LETTER 5 CORNWALL - CROWDS - FOG - EDEN.

The road is barely wide enough for two cars to pass. Heading toward me is a leviathan – a huge tractor. The machine has an enormous motor-driven trimming mechanism and he is trimming the top of his more than ten-foot-high hedgerow. He moves relentlessly toward me. I have no alternative but to back up until I find a place where the road widens. After several muddy impacts with the hedgerow, I make it. He lumbers on, turns in the roadway where I have waited, and waves acknowledgement. What choice did I have! We are lost somewhere on the back roads still looking for signage to lead us to the King Henry ferry. It was late afternoon of our third day.

Day one. Thursday, Finally we are in St. Ives. Nothing like what I expected. It hangs from steep hills the way Nice hangs from the slopes of the Alpes Mediterranee. Our Cornwall discovery drive will begin. But first….

It is spitting rain, a fine mist that comes and goes. I decided that we should use a “wasted” rain day to begin our next “excursion:” Cornwall starting at St. Ives. Long tedious drive made worse by the Tomtom GPS – made to drive you mad. The voice finally started working but not well. Following the explicit instructions we headed west. We were told to get on M5, then told to exit. No sooner had we exited than we were told again to head for M5. Maybe it was my fault – some costly error in the maze of directions on a roundabout. At one point I drove an extra 30 miles, only because we were sent (for the last time) to M5 – sent in the wrong direction and having to drive 15 miles before we could turn around and resume. If the GPS had belonged to me and not to our exchanger, who is now happily n Toronto using my Garmin GPS, I would have tossed it out of the car window accompanied by vile and foul imprecations.

A note in passing. I have never been so shouted at or so honked at angrily, than on this trip. I found myself wondering: do people in Toronto honk impatiently at anyone who seems either to be confused, disoriented, or simply slowing down to read the signs? Perhaps we do. I am impatient when someone seems to be driving slowly as if looking for a place to park. I identify them as visitors and cut them some slack. Here I have not been given that kind of latitude. If I dare slow down on a roundabout so that I can easily see which of the many directions I should take, there is angry horn-honking. Even worse, when I am a little confused and have to pull over to check things out, the anger behind me exploded – especially if I have made a sudden turn off the roadway. One man rolled down his window and let fly with expletive-loaded scolding. My response was that while I may have turned in without notice, he, as the following car, has the responsibility to stay clear or be able to stop. Maybe not in England. I am thinking of printing a sign for the back window “Tourist – please be kind.”

Returning to the tried and true we opened a map, took the correct route from Exeter, arriving tired in St. Ives several hours later. The next hour was spent fruitlessly looking for accommodation. None available. I had thought that the “season” was over when the kids went back to school. Not in St. Ives. They have a huge music festival starting in a couple of days. After an hour found a room in the Badger Inn. Room tiny. Kleenex unavailable. Bathroom exhaust fan continued to run annoyingly loudly for several minutes after the light was turned off. On the plus side the food was surprisingly good, and there were sweeties topped with clotted cream. (Later in the trip I would “get into it” with a woman in Cornwall who adamantly told me that the clotted cream in Cornwall was the best, in spite of Devon having the reputation for it.) I was a little surprised. I thought “cream.” Whitish? Not so. Looks more like butter..

Today we try – with some success this time – to find a tourist information booth so we can pick up a map and go discovering St. Ives famous galleries, including a branch of the Tate. By 10 am it”s getting crowded. No parking anywhere on the street. The parking lots are as high as you can get in St. Ives. Walking into town is easy – all downhill. Getting back will be the problem. (Turns out we found the bus that goes there.)

The Tate is a masterpiece but we chose, unwisely I think, to take a guided tour. The young man , artist in residence for nearly 20 years talked and talked and talked. We saw most of what was on one floor – exciting work by Gabo, and a fun piece of hundreds of white balloons riding on a curtain of air. But by this time my usual gallery “fatigue” had set in. We established ourselves at a table in a small restaurant overlooking the ocean and a huge sandy beach and dozens of surfers. An exquisite vista. We were simply played out. The Barbara Hepworth Museum would have to wait, perhaps forever.

