Another visit to Cornwall

I rarely need an excuse for a Cornish getaway; however, when my friend and her husband returned from India for a brief stay in Newlyn, I booked three nights at Penzance YHA.

Ever since I first visited Penzance I have this urge to keep returning, which I do fairly often. I've spent Christmas there for the past three years and have already bought my rail ticket and booked four nights at the YHA to make it my Xmas destination four years in a row.

Castle Horneck, as the hostel is called, is a friendly and familiar place. I've come to know the staff well and always feel welcome there. And there's something about the town of Penzance that makes me feel at peace. Perhaps my attraction is due to the way the main street winds up a hill with a raised pavement on one side. Or could it be that I can see the bay and St Michael's Mount from any one of many vantage points in the shopping district?

Then there's the walk around the bay to Newlyn, a working fishing town that is as quaint and unspoiled as it possibly can be in today's world. And speaking of quaint, Mousehole (pronounced Muzzel), a half-hour stroll along the sea front and around the head, remains much as it has been for centuries. Thinking about it, though, with narrow streets lined with thick-walled white washed cottages protected by preservation orders, there is little room for change within the village.

The approach to Newlyn harbour.

As well as visiting my friends, I spent a day in St Ives. Even in late September the day was sunny and warm enough for a paddle.

From there I travelled north to Tintagel for two nights in the hostel perched on the clifftops. It's a small one-storey building with kitchen, dining room and lounge combined, a setup that makes for intimate evenings and ample opportunity to strike up new friendships. On my one full day there I bussed to Bude and walked along the beach and through still-familiar rock pools before enjoying my usual dish of cheesy chips while watching the tide come in. Bude, too, is a favourite haunt with memories of family holidays. It was there that my grandmother gave me my first swimming lessons; she tied a rope around my waist and walked back and forth along the sea pool wall as I dog-paddled -- my frantic splashing the only way to keep from freezing in the frigid waters of the Atlantic Ocean.

I had never before walked on the site of Tintagel Castle, so before heading home I decided to pay the fee to roam around the ruins. In fact, I purchased an English Heritage membership. And even though the time frame of the crumbling edifice doesn't fit with the legend of King Arthur, I allowed my imagination to run riot. The scenery, as was the weather, was spectacular, and I came upon a butterfly (or maybe a moth) desperately trying to disentangle its legs from a spider's web beneath an overhanging rock. I helped secure the creature's freedom and managed to catch a shot as it rested a while before wafting off on the warm breeze -- perhaps his way of thanking me?

This shot, taken through one of the remaining archways, attests to the wonderful weather.

Gadding about pics

 A beautiful garden in Polperro

 Some shots from Looe

Gadding about England

To gad: (foll. by about, abroad, around) go about idly or in search of pleasure. That's it then. I've become a gadabout. Not that I haven't always enjoyed gadding about... it's just that whereas in the past my gadding was often in pursuit of another with whom I might partake of pleasurable pursuits, at my ripe old age my aim is to visit as many UK places of interest as time and energy allows.

Here in Weston-super-Mare we're lucky enough to have coach firm that offers day trips as well as short and long getaways. So when I picked up the fall brochure I was like a kid in a candy store and booked several outings. The first was a visit to the Tower of London and the commemorative poppy display and my next to the market at Aberganney in Wales. These local markets are real crowd pullers where one can take in local crafts and buy foods specific to the area. Welsh cakes are one yummy example, and the views along the Wye Valley are eye candy of the highest order!

Often I embark on my days out alone but invariably chat up the person sitting next to me, as was the case recently when I met Sandra while waiting for the bus to Wells' market. Having struck up a budding friendship, I invited her along to Abergavenny. The day was sunny and warm, and after cruising the market stands and making our purchases, we chatted over a long lunch before heading home.

The next week, alone this time, I boarded the coach for Looe and Polperro -- two qaint towns on the south Cornish coast. During our two-hour stop a Looe, I wandered along the east bank before taking a five-minute ferry ride to the west quay. (Luckily the tide was in.) On each side of the inlet the views of the sea were spectacular. The fishing fleet had returned to offload their catch, followed by large flocks of hungry, screeching seagulls.

Then it was on to Polperro a short ride west, there to explore yet another unspoiled coastal village, complete with narrow streets bordered by ancient whitewashed stone buildings, leading down to the sea and yet more breathtaking views of the Atlantic Ocean.

