July 10 and 11, Tuesday and Wednesday

A digression: I have mentioned several times in earlier postcards about Cornish pasties. Just in case not everyone knows Cornish pasties, here's a brief description. A pasty is a semicircular meat pie. Roll out a circle of pie crust-type pastry. In the middle of the circle pile a pre-diced mix of steak, potatoes, rutabaga, and onion. Fold half of the crust over the filling, crimp the edges, and bake. You must use a pasty fold crimp to seal the edge, or it isn't a Cornish pasty.

On with the postcards…

On July 10, Marian drove Syd to Stanstead Airport to fly to South Africa to see his sister. All of our crew boarded a bus in Bury St. Edmunds for a day-long ride to Newquay, Cornwall, our next and last stop on the family trip.

We got into Cornwall in the early evening. Nikki and Pauline picked us up at the bus station and took us to their new home in Quintrell Downs. It was a lovely modern home with four bedrooms, so they could put us all up! Not only that, but there is as pretty a little country pub as you could wish on the corner, just one house away from Nikki and Pauline's place or, as Pauline put it, “Fall down twice, and you're home.”

We met Nikki and Pauline when we stayed at their B&B in Newquay in 2003, and struck up a great friendship. They came to Florida in November the next year, and we had a wonderful time. In their new house, two of the bedrooms are ensuite, have attached bathrooms. So if they wish to do a little B&B some time, the house is made for it.

When we got to their home, Pauline had put together a wonderful supper for all of us! After a long day of travel, it rejuvenated us. The kids were excited to be in Newquay. Amy and Lisa were additionally excited to be in Cornwall, the land of their heritage on Bob's side. They had heard Bob's parents, particularly his father, talk about Cornwall.

The next morning, July 11, Nikki turned out a full English breakfast including fried bread and hash brown patties, which disappeared in a hurry! She's got years of cooking breakfasts in their B&B behind her and turns out the mushrooms, grilled tomatoes, eggs to order, beans, and toasts with minimum effort. Bob and I have a full English breakfast every Sunday at home in Florida. Bob cooks it. He picked up a few pointers by watching Nikki and asking questions.

After breakfast was cleaned up, Nikki put out buns, ham, cheese, crisps, sweets, and everyone made his or her picnic lunch for the day's outing. Daypacks were assembled, the family assembled, and we walked with Nikki down to the pub car park. Nikki and Pauline had rented a people carrier, something like a minibus, for our visit so that we could all ride together on outings. It was a fantastic idea, and we had a lot of fun on the ways.

Remember that old children's puzzle,

As I was going to St Ives
I met a man with seven wives

And every wife had seven sacks
And every sack had seven cats
And every cat had seven kits

Kits, cats, sacks, wives
How many were going to St Ives?

That's where we were going, to St.Ives, the St. Ives of the old rhyme. St. Ives is a popular resort town with quaint shops and long stretches of sandy beaches. It is an art center, as well, a colony for artists and buyers alike. Many of the quaint shops are art galleries.

But Nikki didn't drive right to St. Ives. She drove to Lelant Saltings, a railway platform beside a spreading tidal estuary. St. Ives, like all Cornish seacoast towns, is built on a hillside climbing up from the coast. It is ancient, chartered by the kind in 1639. It is crowded in summertime, and seventeenth-century mackerel fishermen did not include many car parks when they piled their little cottages on the hillside. Those few car parks in town fill up early in the day, not to mention that getting in and out of them and St. Ives is a massive headache.

But, a couple of miles outside St. Ives there was land for car parks, and a string of them were built along the estuary. Add a train to take folk into town, and voilà! A few hundred more people can cram themselves onto the streets and beaches of St. Ives. That would be us.

The train ride into town was the frosting on the cake for us, a short jaunt to add to the excursion. We could see St. Ives in the distance while we waited for the train at Lelant Saltings, white houses and golden beaches in the sun calling to us. The train came, we got on and were whisked to St. Ives.

Tall leaning buildings framed winding cobblestone streets of shops. Tiny lanes lead to little hidden courtyards. Homes and gardens were tucked everywhere. It was so-so English picturesque that one could hardly take the camera away from the eye long enough to look in the windows and shops. Many shops were art galleries with large windows full of paintings or sculpture to study and comment about. That's all we could do, was study and comment. The prices took our breath away.

