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Saturday:

And so the time had finally come for us to set off on our travels. We were up at dawn packing and repacking, generally making sure we had not forgotten anything. Then it was off to the car hire place to pick up the estate and finally go and pick Nan up and then set off.

It turned out just as well we had that car, as we could not have fitted everything in ours; and Nan was packing more as she was going to be away for a month. So, we left Dover fairly laden, but in good spirits.

We set off along the Alkham Valley and then onto the M20 before turning off at Ashford before heading across country to Tenterton. The drive across the marshes was very pleasant, and even the twists and turns in the road did not dampen our spirit. We had decided to use back roads rather than the M25, and this seemed to be a good idea, the rolling and wooded countryside rolled past our windows as the day went on.

We stopped for lunch in a Sussex market town; the pub all full of beamed ceilings, wholesome food and a wedding party ready for the main event of the day.

Soon enough Sussex gave way to Wiltshire although there was really no difference as the miles passsed. And just before four we spotted the spire of Salisbury cathedral nestling in a fold in the hills.

Thanks to the sat nav we found our way to the B&B without a hitch, and were soon sitting in our rooms sipping cups of tea.

For the evening, we headed out to East Knoyle about 20 miles away, where I knew there was a good pub that did good food. In the end we got the wrong pub, but the food was just as good, and we sat at our tables looking out over Salisbury Plain watching the sun set and sipping real ale.

Sunday:

Morning dawned bright and clear, and even more so after something like eight good hours sleep. How good was that? Breakfast was good as well; grapefruit, pancakes and then as much toast and tea as any person could want. Fantastic.

Just enough time to load the car, and talk some more with John the wonderful owner, and apologise for not staying more and talking; but the open road beckoned.

We crossed Wiltshire and then into Somerset and eventually into Devon. The landscape was rolling hills with the occasional trees and lager groups of trees. Sometimes the road plunged down hillsides thick with forest, and it seemed we were driving along a green tunnel. There is something about the English countryside in summer. Nothing comes quite close. Even better was that the traffic for a Sunday morning was very light and we made good time towards Exeter.

In Exeter we stopped to visit friends of Nan, and to have lunch. Although it was very pleasant, and Pat and Dave could not have been nicer, we had itchy feet and longed for the open road again.

I had decided to head out to Dawlish, to see where the main line ran beside the sea, and to take pictures. It was a pleasant trip out to the coast, and made all the better by the purchase of an ice cream. The sun was out, the sky blue, and with an ice cream in hand it had to mean that we were on holiday.

Dawlish was as stunning as I imagined it, as trains thundered along the sea wall either to of from Cornwall; and so I captured it all on my wonderful new camera.

Then it was onwards and westwards to Plymouth and into Cornwall. We stopped off at the border to take more pictures of yet another triumph of IK Brunel, the Saltash Bridge over the River Tamar. When built, people did not believe its radical design would not stand up when the scaffolding was removed. Well, it’s still standing now, which shows genius knows best.

We travelled secure in the knowledge that we would not get lost as we had the sat nav; all was going well until we got within 10 miles of the cottage, and instead of looking at the directions provided with only listened to the magical electronic box of tricks on the dash. It decided to take us down the narrowest lane imaginable; the sides of the hire car scraped the hedgerows on either side, and the tarmac was hidden beneath grass and moss showing how little the lane was used.

We started to panic.

Our lovely new car was being scraped by trees and plants, each scrape I could imagine costing us the £500 excess when we returned the car.

Just as we thought that we had driven off the edge of the map we came across a farmer in his landrover coming the other way. Sadly for us he did not give us quite enough room to pass, and we ended up off the side of the road axle deep in slurry.

Nice.

So, I had to get out along with the farmer and girded our loins and ankle deep in cow poo pushed the car out of the shit.

We asked his advice on the direction of the holiday cottage; and although I can’t swear I understood every word, the gist of it was to keep turning left.

Hmmm.

I consulted the directions from the hire company, and just then we passed a landmark mentioned. After that it was just a case of making sure we turned into the right farm to find the cottage.