A week later St Fagan's was my next port of call, and although I've visited this Welsh National Museum twice before I never tire of wandering about the grounds and through so many structures that reflect Wales' unique heritage. The site is that of a stately home, called The Castle, and donated by the owners for all to enjoy free of charge. The entire village is made up of so many buildings and dwellings originally scattered across the country, taken apart stone-by-stone and reconstructed on site to emulate life in Wales throughout the ages.

Looking back now on the all-too-few years I spent in the company of my paternal grandmother before we emigrated, I see that I am following in her footsteps. She was a gadabout too; nothing made her happier than sitting in the back of my parents' car for a Sunday drive, on a coach or the top of a double-decker bus. As a youngster, I couldn't understand her penchant for getting about when all we saw was a British landscape and at our destination enjoying a cup of tea, fish and chips and maybe even an ice cream. It is only now that I've reached the age that she was then that I fully appreciate her love of England and... gadding about!

PS. For some reason I can't load the pictures for this blog. If anyone has any suggestions as to why, please let me know. Thanks.

Day trips

One of my reasons for writing this blog is to record some of my comings and goings during my sojourns back home. So far this time I've been on two excursions: London and the Tower, and two towns on the Devon coast.

While at Angi's, having read a news item about a project to plant 880,000+ ceramic poppies at the Tower of London, I booked a spot on the coach. The drive from Weston (beginning at 8am) took close to four hours, as we stopped along the way to pick up more passengers. Even after we reached the outskirts of London, it took a while to fight our way through London traffic to reach the Tower. 

Apart from doing and seeing interesting things, my hope is that my mini adventures might lead to my meeting interesting people and possibly new friends. On this excursion I happened to sit beside a lovely woman who was happy to chat all the way there and back and to exchange email addresses before we parted.

I've been to the Tower once before -- with Angi on her visit in 1998 shortly after my move here -- and again I joined a group to hear a beefeater recount the macabre details of deaths and beheadings at the Tower. After the hour-long tour, the sun came out and I was feeling too hot and tired to stand in line for more than thirty minutes to see the crown jewels; thus I spent the rest of my visit circling the outside the Tower checking out the amazing seas of red.

The poppies I saw that day are only a fraction of the total, and I'm planning another visit to the Tower closer to Armistise Day when the display will be complete.

On August bank holiday Monday (25th) I caught a train to Teignmouth (two trains on my outward journey and three to reach home). I've travelled this part of the Devon coast a few times and was so taken up with this pretty little seaside town that I decided to visit again. The weather forecast was dire, and I had some doubts about using my ticket even as I headed for the station in Yatton. But I carried on, thinking that a dismal rainy day at home wouldn't be much better than one in Teignmouth.

And as it turned out, my decision to carry on was a good one. It was drizzling when I arrived in Teignmouth, but I spent a happy hour rummaging around the charity shops, which I was surprised to find open on a bank holiday. I ate lunch in a fish and chip shop, and by then the rain had stopped.

Shortly after I took this picture, the sky began to clear, and the sun started to play peek-a-boo with the clouds as I walked the three and a half miles along the coast to Dawlish.

Dawlish is the coastal town that took a beating in last February's storms -- so much so that a section of the railway, completely washed out, took many man hours and much money to reconnect. Since this line connects the southwest with the rest of England, the completion of the works was, indeed, cause for celebration. It's not hard to imagine the havoc a raging sea could wreak on this coast.

By late afternoon the sun was shining brightly, and I was able to get some good shots of the famous black geese.

This is a 'courting' pair, complete with loud trumpetting.

After two train changes on the return trip, I arrived home tired but happy to have spent such a full day enjoying some sights and sounds of England.

Settling in

As always when I return, I spent the first couple of hours in the farm kitchen drinking tea, chatting with the guys to fill them in on all that happened in Canada and catch up on the latest news and gossip on the lane. Then it was time to put my caravan to rights beginning by removing the thick layer of dust from every shelf and horizonal surface (where does it all come from?) and clearing away almost inperceivable but multiple cobwebs encircling the ceilings (sorry spiders). 