The sun was bright and hot. Josh didn't have a hat, and needed one. So we shopped the tourist traps. We would shop the tourist traps anyway, but this gave at least some of us a reason to do so. I found a bag that would do just perfectly for touring. The one I brought over and have used for other overseas trips just didn't seem to be big enough this time. Josh found a hat that would do perfectly. We were both happy.

There were pasty shops. For years we had told the kids about the abundance of pasty shops in Cornwall. We had described how folks bought pasties and ate them while walking down the lanes. True, we had found pasty shops in Stratford and Victoria. But here there were shelves of pasties at every turn, whole shop windows filled with pasties. We admired the artistry in the crimp, the shades of gold in the crusts, and the plumpness of them.

All that made us hungry for lunch. We went down on the beach, selected a spot in the sun where we could lean back against a retaining wall, and turned ourselves into beach bums. Off with the shoes. Wiggle the toes with ecstasy. Eat a ham sandwich, drink a cold Coke, and watch the tourists and the sea. Ah-h-h-h.

Josh was 'way too hot in the long-sleeved shirt he had on. He and Gordy went shopping on the lane on top of the retaining wall, and Josh came back in a black pirate's T-shirt! Was he pleased! The coast of Cornwall is traditionally the lair of pirates of the high seas. There are legendary hidden caves in the coastal cliffs only accessible at low tides, perfect places for pirates to hide themselves and their loot.

Nikki, Josh, and I walked along the water's edge. We stepped over the mooring ropes of rowboats pulled up on the beach and splashed our feet in the icy water. The others chatted and dozed. After a while somebody, I think it was Bob, heard ice cream calling, so we gathered up our gear and left the beach.

Again we strolled the lanes and courtyards of St. Ives and popped into more tourist traps on our way to tea. We found a little café was tucked into the side of a steep hill behind one of the beaches. From the road, steps led down to the patio of the café. A blue-painted steel retaining wall kept the patio from sliding down to the beach. It was a low-enough wall that we could watch the beach while seated at a table.

We were lucky to get there during a lull in customers. We found a big table right at the wall, pulled up extra white plastic chairs, and gathered 'round. Some of us had tea and a sweet, some had ice cream, all enjoyed. There was a large blue umbrella in the center of the table, but we never thought to put it up. This exhibition of intelligence went right along with our sitting on a beach by water in the sun without sunscreen. Bob's sunburn was still peeling a week later.

Nikki had told me that the famous London Tate Gallery art museum had built a small gallery in St. Ives without regard to the indigent architecture. Basically, it was ugly. While the others were finishing their tea, Nikki and I walked down to the Tate. Yep. It was ugly. The stark geometrical façade made no attempt to reconciliate itself with the setting of sea and cottages around it.

Tea over, we strolled back to the train station, got off at Lelant Saltings, and climbed into the people carrier. But the day was not over yet. Nikki had another treat in mind. We went back, not to Quintrell Downs, but into Newquay and up onto the Pentire Headland.

In my memories of other trips to Newquay, the Pentire Headland is one of my favorite places in the world to walk. It's not a long walk, but it's an inspiring one. A path through high wild grasses meanders along the crest of a narrow arm of land that stretches out into the rough Atlantic. The wind blows free, the world is at your feet. On either side of the peninsula, ragged cliffs dive to the sea.

Look to the left, and wide yellow Crantock Beach spreads to the south far below. To the right the cliffs and beaches of Newquay stretch to the north. Behind them the town climbs the hills and fills the valleys. At the end of Pentire, out in the sea, an enormous craggy rock, almost an island, rears up from the foaming waters. This is Goose Rock. It dominates the seascape from Crantock Beach to Fistral Beach.

On the town side of Pentire, there is a restaurant built down into the cliffs. A deck out from the indoor restaurant proper hangs over the sea. Bob had a tea there four years ago while I roamed the peninsula. He doesn't get a feeling of freedom, of singing with the gods when he walks the Pentire. He just gets a sore leg.