Our neighbours are on one side a herd of cows, and on the other a single horse. At least they’re not going to have a party.

Being a Sunday, we had no chance of doing any shopping, so we had no choice than to find a place to eat out. A couple of miles away there is a pub, the Rising Sun, which although looking like the Slaughtered Dog from An American werewolf in London, was very friendly, accepted credit cards and the food was very good: And the scrumpy very strong. We took a four pint jug back to the cottage and sat outside watching the sun go down.

Monday:

The weather forecast was not good, and so the first task of the day after cereal for breakfast, was to find a supermarket and stock up of provisions for the week ahead. Tescos may be another evil empire, but they had everything we needed, and stuff we didn’t, like mothers in groups with trolleys blocking aisles.

After a quick lunch of fresh seeded rolls filled with ham off the bone we headed back out along the seven miles of single track lane to the main road and then south to the fishing village of Fowey.

18 years ago, I went to a wedding in Fowey, and had been wanting to go back there ever since. On the southern coast of Cornwall, Fowey is situated at the moth of a river, and clings to the rocks and hills, all linked by stupidly narrow lanes and full of pretty buildings. All beside a picturesque harbour full of yachts and fishing boats.

Its funny how the years dull the memory, but the town was nothing like I remembered, and I could not find the hotel I stayed in, or where the reception was held in. We made do with some window shopping, and wandering along the harbour side taking pictures; or at least I did.

After what seemed the proper amount of time of struggling through the wandering tourists and dodging maniac cars whilst walking in the streets.

What we thought we needed was more of the same so we got back in the car and headed to Mevagissey.

Mevagissey is another fishing village at the mouth of a river, now relying on the tourist trade to get by. I would imagine there is only so much crab and winkles people could want, but that town was also crowded and ridiculously picturesque as well. So, I dutifully recorded it on the camera, along with its two harbours.

There was just enough time to grab a quick pint of the local brew along with a bag of pork scratchings.

Then it was time to head back in the car and tackle the narrow lanes of Cornwall and get back to the cottage in time for dinner.

Tuesday:

I sit here in the evening, I am writing this, obviously; Julie is beading and Nan is doing puzzles; all to the soundtrack of Stuart Maconie. And we will all probably be in bed by ten. Once again, not very rock and roll.

Mornings are always great on holidays; lazy time when the thought of things to do are not important, and rushing around is far from our foremost thoughts. And so it was today as we read, listened to the radio before having a late breakfast before we headed out at just before ten.

It is not that far to St Austell, but once again the mist had come down, and the drive across Bodmin moor was a slow one and in a convoy of slow moving traffic. However, as we descended towards the coast the cloud lifted some, and the day even held the promise of sunshine later.

The Eden Project is a wonderful experiment of bio-domes set in the hole left behind when a quarry was all quarried out. It has been open for about seven years, and the plants which are inside have matured in that time, and should be impressive. What is really good is that the domes are not visible until you are inside the site, and heading down into the quarry. There are two domes, made of hexagonal interlocking Perspex, or some such material, and forming huge stadium sized spaces underneath. There are two areas, one a dessert arid area, and the other a tropical rainforest one.

What is clear is the sheer size of the domes, and once inside how wonderfully well done they have been filled with plants from around the world. I have to say that it is at times a heavy handed attempt at showing the visitor the way in which humans are raping the planet; but then as the core visitor is children, maybe it’s the best way to show where and how our food comes from, and not everyone gets their food from Tescos or Wal-Mart.

Anyway, that aside, it is very good. The tropical dome was so much like Indonesia last year, and showing the kind of houses the locals live in, it was like being back there. And it is important to know what the result of clearing of the rainforests is, the scarred land and lost species of plants and animals as their habitat is destroyed.

We stopped for a bite to eat in the on site café, and in doing so we had out first Cornish cream tea, with clotted cream, which is always nice to have.

I have to say that even though there were thousands of people in the site, it did not feel crowded at all, and even getting out of the site afterwards was painless.