Having been away for so many months, I spent the next few hours happily reacquainting myself with all that makes up my little home. I call it 'puttering', this process of rearranging my keepsakes, pictures, knick-knacks and plants to my satisfaction. I liken this habit to the way a cat paws and kneads at a favourite spot before it settles down to sleep, and only once I've made my home feel just right do I settle in to resume life in England.

After twelve hours' sleep, it was time to check out my garden, which had suffered at the mouths of six sheep that found a weak spot in the fence. During the onslaught, my flowers (except for the marigolds) had been consumed as well as most of the leaves of my ornamental and fruiting trees. However, I was pleased to see that my garden had recovered quite well, thanks to some friends who had worked hard to replace what they could. And now that Chris has mown the lawn and I've weeded and tidied, my garden is just the way I like it.

And after a trip into Weston to replenish frig and cupboard supplies, I felt I truly was back home.

My journey home

My journey home was an eight-leg marathon that took almost twenty hours: a coach from Kitchener; two subways to the end of the line in Toronto; the Rocket bus to Pearson Airport; a flight to Dublin; a flight to Bristol; a local bus to Churchill and a two mile walk to the farm.

I was glad I took an early coach out of Kitchener; usually it takes 1.5 hours to reach Union Station, but because the highway was chock-a-block due to road works, the driver took several detours along back roads to avoid the gridlock.

Once in Toronto, I made good time as I made my way across town and reached the airport with plenty of time to spare. I found a Subway and enjoyed a tasty egg salad flat bread sandwich before heading through security to airside. Thankfully Toronto airport offers free wifi; between checking out the goodies in the duty-free shop, going on line, and walking around to get some exercise before the flight, I whiled away the hours until we boarded.

Luckily the plane wasn't full and there was a spare seat between me and the young woman on the aisle. Until we rolled out of the bay, both she and I were busy on our iPhones. At the announcement to turn off all electronic devices, I put my phone away. But the woman was chatting on her phone even as we taxied to the runway. The stewardess, making her final check for takeoff, cautioned my row-mate to turn off her phone. However, once the stewardess headed on up the aisle, the gal continued to chat. I kept glancing over at her and finally she ended the call, only to start texting!

Finally I lost patience and asked her to turn off her phone, to which she replied that she flies all the time (indicating that she knew the ropes better than I did); she also informed me that she wanted to stay safe as much as I did. However, she did put her phone away, although when shortly afterwards she headed to the toilet with her purse, I wondered if she was still at it. Oh well, there will always be one or two people who think the rules don't apply to them.

Once on the ground at Dublin I hurried along, following the 'Connections' signs along many corridors. I had envisioned buying a cup of tea (there were no hot drinks on my main flight due to an unusual amount of turbulence) and even finding a washroom. But that didn't happen; with so little time to spare, I was advised to jump the long queue at security (yes, yet another check -- iPhone, iPad and bag of liquids into the tray -- even though I hadn't been anywhere other than airside).

Finally through, I quickly checked the board, noted the gate number (111) and hurried along the moving walkways. That's when I discovered there were two flights to Bristol, and this wasn't mine. Actually I panicked. It was 6:05 and according to my boarding pass, my actual gate was due to close at 6:10. As I ran past the next board, I realized that to reach the right gate I would need to retrace my steps to the security checkpoint from whence I had started and traverse yet more walkways to reach gate 333. But since it took ten minutes to backtrack, by then it was 6:15. I truly despaired that I had missed my flight and hoped I would be allowed to board the next plane, although that scenario would mean a six hour wait.

Still hoping for a miracle, hot and bothered and out of breath, I found the gate and was relieved to see a lineup for boarding. I thought I'd made it until I glanced up at the information board. The passengers were in line for a different flight, and on the board next to my flight number were the words, in red, 'LAST CALL'. 

'Excuse me, pardon me,' I called out as I pushed my way to the front of the queue and explained that my plane from Toronto was a little late in, and I'd gone to the wrong gate. The agent told me I had been paged several times (none of which I'd heard on my trek) and that I had missed the flight. However, she made a call to the crew, and I waited for a few heartstopping moments until she nodded, hung up and told me they had not yet closed the doors and would wait for me! PHEW! I stepped aside to wait for a driver and in five minutes was in a car speeding across the tarmac. I never ever want to cut things so fine again!