This time we all walked the peninsula, and the family understood my enthusiasm about it. We all walked through the restaurant and out onto the deck to meet Bob, who had a beer this time while he waited for us. We hung around there for a while and admired the view while Bob finished his beer.

Lisa, Josh, Gordy, Nikki, and I took the seaside trail back to the end of the headland. Bob and Amy and Craig took the shorter route. We were all to meet at the Atlantic Hotel. We missed that meeting place, but all got together anyhow.

When we got back to 2, Quintrell BridleTrail, Pauline had another spectacular supper fixed. She had to work until noon, so couldn't join us on the trip. She must have started cooking as soon as she got home. We fell to and dispatched the meal handily. I think that's a quote from somewhere, but I can't remember where. That night we all played Mexican Train dominoes until we couldn't keep awake. Then we staggered off to put cream on our sunburns and call it a day.

July 12, Thursday

What a change a day makes! On Tuesday we got sunburned. On Wednesday we got hypothermia. Well, maybe not hypothermia, but it was definitely much cooler and wetter.

The morning routine was the same. First we tucked away a sturdy English breakfast made by Nikki. After breakfast cleanup, everyone gathered around the long kitchen table and packed a lunch. Water bottles filled, lunches and umbrellas stuffed into backpacks, waterproofs on, and we were ready to attack another day of fun.

This day the people carrier turned south again, but not to St. Ives. We turned more south down to Mount's Bay and the town of Marazion. You can walk to Marazion from Penzance. It's less than a mile from the Penzance Bus Station along the coast to the causeway in Marazion. But we didn't walk that. We drove into a car park in Marazion, hauled out our packs, and set off towards the causeway over to Mount St. Michael.

Mount St. Michael is a small island with an imposing fourteenth century castle atop it. It is only an island at mid-tide rising until mid-tide falling, roughly, depending on the moon and the season. Otherwise, when the tide is far enough fallen, a mile-long wide causeway connects the mount to the shore of Marazion.

The mount itself is dedicated to St. Michael. In Cornish legend, St. Michael appeared standing high on a rocky ledge on the western side of the Mount to a group of Cornish fishermen in 495 A.D.

The castle was once a Benedictine monastery, but for hundreds of years now has been the hereditary home of the St. Aubyn family. The castle and gardens are now under the care of the National Trust. The St.Aubyn family, though, still lives in part of the castle. The gardens on the south side of the island are private to them.

Some time in history some one built a slightly elevated flagstone walkway across the middle of the causeway, so we didn't have to slosh through bladderwrack or stumble over hidden stones along our way. There are a few homes along the shore of the island that make up a tiny village with a restaurant and a gift shop. We could see the village ahead of us, crowned by the castle sitting proudly atop of the wooded steep “mount” of the island as we walked the causeway. Only the causeway is exposed, and there was water just a few feet away from the walkway as we came closer to the island. It was a strange sensation to be walking through the sea. I kept looking for Moses.

When we reached the island, we walked past the houses without really seeing them. Like everyone else, our sights were on that castle far above us. But we did pause in our pursuit of the castle to go into the National Trust Visitor Center and see an interpretive introductory show about the island and castle that was very good. We picked up some brochures, browsed the shop, then declared ourselves ready for the castle.

Getting up to that castle is not for the faint of heart or weak of leg. There is no lift, no easy way, and no apologies. If you want to see the castle, you climb the mount. There are a few steps, but most of the way is up is what seems like a forty-five degree angle path of crooked and uneven stones.

The tour through the castle is on your own once you get there. Take as long as you please. We pleased to linger at every point, and enjoy the atmosphere. Like Castle Duart in Scotland, there is a ruggedness about this castle. The sheer opulence of some manors and castles is here comfortable elegance and a sense of authority.

Bob was hanging around on an outside platform of the castle when he was approached by a stranger who remarked on the insignia of crossed American and Cornish flags Bob wears on his hat.

“Are you American?” he asked, pointing to the insignia.

“Yes, I am.”

“Whereabouts do you live?”

“I live in Florida now, but I used to live in Michigan.”

“Oh, you did? Whereabouts?”