Our next destination was the fishing port of Padstow. Once upon a time, and not too long ago, it was just another impossibly pretty Cornish fishing port. And then British TV chef set up shop and restaurant there, and it became a mecca for those seeking celebrity endorsed food. So, its already crowded streets and alleyways are now chocker-block with people munching down on branded fish and chips, or other queuing up in one of many Rick Stein themed seafood eateries.

The first problem is to find a place to park; and at this time it is not an easy task for sure. Endless lines of cars go round and round the car parks looking for that fabled empty space. We were somewhat lucky, as Nan had a disabled badge, and there was one empty space which we filled. It was outside the National Seafood School or something equally silly titled restaurant. There were queues right out of the door; something that was repeated at most other seafood places. I had had enough fish and chips to guess that it was not really worth queuing up and paying through the nose for it in a box with Ricks name on it.

Still, the views were free, and it is a working port, and a stream of small inshore boats came in and unloaded their cargo. Most of those around me ignored this and carried on eating.

We decided we had had enough, and after Julie and Nan having an ice cream, and me a Pasty, we headed out for a quiet drive along the north Cornish coast to Newquay. As ever it was a narrow road, and we had to keep diving into the hedgerow to allow cars and busses to pass the other way, and sometimes they even did the same for us. But not that often.

For dinner this evening, we had the good old British favourite, bangers and mash with beans. And what is better it is a quick and easy meal, which requires the minimum of preparation or cheffing.

Wednesday:

After another slow day, we headed out once again in the car, this time to Plymouth. We had to cross the moors again to get to the main road, but this with added tension as we were running out of fuel. And as typical, we could not find a filling station at all. Thankfully, we made it to the main road, and its choice of three filling station; all selling it for the same price.

We had decided to head to St Ives on the train, and in doing so we also decided to catch the train from Plymouth so to go across the bridge at Saltash. Sadly, it was not an express we caught, jut a common or garden DMU made of two carriages; but once underway, the views of numerous inlets and muddy creeks more than compensated for the shaky ride.

We passed through many of the towns we had already driven through, but on the train missing out on traffic jams and bizarrely designed mini roundabouts. The train passed through forests, bridging deep valleys and crossing bleak moors, until the land thinned and flattened out as we neared Penzance. Just before we got off at St Erth to get on the train on the St Ives branch.

The St Ives branch is one of the most beautiful and spectacular in Britain; it sarts beside the mood flats of the Lelant river, but soon climbs and runs along the top of cliffs as it nears St Ives, passing over wide sandy beaches. The trip takes just 15 minutes, but you hope it would go on for much, much longer.

St Ives is another stunning fishing port, set at the end of a peninsular, and boasting two wide bays and sandy beaches right into the town and harbour. As luck would have it, the weather chose this moment to break and the sun broke through the clouds and bathed the town in wonderful golden light.

As it was already mid afternoon, and we hadn’t eaten, we decided it would be best to find a place to eat as soon as possible. However, finding a wheelchair accessible restaurant proved to be very difficult, if not impossible, and so Nan was forced to walk up a small flight of stairs to the one place we found with spaces.

The restaurant had probably the best views across the harbour, and as luck would have it we got a table in the window, and from our table we watched the world go by. And there is nothing really quite like fish and chips when beside the British seaside, and although to do it properly you would have to eat it out of newspaper wrapping, off a plate with knives and forks is almost as good. We then followed that up by fresh strawberries and creamy Cornish ice cream. Perfect.

We then had three hours in which to wander the narrow streets and do some serious window shopping, or just sit and watch the world go by again. I went off with cameras in hand, and when on the small pier, a seal popped out of the water, just as I was pointing my camera there, and go a great series of shots as it frolicked in the water. Even more amazing was that I seemed to be the only one to see it.

As the sun dipped behind the town, it grew chilly on the promenade, and so we seeked shelter in a nearby pub; any old excuse I guess, but it is still a good thing to do.

And so it was time to make our way up the steep and narrow cobbled streets back to the single platform of the station and begin our trip back to Plymouth.