Within fifty minutes we landed in Bristol and I bought a much needed coffee; now I had more than an hour's wait for the bus that would take me within walking distance of the farm. At that point I could have phoned my girlfriend and asked her to pick me up; the offer was there. But before I left Angi's I had decided to make the whole trip under my own steam, simply to prove that I could. And I did -- almost. By then it was raining, but I had no choice but to keep walking until -- another miracle of miracles -- a pickup truck, driven by a familiar local farmer, came to a stop beside me.

'You want a lift to the farm, love?'

'Yes please,' I answered without a moment's hesitation. I'd almost made it home without any help, but after all, it was raining...

Then came the fun part of my homecoming. The wheels of my suitcase made a whirring sound as they rolled over the cracks on the path leading to the back door of the farmhouse. I heard Chris (one of my farm brothers) mutter to himself as he heard the strange noise. By then I was standing in the kitchen doorway, grinning like a Cheshire cat and enjoying the look of absolute surprise on his face. The reaction of Allan (my other farm brother) was the same when I found him in the living room.

I had made it, and my arrival was the surprise I'd planned. :)

Last day on the courts

Back in the spring, after being in Kitchener for a while, I realized I needed to find a way to spend my time, for other than being at home (Angi's), passing time and working at Angi's business (Meanscreens), and shopping, I had nothing much to do. Thankfully, at Kitchener's 50+ Rockway Centre I found a group I could join, possibly make new friends and get some much-needed exercise: the tennis group. I learned that the members played every weekday morning on four courts reserved for play from 8:30 - 11:30. And fortunately, a quick check of google maps showed me that the park was only a twenty-minute walk from Angi's. She loaned me her raquet, and I went along.
That very first day I found the group to be friendly and welcoming. The level of play is quite high, considering we're all 'senior citizens'. Apparently the Tuesday/Thursday group is more for beginners, and after playing a few rounds my new friends assured me that I played well enough to be in the more experienced group.
During the spring and summer I played quite often: each Monday, Wednesday and Friday as long as the courts were dry. Apparently the tarred surface of public courts stays wet and can be very slippery after rain, and none of us wanted to take the chance of falling and possibly breaking a limb.
To add to the social component of the group, there was a pot-luck luncheon organized to celebrate Canada Day. Not only were we asked to bring along a dish but also to wear red. Well, I arrived that day with carrot sticks and dip but had completely forgotten about the dress code and instead was wearing a yellow top with black shorts! Oh well, at least I stood out in the group photo. :)
The meal was delicious with plenty to go around, even if our table was the last to be called to serve ourselves. Following the lunch, a lovely couple I'd got to know earlier in the season invited me and my friend for drinks in their garden. And today I've again been invited to this couple's home -- for dinner this time -- since I won't be playing with the group again, at least this year.

Extras waiting for their turn to play. Sometimes there are more than one dozen people waiting, but it's a good time to chat.

Getting ready to roll

Again, and for the third time this year, I'm heading home. In fact, I've been in Canada for six straight months, not counting the two 15-day getaways that I was allowed under the rules of OHIP. At least now, though, I've 'done my time' and qualify for medical care here should the need arise. So... watch this space and read about how this woman, only one year away from her seventieth birthday, gets around that beautiful little island that she calls home.

So that you can better understand my glee at boarding the flight on Wednesday evening, I shall explain a little about who I am and where I belong. I was born in south-west England and lived there fairly happily until my twelfth year when my parents decided to move, lock stock and barrel, to Hamilton, Ontario, Canada. The adjustment was tough for me; I'd left behind grandparents, aunts and uncles, and so many cousins I hadn't even taken a count. My happiest childhood years were spent living in a lovely house in the middle of a three-acre wood; there the wild flowers, trees and birds were my companions. (And yes, I talked to the trees and flowers -- as well as to myself, a lot!)

Fast forward 42 years to October 13th, 1998, when my great adventure began. With one suitcase in hand, I tearfully hugged two of my daughters, Amanda and Angela, goodbye and set out to find a place in England that I could call home.

The search took only three months, for after a wobbly start in a grotty bedsit in Bristol I landed at Ivy House Farm. I'm sure providence played a hand in my meeting the guys -- Bill, Allan, Chris and Ken -- and especially in being invited to take up residence in the caravan-cum-mobile home encircled by cedars in behind the farm house.

There I stayed, except for two separate moves to Weston-super-Mare, when each time I came to my senses and hustled back to firmly become Anne of Ivy House Farm!