“Big Rapids,” said Bob, “but my people are all from Michigan's Upper Peninsula. They migrated there from Cornwall around 1900.”

“Do you know where Houghton is?” asked the fellow.

“Sure do,” said Bob, “my people are all from that area.”

“Well, come over here, I'd like you to meet someone,” said the fellow.

He introduced Bob to a couple from Houghton, MI, who had come back to Cornwall for a family reunion. Their family, like Bob's, had migrated to Michigan to mine copper when the tin mines faltered in Cornwall.

Bob chatted with the couple from Houghton for some time about Houghton, the Michigan mines, the Cornwall connections. After they had gone on their way, he remembered that they hadn't even exchanged names. To borrow a couple of trite but true quotes, it's a small world, and they were like ships that passed in the night.


There were a couple of places where tourists could walk out on platforms with stone parapets, like the one where Bob was. The castle of Mt. St. Michael was active in the English Civil War, and those platforms may have held cannons. We were told that some cannons are still at the castle, but we didn't' see them. It was windy out there, on top of the world. Craig, Amy, Nikki and I leaned over the parapet and watched tourists strolling the famous castle gardens on terraces far below. Lisa came out of a door onto the open platform and said, “I think that now this is my favorite castle of the trip.”

Gray skies and the winds gave a feeling of adventure and strength reinforced by the isolation and rugged simplicity of the castle. I could feel it, too. St. Michael was not only a visual experience; it was an emotional one, as well. Who knows? Sir Gawain might be lurking just around the corner of that graystone wall.

When we all had finished exploring the castle, we made our way back down the steep rocky path to a grassy plot with picnic tables near the Visitor Center. With perfect timing, it began to rain-not hard, just a fine drizzle. We chose a table, pulled out our lunches, and dined. We weren't the only ones having a picnic in the rain. Diners in the rain were at the other picnic tables, too. They were laughing, we were laughing at the fun of it all. The picnic tables just another step down the hill from us held other damp diners who bought food at a take-away there, especially ice cream cones.

After lunch we shopped at the gift shops, strolled around a bit, then gathered at the pier to leave St. Michael's Mount. The tide was in. The Mount was now an island complete. We climbed into a motor launch with some other friendly and smiley tourists for the trip back to Marazion. Where only a few hours ago we had walked, we could now not even see the bottom of the water. Tides in this part of the world run 16-18 feet.

When we got back to the car park and people carrier, Nikki opened the hatch and then a pack with two flasks of hot tea in them! Hot tea! How welcome that is on a damp and dreary day? Always the perfect hostess, Nikki poured and we gathered around the hatchback of the people carrier for a spot afternoon tea. It didn't really seem chilly, but Craig's glasses steamed when he tipped up his cup of tea.

First there's Marazion, which runs into Penzance. Next to Penzance is Newlyn, and beyond Newlyn, Mousehole (pronounced mousl). Bob and I have, at one time or another, walked from one of these places to another on the seaside walkway that connects them all. We weren't walking this day, though, we drove through Penzance to Mousehole. As we traveled through Penzance along the seaside promenade, Bob and I tried to identify the B&B we had stayed at for a week in 1992. Couldn't find it. Building is probably gone or been turned into something else.

Mousehole is a small fishing village that captures people's hearts, for some reason.

Have you been to Cornwall, then? And did you enjoy Mousehole?

Everyone visits Mousehole who knows about Mousehole. No major bus or train lines stop at Mousehole. Mousehole doesn't advertise itself, with one exception. The exception is the Mousehole Cat.

The Mousehole Cat is a children's book about a black and white cat who saves the village during a storm. It's an acclaimed and very popular story, and has put Mousehole on the map. At Christmas Mousehole is also acclaimed for its holiday lights. We've never seen them, but we've heard about them and been sent photos of them. We were in Mousehole in October of 2003, and they were already putting up the wire forms along the front of the breakwater for the lights. One of the frames was a big cat. Guess who.

We strolled through the narrow village streets around the quay and popped into some shops. The shape of the piers in the Mousehole harbor form a sort of stone-surrounded basin at the foot of the village, quite picturesque. The old houses, flowers in hanging baskets and window boxes, and the narrow twisting streets create a timeless storybook village. All this strolling made us thirsty. It was time for tea and there was a perfect little teashop tucked into the corner of a building on the quayside.