And so we retraced our tracks back north, this time with the warm light of the setting sun over the land; there are worse journeys to be sure. We arrived back in Plymouth just as dusk was falling, and apparently the freaks chose that moment to leave the nearby bar as a couple staggered down the road outside the station swearing at the top of their voices. I’m sure it made them feel better. Or something.

Thursday:

After five days of full on rock and roll holidaying, Nan was feeling a little tired and decided that today she would spend at the cottage relaxing, and Jools and I would venture out and do something physical that did not involve the wheelchair.

As we are less than 12 miles from Tintagel, we decided that we should go there. Tintagel is supposedly the location of King Arthur’s castle, or birthplace. What we can be sure of is that this was his hometown as we saw:

King Arthur’s car park King Arthur’s bookshop King Arthur’s pasty shop The site of King Arthur’s last battle.

And really, the list goes on. In fairness, the actual location of the castle admits in its official literature that there is little proof that Arthur lived there. The other truth being that he might as well lived as far north as Carlisle. If at all.

Anyway, I cannot deny that Tintagel is a stunning location, all ancient walls on green hills and high cliffs. From what I saw at best it was a collection of houses on an imposing headland. Anyway, it was fantastic to wander around and to take pictures of. Lots of pictures. Way below us, the sea had made many caves and inlets, and the surf crashed against the rocks. As the morning gave way to lunchtime more and more busses arrived spewing their cargo of wide eyed tourists to swarm over the verdant hills. We decided to head down and have lunch at the café on site, and made do with Cornish Pasties.

We then headed back up the steep path to the car park. Sorry, King Arthur’s car park and our car and then make the short trip to Boscastle.

Until four years ago, Boscastle was just another beautiful Cornish fishing port and village. Then, in August 2004, several inches of rain fell in a very short time and the three streams that flow through the village turned from a stream an inch deep into a 20 feet deep torrent. Although no people were killed, cars and belongings were swept out miles into the sea; and people were rescued from the roves of houses by helicopters. OK, people in helicopters. Anyway, since then hordes of people now visit to see how the village has recovered; and turned the villages fortunes round. Which is nice.

Anyway, it’s a fantastic place, in a stunning setting, and we can vouch for the organic ice cream that is sold there as being very good indeed. Then we stocked up on provisions so as not to go to Tescos and make more money for the evil corporation.

And so this evening we had a feast of left over salad, ham, sausage rolls, garlic bread, cold sausages followed by lashings of ice cream. Oh, and wine. Lots of wine. Now we are floating on air as we listen to Mr Maconie on national radio.

Friday:

And so what turned out to be our last full day in Cornwall, as we decided as we went through the day to head back home after we drop Nan off in Exeter tomorrow, and then give us a day to recover back home before Jools has to go back to work on Monday. And also give us time to try to get the scratches off the paintwork of the car.

In the end, it wasn’t a full day in Cornwall, as we headed to Devon and to Paignton to go on a steam railways that runes along the beach and then along the banks of the river dart. It is one of the best preserved lines and spectacular in the country.

So, it was back across the moors to Saltash, across the river Tamar and through Plymouth before turning off and towards the coast, and into serious holiday traffic. At least all the schools have not yet finished and there is some space on the roads. Turns out we have chosen the right time to visit; the last day of term for local schools, and early enough in the day to drive into town and find a parking space.

The station was just across the road from the car park, and there was time to buy tickets and have a cu of coffee before boarding the train. We found a compartment to ourselves, and seated Nan in the window seat facing forward.

The line was not as long as I thought, but the train kept a leisurely pace and in all took some 45 minutes to get to the end of the line. Most got off to board a ferry taking them across the river to the town of Dartmouth, but we stayed on to get the next trip back.

Once back in Paignton, we were hungry and set about finding somewhere to eat. We drove out of town as the crowds were large, and the choice there seemed to be fish and chips or kebabs. After a while we found a 15th century pub that was still serving lunch.

He weather once again broke as we were driving back into Cornwall, and soon we were driving through thick mist. Thankfully, the full holiday rush had not yet started and we made our way back home in time to put the kettle on and have a nice brew before a tea of fresh sandwiches and summer pudding with cream.

Sadly, now to pack.