Part 4: Cornwall

Henry James wrote, "I have interviewed the genius of pastoral Britain."

I, too, witness that genius, driving through Devon and Cornwall. The colours really are verdant and the hills do roll by like patchwork, each irregular field stitched with hedgerows.

Flying into Heathrow, Air Canada flew just north of Cornwall and I saw it clearly. I knew it was beautiful then, and I see it is beautiful now. There are few places on the A30 where we can pull off, however, so I try to snap a few shots from the moving car.



Our first destination is The Lizard, and part of our drive is enshrouded in thick fog, so we fear we will see nothing. But the sky clears, we explore the edges of the cliffs and the great lighthouse and I feel like I could be back in Nova Scotia. Unfortunately, I recommend driving as close as possible and again the narrow roadway is a menace: Steve yields to an on-coming car and backs up to let them pass. He does not realise the clump of vegetation he backs into is actually a stone post and crunches in the back panel on his Toyota. He is remarkably accepting of the mishap.

In fact, narrow roads--lanes, if that--cause anxiety because there are so many blind turns, and almost every road is bounded by such high hedges that at times we can't see anything--scenery or approaching vehicles. The RAV 4 is a big vehicle by British standards, but we see plenty of SUVs and a few full-sized cars. At one point, Steve leaps out to show us that he can almost touch the shrubbery on both sides with out-stretched arms.

For years, Steve and Mary spoke of the scrumptious Cornish Pasties they had found at The Lizard when they visited here soon after their marriage. We hope "Ann's Famous Pasties" is still here: we find it and their memory proves correct--incredible, huge, and delicious pasties.

We next drive to the much-touted--and over-rated tourist mecca--Land's End. The cliffs are beautiful, but to enjoy them we must "experience" the amusement park or "attraction" that sucks coins from hundreds of visitors. I love the Dr. Who science-fiction television series, but the incongruity of Dr. Who rides and displays at the western edge of Britain is disconcerting!

The operators even want us to pay for every photo taken with the famous signpost, but we sneak one from outside the barrier whilst they try to sucker another tourist.


Mary gave me a wonderful book of scenic British villages, and highly recommended was Mevagissey. We go there, searching for two acclaimed attractions: The Lost Gardens of Heligan and The Eden Project. But we arrive at Pentewan to see Heligan at 4:40 and the last tickets were sold at 4:30! (In fact, everything in the UK closes at 5:00, and it will be light for four more hours!) Nevertheless, I visit the very fine gift shop and know that this is a place to which we must return. The guidebook says that The Lost Gardens are "an amazing restoration project to recreate the extraordinary gardens created by the Tremayne family from the 16th century to World War 1." From what I can see, it is worth a visit. Likewise, the nearby Eden Project in St Austell: two futuristic conservatories called Biomes--they look like domes made from giant bubble-wrap!--have been designed to mimic the environments of warmer climates. Plants from South America, West Africa, Malaysia, and the Tropical Islands thrive here. The Biomes are built into an abandoned Cornish clay pit. We must come another day.

We drive into the village of Mevagissey, despite warnings to park the car outside, and at first the streets are one-way. But not the main street. We must fold in both side mirrors to get through, and once-committed there is no turning back! Here we were stuck waiting for some movement behind a taxi, as another car finds a slightly wider spot to get through. I photographed the hill-side village overlooking the harbour, and then realised that the only way out was to drive back through the narrow streets. Oh, for a Vespa!

We spend the night at a quite inadequate Premier Inn near Newquay, and it is only later that I discover two things: first, I left behind my expensive and annotated atlas of the UK, and, much worse, I was only minutes away from the birthplace of my old dinner guest, Sir William Golding: he was born at St Colomb Minor. (It gets worse: the next day we drive past the village of Perranarworthal near Truro where he lived for many years and where he died, and also within a few miles of Bowerchalke, where he is buried.) The next time I shall do my research first, before we visit places.

Tomorrow we head for New Forest.