Bus-scratch tourism

I never seem to choose the easiest way to get from A to B. I’m sure those closest to me would agree with that, but today took it to the absurd level. Not only was the visit to Port Isaac a complete indulgence – there really wasn’t a family reason for being there – but getting back to Bodmin Parkway to pick up the train was another silly exercise. The bus meandered its way across the Cornish countryside in the sun and it must have taken two hours to wend its way back to the GWR.

Of course, along the way, we passed through some of the most glorious country you will ever see in the UK: the farms, the villages full of what Australians would call “tree-changers”, the woods turning the laneways into green tunnels. Ah, the laneways … while the bus is an absolute necessity in connecting all these little villages with the bigger towns like Wadebridge and Bodmin, no one has suggested that the lanes might need widening; so we called in at Michaelstowe Church at some cost to the bus company, as the bus ran up absurdly small lanes, with a building six inches off one side and branches scratching the other.

More Cornish names: St Tudy, oddly, has no school. Do the villagers identify as Sttudents?

In St Mabyn, the War Memorial (which we had to back up against to get out of the village) records the supreme sacrifice of Stoker H Bastard. With a name like that, surely they should have made him a Chief Petty Officer. I mean, if it was good enough for Major Major Major. I wanted to get off the bus to see if there were anymore unusual names recorded – the possibilities were endless. And had the family continued the traditions in the second war? Were there any more tragic Bastards?

Even the express had to slow down for the overgrown line out of Bodmin Parkway. Hello, National Rail: trains go faster when the driver doesn’t have to get out and trim the line with his toenail clippers.

The branch line from St Erth – there’s another name – to St Ives was like a reminder of the old days of British rail. Ross McConchie, you would love the rail around here as a GWR fan. Off the high-speed diesel we get (it choofs on to Penzance in twenty minutes), and walk down to the adjoining platform where a diesel set plonks up and down the four stop line to St Ives.

I very quickly realised that the idea that St Ives was sleeping its way towards winter was completely wrong. Not only was the weather gorgeous (although struggling into double figures), but the town was full. I found out that half term is staggered, so the town was full of northerners who preferred Cornwall to Blackpool (and given the rain up north, fair enough).

The tide was out and you could essentially walk from the Harbour breakwater all the way to the end of Portminster Beach – which I duly did. I discovered the surf beach, sans surf. Optimism is sitting out the back while a paddle-boarder wanders past completely uninterested in the ripples which pass for a break – I’m sure that the Atlantic will kick up the waves on the weekend.

I don’t think the water was that warm, either – I overheard a wetsuit-clad dad explaining to his son (who only had a rashy) that the reason his very pink legs were stinging was because of the cold. More like bloody hypothermia.

There are lots of quirky things to like about St Ives: the tiny, steep streets, the pubs, the Island (St Ives Head) the brilliantly misaligned church (the steeple is completely out of whack with the nave). The Tate Regional is here so I’ll have a look after going to Lelant tomorrow. I’ve probably wasted a day and I will regret it if the weather really breaks on Sunday. The program from here is:

1. Thursday: Walk to Pendeen (the hardest section is always the first for some reason)
2. Friday: Sennen Cove
3. Saturday: Lamorna
4. Sunday: Marazion

So I’m off the cliffs before any bad weather comes.