Observations. Too many people visiting a strange place get into a taxi and let the cab driver tell them everything that is right and wrong with the people, the politiucians and liofe itself.. I find that deplorable. But what about a bus driver? Sitting on the bus at the seaside esplanade he announced:. “St. Ives” isn’t what it used to be, The best properties are being picked u-p by rich people from London. Everything has become so commercial. Right here (pointing to the land overlooking the sea) used to be Council Houses. (Subsidized housing so well known in Britain.) Now it’s all luxury buildings that only the rich can afford.”

I thought suddenly of the Ford brothers and their plan for Toronto’s Portlands. They seem taken not by how the lands can be made a part of the dynamic of good living in our city and a magnet for visitors. Instead they see it as a chance to exploit property values: a big shopping mall to be built by a world-famous Australian firm known for the blandness and detachment from the outside world, a ferris wheel, and more and more condos. Nothing wrong with that if all you want is to maximize profit, which seems to have happened here in St. Ives. The human factor, alas, seems to have fallen into a distant second place.

Leaving the seaside we ventured along a street, hoping to see some of what makes St. Ives famous. Yes, there were a few galleries, but nothing in them that would alarm a middle-class tourist. There were snack shops. Every other shop it seemed, was selling fudge. Of course, it was, according to the signage – unique – and very Cornish. To me it was more of the same-old-same-old. Either we couldn’t find it or the vaunted St. Ives chic is not there.

We awaken on day three to fog. Our waitress at breakfast says that Cornwall is “socked in.” It was not a pea-souper, where you could barely see your hand in front of your face. But it was unpleasant. Visibility on the road was perhaps 50 metres. Everyone else drove fast. I crept. Impatient drivers would swerve out into the fog and tear by us.

Because it was “there” and on the way – we drove through Penzance. No pirates. Fog, palm trees, guest houses, B&Bs, and hotels A boat basin with all the boats high and dry. Low tide.

The real disappointment was that we could not see any of the seaside sights. St. Michael’s Mount has a 12th century castle, now a private home, that can be walked to at low tide and boated to when the tide was in. We pulled into the parking lot. There were tour coaches parked. Fog or no fog it was on their schedule. All I could see was a stretch of tidal flat disappearing into the fog. I am guessing that some of the more intrepid took off shoes and socks and walked across the mud to the castle. Most seemed to be standing around and staring.

We ;passed through the pretty village of Marazion and headed once more into the fog. Of course it is complicated by twist and turn, impatient drivers, and widths that terrify me when another car approaches. I have still not quite grasped the “feel” of the car and a sense of how close I am to the hedgerow on one side and the oncoming car on the other. There is a lot of breath-holding. And of course there are impatient drivers behind me. From time to time, if I spot a “layover” I will pull in and let the impatient roar on ahead.

We stumble on Trelisick Grdens. (It was once again, not in the guide book.) We decided that it wouold b e cheaper to join the National Trust and get free parking and free admission to all their listed properties. Trelissick was one of them It actually turned out to be a good deal. For the price – something over 30 pounds, we got a ten pound voucher, our parking fee of 3.50 was refunded and we got to walk through exquisite gardens covering many acres of foliage, tries, and lawns. (English lawns are evergreen – the upside of the continuing rain.) On the way out we used our voucher for what the menu calls “cream tea.” It is more. A large pot of tea with hot water to add, two crumbly scones, a little pot of clotted cream and a jar of jam. For the two of us, under 10 pounds! It would, we discover, take the place of dinner at our next stop.

Before we stop, another castle visit, the one with the hair-raising confrontation with the hedgerow-trimming juggernaut. Turning right as we leave the garden, it is a short drive to the road leading to King Henry’s Ferry. I am assured that it is a better way to go than the land route which is another 20 miles through Truro. They were wrong! The ferry crosses a “river” which I think is a port estuary. Two large ships are anchored, waiting, I presume for docking instructions. The ferry takes us across but then there is a 6 mile twisting road drive to the fortress. We almost don’t stop. We pass the fortress without seeing a place to park. We continue on down a hill into the town. People are walking up the hill, a long dreary trudge to the castle, not made any more pleasant by the light misty rain. Shirley informs me that she is not walking. I go back to in what I think will be a fruitless search for a place to park. Eureka. A small sign points to the castle parking lot.

It is a masterpiece. Built as part of a chain of forts by Henry V!!! in around 1550 is is marvelously preserved. We enter and congratulate ourselves for having joined Nationsl Trust. Turns out this ;place is run by the English Heritage society or something. We pay. It’s worth it. Heavy stone blocks that, according to the gatekeeper, are the original with very little renovation or repair required. The rooms are stark. The walls thick. Cannons point out to see, presumably in the direction of hostile French or Spanish forces.
Strange, you tend to think of Henry as the gay divorcer, forgetting that as king, however venal and savage the kings of his day all were, he did protect England. To be cynical about it – not for his people but for himself - his own privately held fief.