Nikki and I took orders. The gal in the teashop dumped some cartons out of a plastic box so that we could carry out the teas to the gang hanging around a park bench next to the water. We had a lovely tea, Josh had ice cream, and watched the action in the harbor. After a while, fortified by tea, we took up the job of strolling and shopping again.

The last couple of times Bob and I have been in Mousehole, we've looked for the Mousehole cat. We've found lots of cats. Perhaps because of the name, there are cats upon cats in Mousehole. This time, the whole lot of us passed a gray tabby sitting in an open window. We backed up and waved to it. It simply looked self-satisfied and ignored us. We went on with our strolls. When we eventually came back around to that window, the cat hadn't moved. We took pictures. The cat yawned.

Then someone, I think it was Lisa, discovered the Mousehole Cat! A black and white cat lay snoozing on a raised walkway, uninterested that he was a hero. We took pictures of us with the cat. It snoozed on. We talked to it. It snoozed. For a moment we wondered if it were dead. Bob reached over, petted it, and informed us that it was warm and alive. It must have been sleeping off a whacker of a hangover, because it didn't as much as raise its head. We, though, were satisfied. We had finally found the Mousehole Cat.

July 13, Friday

Friday the thirteenth was the last day for all the family to be together in Britain. The kids were all to leave on Saturday; Amy and Craig for Ohio, Lisa, Gordy, and Josh for London. It should have been a fine balmy day, right, for such an occasion? Wrong.

The plan was for Nikki to take us first to the Bedruthan Steps, a spectacular array of coastal cliffs protected by the National Trust just a ways north of Newquay. Then she would drop us in Newquay to spend the rest of the day strolling the beaches, headlands, and cliff top paths that define the western border of Newquay. The wanderings would be highlighted by a pasty lunch at a Newquay bakery. At six in the evening we would meet Nikki and Pauline at The Fort Pub Restaurant for a farewell dinner.

For starters, Lisa had a sore throat all day Thursday at Mount St. Michael, got more ill in the evening, and couldn't get out of bed on Friday morning. So our ranks were thinned by one.

The day started grey, and went downhill from there. Winds from the sea bent the trees and blew clouds of mist across the back garden. Nevertheless, the six of us and Nikki set out in the people carrier for Bedruthan Steps. We did see Porth beach, the northernmost beach of the Newquay beaches, and the village of Wakebridge tucked into the valley leading to the beach. It was quite clear there, in the valley. But as we climbed out of the valley, the mists returned. By the time we got to Bedruthan Steps, the mists pelted rain.

Nikki and I led the way down a cobblestone path to view the cliffs and rock stacks. Winds drove the rains into our faces and soaked my gloves clear through. There is something elemental, though, in the crashing surf and lashing winds that invigorates and gathers you in. We all got photos, but they can't show the freshness and tang of sea winds, the shine of wet stone, or the thunder of the surf.

After a tour of the National Trust Bedruthan Steps gift shop, a small stone cliff top building, we returned to Newquay. Nikki dropped us off at her friend Jeanette's Cornish Fudge shop and went back to Quintrell Downs to meet Pauline. They were driving to Redruth to turn in the people carrier before they met us at The Fort for dinner.

It was grey, but dry in Newquay. We said hello to Jeanette and introduced the family, but didn't have much time to chat, as the shop was very busy. By that time there was a pasty calling the troops, so we stormed Wilbur's Pasties, the first pasty shop/café we came upon, for lunch. Warmed and fortified, we stood on a street corner at 1:15 and agreed to meet again on that corner at 3:30 p.m. I walked the town pedestrian mall, stepped into a couple of shops, visited the Tourist Information Center, and searched for the bus station. Some time while I was doing this and that, it started with bucketing rain.

