To keep the focus on work until we actually entered Cornwall we also made a five mile detour into Exeter so that I could visit one of the solicitors who owed me money. I noticed a month or so ago that their website and phone line were out of action and assumed that they had shut down. Indeed, when we got to the address there wasn’t an OPEN sign, just a huge FOR SALE sign. I called the estate agents who would only tell me that the company had been wound up. I had, foolishly, hoped that there had been some mistake with the website and phones and the offices would be open and whoever I spoke to would be overwhelmed by my assertive manliness and would handover a cheque or carrier bag of crisp twenties.
We are in a static caravan just outside of Newquay. Newquay is not a new experience for me. I was here in 1981 and 1983 with my family. However, being in a static caravan is a new experience for me. Ours was built in 1873 and was last decorated in 1938 and has a very distinct charm. Sorry, that should be distinct smell. I think Marianna is trying to prepare me for another holiday which involves staying in hostels. I wanted to bathe in bleach after the last one. Our caravan was clearly meant to be inhabited during June, July and August and is far from airtight. The whole structure seems as stable as a Sugababes line-up. This, you’ll be aware, is November and it is distinctly chilly in here. Fortunately, we bought our own electric heater with us. However, I’ve really been feeling the cold in general over the past week. Is this how it happens? One minute you’re 39 and wandering around in your shirtsleeves whatever the weather and then you’re 40 and hide yourself under a weight of M&S pullovers. Next, neighbours will be keeping an eye on me in case I have a fall.
Also, and I know this may not sound great, and I’m not opposed to The Sun and the exposure of perfectly formed breasts or an insightful bit of football coverage, but every other resident here actually is a Sun reader. Every fifteen feet around the site there are signs telling people not to park near their caravan but to use the car park. There are two hundred caravans here and only six cars in the car park. That’s my definition of anarchy. I was surprised by how many facilities there are at the holiday park; a shop, laundrette, surfing supplies shop, amusement arcade, burger bar, indoor pool, outdoor pool, adventure playground and cafeteria. The spirit of Butlins is alive and well. There is also entertainment. On Friday night there was ‘comedy and song with the fantastic James and Murphy’, on Saturday there was ‘quick fire comedy and non-stop laughter with the one and only James Laister’ and on Sunday there was Bingo and a quiz. The problem was that none of these started until 10pm and we’ve been very busy lately and had retired, wrapped around the electric heater, long before the entertainment began.
Anyway, we arrived late on Friday afternoon and after checking in had a lovely wander around the town centre. Given that over a quarter of a century has passed since I was here and my memory is as reliable as a Lib-Dem manifesto promise almost nothing in the town was familiar to me. Had I been able to buy a Slush Puppy in Woolworths some memories might have been triggered but alas not. It was clear though, even with the shops shut, that this is a town dominated by dudes. While we were thinking how cold it was we kept spotting people wearing flip flops and shorts. The weekend visitors were easy to spot because they were wearing woolly hats and gloves. The make-up of the town is 35% ‘Fat Face’ and ‘White Stuff’ style clothes shops for the surfers, 45% surfing supply shops, 10% Cornish pasty shops, 9% niteclubs and 1% useful stuff for any non-dudes that may live here.
Saturday began with a shower. The shower cubicle fitted me like a glove which meant that whenever I bent forward to adjust the controls, which were strangely at knee height, my backside opened the door. We ventured out for another wander around the town so Marianna could visit the charity shops and we had an extended wander on Fistral and Newquay beaches so I could try and take one photograph I was happy with. Marianna chatted to a surfer, making his usual weekend visit from Luton, who recommended we visit Padstow, home of the famous Rick Stein’s famous fish restaurant. That is that the restaurant is famous, not that they only cook famous fish. It turned out that Mr Stein also has a shop, B&B, patisserie and bakery, delicatessen, fish and chip shop and ‘seafood school’. He owns the town! Like ‘It’s a Wonderful Life’ one day they’ll rename it Steinville or Padstein. It’s the kind of town where everyone seems to shop at Joules and Boden for their clothes. After a very pleasant wander and more photography we went to Mr Stein’s fish and chip shop. I must say they were very good. Then, fully satiated we returned to our caravan to sit with our coats and shoes still on while the heaters defrosted us and our surroundings.
It began to rain during Saturday night and we slept to the sound of raindrops beating a tattoo on the roof. The rain cleared and it was a chilly but beautifully clear skied Autumnal day. We went to Truro for a wander and to view the Remembrance Day service at the cathedral. Following the recommendations of the Luton surfer from the previous day we then went to St. Agnes (although he pronounced it ‘Stagness’). We had a wander on the beach for more attempts at photographing surfers and wet dogs and then a walk on the cliffs. We bought some weighty newspapers and then retired to a pub to review them before returning to the fridge-like caravan. The electric heaters can warm the main room but opening a door to another is like stepping into Narnia.
On Monday we returned to Stagness to walk the cliffs and countryside around the village again. It was wonderfully refreshing. I love the less populated outer extremes of the Britain and always have. I love that the place names are unfamiliar. I like to feel that there’s distance from the urbanised and familiar, to get outdoors and get some fresh air. I’d love a life in which the only footwear I own is walking boots and flip flops. My impression of the tiny handful of places we’ve visited is that it’s a little bit less likely you’ll be in Samesville as in the centre of England. At the extremities you may find a genuine family business or local trader. However, in almost every town and village we’ve visited in Cornwall we’ve found a Boots and a Barclays Bank. Somehow, at some point in the past, Boots managed to sweep aside all competition. The local pharmacist must have sold much the same produce but Boots came into town armed with a points card and a chiller containing finger sized slices of carrot and lemon drizzle cake and the battle was won. Barclays are able to dominate the area because their clear thinking brought us ‘Hole in the wall’ which cleared up that ATM/ Cash Machine confusion which swept the country a few years ago. We noticed that the opening hours at the bank in St. Agnes were 10am till 2pm. There’s a nice, relaxed working day. We stopped by a tea room and enjoyed the conversation of our septuagenarian neighbours. The tea room was open from 12 till 2pm. I’d love to work those hours. When we return from our three day break to our rented spare room and await the completion of our house I’ll work on my dude-like qualities. PARTY ON.