The trip back, looking for the ferry was highlighted by the encounter with the hedge trimmer and occasionally, with cars tearing in the opposite direction totally confident that there will be no collision. After many false starts and bad turns we spot the ferry and make our way back to the road.

We arrive in Falmouth, once one of Britain’s principal ports and embarkation port for the Shackleton Antarctic expedition. The town is teeming with tourists. I observe that most of the tourists who arrive by car are Brits. The ones arriving by tour coach are Europeans. Falmouth is not listed as a “must see “in “Back Roads of Great Britain.” Surprising. The Marine Museum is a wonderful compendium of the sea and of explorations, with the accent on Antarctic exploration. The complex of buildings which include the museum, are wonderfully designed. The facing of the buildings is all weathered wood. The biggest surprise was Rick Stein’s Fish and Chips. The word must have gotten out. The place was pretty full, The food and th4e service were perfect. There were almost to many fish and chip choices – from battered to grilled to fried. We chose to split (old folks split portions) an order of battered sole. Perfect. Chips done the way they should be – cooked through then fried for crispness. A little light for my taste, but we didn’t leave a single chip. They had ginger beer. Not just any ginger beer. There were choice. I picked “hot.” It had an extra tangy kick. To finish we shared a treacle tart with clotted cream. On the way out I noticed a large bookshelf with travel books and food books all written by Rick Stein. Where have I been all this time?

From Falmouth our next stop would be the famous “Eden Project.” But first, a stop for the night. We find a B&B on the main road and bedded down without dinner. The cream tea snack was enough. Observation: another Englishman, our host, gives us all the inside stuff on what’s wrong with England. (He reminded me in his scorn for government of the Viet Nam vet we met on the QM2.) He had been a farmer. His first target was the control of food prices and marketing by the supermarket chains. He was angry that marketing boards disappeared with the joining the EU. Then he told me how brainless politicians were. Then he blamed unions. He didn’t seem to know where to focus his anger. He seems also to believe that Thatcher was good for England, just as so many Americans, out of touch with the facts, believe Reagan was good for America.

Final stop. Maybe the best of all: The Eden Project. The entire complex was built by private charities. They found a worked-out clay quarry, dug a little deeper, and created a masterpiece of exotic space covered by enormous geodesic domes, which they call “biomes.”. \

You reached the “biomes” walking along winding paths with lavish plant and horticultural displays. Palm trees, dahlia bushes, plants I had never heard of. Each carried the message of conservation and the nurturing of the world we live in. Eden Project is an evangelist for the environment, for renewable energy, for natural foodstuffs.

Each biome led seamlessly to the next. We started at the Mediterranean. It was a massive collection of plan t life from temperate climates – everything from Italy to the American south-west, from South Africa to Saharan Africa. Paths twisted and turned. Hundreds of plants and trees were marked. Flowers we all coupled with descriptions of where they came from. The Tropical rain forest was as you would expect – jungle and forest from Africa. Asia, Indonesia, Australia. The wood used was bamboo. The arguments made were for sustainable resources. It would gladden the heart of every devout tree-hugger.

I confess. I find many of these people tiresome. I am an environmentalist but not a zealot. I do my part by separating garbage, by using public transit, and when highway driving maintaining a fuel saving, pollution saving speed, and we buy our own supermarket shopping bags I want us to learn bout biofuels and biomass power generation. I do not march in demonstrations against the killing of baby harp seals.
What was absolutely overwhelming was not just the message of living without the environmental chaos, it was the massive enterprise of conceiving and building the project. One of the ironies of course it that enorous fuel-burning trucks and machinery were needed,

There are still people who want to do a project dedicated to the environment by using only primitive tools and lots of willing manpower. You couldn’t have built Eden Project with good intentions. Some small wrinkles like a little mock train station where we took the land train back up the hills to the welcome office. It was made entirely from scraps of wood, old window sashes, doors, and windblown lumber. Cute.

The drive back was clear but horrible black clouds darkened the horizon. We managed to skirt most of the rain. Arrived “home” exhausted. Tomorrow, a day of rest.