It didn't stop raining. It wasn't a shower; it was a deluge. With my rain hood up on my red raincoat and my hands in my pockets, I tramped down a steep side street, past a hotel I recalled, and to a stone wall overlooking the ocean. Yes, it was as I remembered. A tower of rock rose from sandy Towan Beach. On top of it there was a house, connected to the mainland by a private suspension bridge. It was “The Island,” a Newquay landmark. Further along the walkway above the beach was Blue Reef, an aquarium. Josh would like an aquarium. It would amuse him on this long and rainy afternoon. Actually, it would be a sanctuary of sorts for all of us out of the rains. I headed back up the hill to see whom I could find.

I discovered Gordy and Josh huddled under the dripping awning of a leather shop and led them down to the aquarium. We stopped first at the beach wall for them to see The Island sprouting out of the sands. Back up the hill, then, to find the others. Good exercise. Wet exercise. Amy and Craig in their twin aqua L.L. Bean umbrellas found me looking for them. I told them about the aquarium. They were happy in the rain and wanted to go back to Jeanette's fudge shop and meet us later. Onward, then. The last person to find was Bob.

I walked up and down the pedestrian mall, then stood at the meeting corner. It was near 3:30 when Bob meandered up. We went down to the beach, settled down in the aquarium café with a hot cup of tea, and people-watched. Eventually Gordy and Josh appeared from the depths of the aquarium and joined us for tea. Near five o'clock Amy and Craig showed up at the aquarium doors. We tea drinkers pulled on our rain gear and headed out to brave the elements.

Well, surprise! There wasn't much to brave. The rains had drifted away. Where there had been a sandy beach before below the wall, now the surf came well up the wall and crashed against the neighboring rocky cliffs in spumes of foam. The Island was truly an island in the billowing sea. {note: Tides at Newquay rise as high as twenty-three feet. July 13 at 5:14 was high tide, a rise that day of about twenty-two feet.}

We trudged up a series of switchback walkways to Fore St. and The Fort Inn's Pub Restaurant. Good thing we got there early. We six got into action, pushed two tables together in front of a window, and settled in to admire the view. Nikki and Pauline soon joined us, along with Lisa. A day's sleep and some cold meds had revived her enough to carry on. Within a half hour the place was jammed, all tables taken. We did well.

Grey skies hung over grey seas rimmed with white foam rolling up yellow sand beaches beyond our window. There were boats out in the water and on the shore, rowboats with several rowers and a person manning a long stern rudder.

“Gigs, they are,” said Pauline. “They row out so far, then turn in towards the beach. They hope to catch a wave and ride the surf in. It takes good timing, that does.”

There was a surf-boat race coming up on Saturday in Watergate Bay on the north side of Newquay and the boats we watched were probably practicing for the main event. When a boat has ridden waves in as far to the beach as possible, the bow rower jumps out of the boat and runs for a finish line up on the beach.

Nikki told us a story of last year's races. A women's team in third place coming in caught a wave just right. They kept the gig steady and rode that wave right up onto the beach to the finish line, passing helpless first place and second place gigs along the way.

After supper we all leaned on the rail of the outside patio dining area and watched the gigs search for waves.

“That yellow boat missed the swell, didn't it, now.”

“Ye-as, and the blue one isn't didn't even make the shallows. Look, they're having to pull it in.”

“Whoa! There was a good ride! Almost went over, they did. God, that water has to be cold.”

Finally we gave it up and went back to 2, Bridle Way. No games this evening. The washer and dryer ran continually; suitcases and duffle bags were packed and repacked. At 10:20 tomorrow Amy and Craig will board a National Express bus to begin their two-day trip back to Ohio. Lisa, Gordy, and Josh will fly away at 5 p.m. to London.

July 14, Saturday

Pauline and I took Amy and Craig to the bus. There were a few hours, then, before Lisa and Gordy were to leave. The day was sunny and warm. Nikki dropped Bob and I, Lisa, Gordy, and Josh at Fistral beach, Newquay's biggest surfing beach and one of the nine beaches tucked among the cliffs of Newquay's shoreline.

