as conveniently or as thoroughly as we did otherwise.

The day after we arrived in Penzance, we drove down to St Ives. I assumed that several of our five days in Cornwall would be spent there because the Internet seemed to imply that it was the cream of Cornwall. St Ives was indeed picturesquely beachy, with those classic narrow lanes, full of shops and pasties, but it was crowded and made walking around in town a lot less fun.

It made me appreciate Penzance and the inn we were staying at. The room had two bay windows facing the sea, which was maybe ten to fifteen meters away. The seagulls would come and sit on the parapet by our window, hoping we would throw them some food. And I could see the diners drinking beer and people-watch the dogwalkers and the runners and the travelers as I sat in front of the window with my cup of tea. Around town, it was easy walking. The winding lanes were spacious by Cornwall standards, and were dotted with restaurants and stone cottages which I adore. But most importantly, and I was yet to realize this, Penzance was right next to the town of Mousehole.

Cornwall was rarely sunny. On the day after our St Ives expedition, it rained all day. I woke up to a stormy looking sea and incessant, windy drizzle. It was serenely moody. I thought it would be an indoor day, one where I could potentially be a bit industrious and get some prep work done for my courses. Thankfully Mike had other ideas. He suggested we drive around and check out a town or two.

The drive was pretty aimless and that is always a good idea in Cornwall, as far as I am concerned. Even on our drive to Penzance, Mike would take a wrong turn from time to time. There are no flyovers here as far as we can tell and the Brits seem to manage traffic through a system of infinite roundabouts. So, with every wrong turn, we would land up in some adorable town or get stuck driving along some winding road, laden with trees that arch over or out to each other to form green boughs. Unfortunately, these roads (lanes, really) aren’t wide enough to accommodate anything more than one-way traffic. But it functions as two-ways, leading to a lot of righteous cursing on Mike’s part while I ooh and aah from my passenger seat.

After driving along some tiresome hillside lanes that eventually ran into a charming dead-end and after taking in a scenic beach view, we decided to get lunch. 

We consulted the maps and narrowed in on St Just. It was close enough and it had a nice café called the Brisons (their full English caught my eye). We parked the car, opened our umbrellas and did our best to stop the wind from blowing them away and getting drenched. Once at the café, I felt contentedly sheltered. The place was completely whitewashed, probably because it was a small space, but the squeaky clean look made it seem impervious to the weather outside. Plus, they had sweet waitresses. I got my full English and onion rings (I saw the latter on someone else’s table and set my heart on it) and Mike ordered cream and tea (England has got him hooked on afternoon tea), which comes with scones and a Victoria sponge. We ate it all up, but Mike had room for more, so he grabbed a steak and stilton pasty from a nearby shop. It was the last of the traditional pasty varieties we had on our list to try out. It wasn’t as good as the steak and ale or leeks and cheese pasties we had in St Ives, but it did the job for Mike.

We drove around some more and Mike suggested we head to Mousehole. He had checked it out on our first day in Cornwall, while I was tea-ing in our hotel room. He had returned from his excursion claiming that it was the kind of place I was going to love, irrespective of what St Ives may turn out to be (at the time, St Ives was on top of my list). So, we went to Mousehole. I originally thought we were going to drive around town, but once we got there, Mike said it was too difficult. I hesitated at the idea of walking around, because it was still raining and icky outside, but I decided to step out for a few minutes, before lodging back inside the car.

But as we wandered, beginning with cutesy shops, and then walking along some of the steep and increasingly dingy residential streets, I felt spurred on. There were only a handful of people on the streets and I loved how mousy the cottages looked in the rain. I was also getting to a stage (especially after walking along the cliffs in Eastbourne) where my legs enjoyed a hilly walk, it was more invigorating.

We came across several cutaway paths, none of them with any markings as to where they led, but they seemed public, so we took one. We climbed up and up the hill, and there were cottages decked along the way, cozily tucked in between the drenched trees. I can’t imagine what it is like to live in such a place, day in and day out, but as a passerby I felt like I was walking through a story book.

As we climbed on, the path got narrower to the point of my questioning whether there was really a path at all, and the greenery grew more lush and wild. But we had this new world all to ourselves. We came across a lovely stream and a tiny fall, fresh with rain, and kept walking until we hit a plateau, bordered with large bushes of hydrangea and some other pink/magenta flowers. Here there was a wider, cleared out path that let out to what we presumed were open hills. Just as we turned around to get back into town, a bounding, happy young black-and-white cocker spaniel came towards us. The day was going so well that I didn’t hesitate to pet him. Cornwall, by the way, is one place where most dogs are in a state of ecstasy. They seem so consistently happy and thrilled, that I think this is where they have attained hygge. I wondered out loud where the spaniel came from and then as we continued down, his owner (an orange-haired, young woman who had her hair in a casual top-knot bun) appeared.

We walked around the main town some more and then eventually wedged our car out of a rather tight and difficult parking spot to make our way back to the inn.

The next day, which held more promise of sun (in general, you can count on dreary English weather even in the height of summer), we went to Port Isaac. I had this place on my list because of Doc Martin, a TV show which I watched less for the plot (and certainly not the main characters) and more for the location. I got my first Cornish mug after watching that show, which I later learned is not made in Cornwall, but in Yorkshire. Port Isaac was a more manageable version of St Ives, so we enjoyed walking around it for an hour or two, and then looked around for our next stop. Padstow was half an hour away and one of the major towns in Cornwall, so we headed there for lunch and satiated ourselves once again with some cream tea and Victoria sponge. I also found a store which had the companion yellow Cornish mug for my blue one and did not hesitate to buy it instantly.

Next, we went to Newquay, which was a surprisingly robust town. On one side of the town, you had these well-kept and uniform, pastel-colored houses, and not a soul in sight. Then on the other side, you had all the buzz, with lots of kids (many with vapes in hand) and people, who seemed like locals, having a day about town. 

There was plenty of commerce, and then you had a rather spectacular and lively beach-- there were kids playing cricket, a British-Indian group playing steal the bacon, a family with a toddler chasing gulls, a crew of wetsuits learning to surfboard on relatively wave-free waters, all tucked inside a sickle of hills. Hovering above all this activity was a single peaked-roof house mounted on top of a standalone hill.