Just got back from a marvellous side trip to Cornwall, which I do believe qualifies as one of the most gorgeous spots on the face of the planet. Since Cornwall is a peninsula stuck out there in the Atlantic, it has a distinctive climate all its own. It’s as far south and west as you can get and still be in the U.K.
Cornish natives sort of have the same attitude as we American Southerners do: We’re certainly part of the U.S., but we’re evermore proud of our own Southern heritage and feel a little bit sorry for the rest of the country that they’re not us. Cornwall traces its roots back to the Celts, whereas it was the Angles, Saxons, Romans and Vikings who formed the melting pot for the rest of England. Geographically, Cornwall remained more isolated from all that infighting and carried on instead as a haven for pirates and thieves.
I think Cornwall hogs the country’s best weather, keeping much of England’s allotment of sunshine all for itself. By the time Cornwall enjoys some mild temps and blue skies, the sun sort of wimps out and gives in to clouds for the rest of its eastbound journey across the country. It’s no wonder that Cornwall is viewed as somewhat of a nation apart – not unlike Miami.
This little side trip, my third to Cornwall, included a visit with some of my previous home exchangers, in whose house I stayed in 2005. They live in Penzance on from the beach overlooking St. Michael’s Mount, a mysterious island rising out of the bay on the English Channel side of the Cornish peninsula.
With its picturesque cliffs, pirate coves and windswept moors, Cornwall is now a magnet for hikers and tourists. If I ever win the lottery, it’ll be where I buy a cottage overlooking the sea. I see myself writing splendid, best-selling novels inspired by the romantic view from my sun-bathed conservatory.
But alas, I had to tear myself away from Cornwall yesterday with nothing but the bubble-bursting real estate ads from this week’s Cornishman newspaper. The train journey from Penzance back to Newbury started out fine. Lots of empty seats in a clean, quiet coach. In Plymouth, however, when a horde of people – most of whom were under the age of five – boarded, I knew I was in trouble. I don’t “do” children under the best of circumstances. When they’re screeching, screaming, squealing, whining, crying, or making demands in loud, high-toned voices – as these creatures were -- I lose it.
By the time all of this humanity squeezed on, it was obvious there were more passengers than seats. And so we were packed in cheek to jowl in Third-World fashion, taking on more poor souls at every station the closer we got to London. My last nerve was fast approaching overload.
Then in Devon the train ran over a cow. You may want to read that sentence again: Yes, the train RAN OVER A COW. We stopped dead in our tracks, literally. Though obviously undone, the conductor apologized profusely and gave us periodic updates over the intercom. Until the train people could assess the situation, we were stuck.
Curiously, I seemed to be the only passenger who got the least bit antsy over the Cow Incident. I had nowhere to be at any particular time, but I could feel my American impatience rearing its ugly head. “Let’s get on with it, guys!” I was tempted to scream. (Not that I would have been heard over the din of the kindergarten crew around me…) My fellow travellers, on the other hand, at least those over the age of six, remained as calm and unruffled as could be. Maybe they were seething inside, but nary a murmur of malcontent did I hear as we sat and sat and sat... Ah, those stiff upper lips!
I’m not sure exactly how the authorities concluded that if they just started up the train again, gave it some gas and moved forward, we’d be OK. But this strategy took an hour to figure out. In the meantime, all the little chil’ren were screaming in overdrive and the volume had reached several decibels in my particular coach. The cow was obviously hamburger by now, but hadn’t been much of a match for a big ol’ choo-choo train, so Train People decided anon we might proceed safely without further delay.
Just when my nerves had been pulvarized into a sticky paste we finally reached Reading, where I had to switch trains to Newbury. Naturally, all the trains in Reading were crowded and running late – it being the Twelfth of Never or some odd celestial occurrence screwing up the British railway system. At this time I would have gladly hailed an ox cart to take me the rest of the way home. I rolled in at 9 o’clock, only seven hours after leaving the magnificent, palm-lined shores of Cornwall.
It came as no surprise at all that today dawned cloudy in Newbury with threats of drizzle. True to form, the sun exhausted itself yesterday in Cornwall and simply couldn’t make it this far east.
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