We walked the paths along the cliff tops above the beaches towards the center of town. By lunchtime we had reached The Red Lion pub, a favorite of Nikki and Pauline, Bob and me. Again we lucked out on our timing. Bob and Gordy pushed two tables together in front of the window, and we had lunch with a view of beach bathers basking in the sun… All right. Not many folk were basking. Most were in wet suits washing in to shore and paddling back out into the surf searching for that elusive perfect wave. The pub had clever quips written along the beams. I wrote down two of them that really struck me. First, “Children under twelve must be accompanied by money.”

The second, “If God didn't want us to eat meat, he wouldn't have invented mustard.” This one is particularly English. Mustard was one of the earliest, if not the earliest sauce for meats. Mustard seeds ground up in vinegar delighted the palates of pagans and Christians alike hundreds of years ago, and still does today.

After lunch we strolled along to Towan Beach and The Island, once more adrift on a wide sandy shore. From there we climbed to the pedestrian mall and a bit of shopping before time ran out. Nikki and Pauline met us in Sommerfield's parking lot at 3:00. They had Lisa and Gordy's luggage aboard. Off to the airport, unload the luggage, hugs and kisses, and they suddenly were gone. We four, Nikki, Pauline, Bob, and Ruth came home. The house seemed quiet and empty.

Supper was leftovers. I went upstairs and looked at my email for the first time in over two weeks. I read a couple of letters, it seemed, when it was suddenly 8:45. Whooee! 8:45! It was time to walk down to the corner pub, the Two Clomes, for quiz night!!

Like many country pubs, the Two Clomes is a large rectangular white stucco building smothered in bright summer flowers. A fenced garden area of flowers and umbrella-bedecked picnic tables lead to the pub door. It is just two houses away from Pauline and Nikki's home or, as Pauline describes it, you can come out of the Two Clomes, fall down twice, and be home.

Hoards of people jammed the low-ceilinged barroom and dining room. The tables were filled. Beer mats of every shape and color decorated the sides of the black ceiling beams, and a row of copper tankards hung along the fireplace mantel. It was a merry place filled with laughter and clinking beer glasses - and no smoke. All of Britain went smokeless on July First this summer, and that included the pubs and bars!

Nikki and Pauline exercised their privileges as regular customers and, after some negotiations, we were sitting at a table at the end of the bar sipping the foam off our pints. At night pubs take on a golden glow. The dark woods soak up the light from table and wall lamps and give it back only dimly. All men are handsome and all women beautiful; the beer is soothing; and life is good.

Nine o'clock came. Nine-fifteen came.

Ah. Finally the caller handed around the night's Bingo sheets. Quiz night entertainment begins with a quick game of Bingo at one pound a card. A filled line wins eighteen pounds, and filled “house” gets you fifty pounds. We, of course, won nothing. On to the meat raffle. Two pounds each got us tickets for the meat raffle. The first prize was a whacking joint of beef. We didn't win that, either. Probably just as well. Security might get twitchy about a raw hunk of beef in my big suitcase.

Finally, the QUIZ! The quiz is not only the highlight of the evening, but also, it's free. The prize is a bottle of wine. Each table or group is a team and gets one sheet of paper for answers, and one sheet for notes. Bottle of wine be damned, the real prize is outsmarting the rest of the bar and glorying in your moment of fame. The caller reads out each question twice. Nikki was our team's recorder.

“Spell the word, 'chauffeur.'” I had that one cold. Nikki scribbled.

“Who first recorded 'Eidelweiss' in Britain in 1967?” A whispered heated discussion brought no consensus. We eyed the team at the next table. They looked smug on that one. Was it Engelbert Humperdink? We didn't know. Come back to that one later

“What is the proper name of the airplane's 'little black box'?” We all knew that one. Flight recorder.

“What did the U.S. Presidents Kennedy, McKinley, Lincoln, and Garfield have in common?” Bob was on that one immediately. Nikki scribbled again.

“What was the main sport during the Age of Chivalry?” We knew that one, too. Jousting.

On it went for forty questions and another beer. Tension gripped the rooms. The last question was a stopper.

“Write down these letters: “B,D,D G,H,S,S These letters are the name of something and the tip is in the question.” We didn't have a clue.

The quiz was over. Groups exchanged papers for checking, some of them several times. The caller read the answers. There were whoops, groans, and laughter and calls for more beer. Some team won the wine. Not us. We had twenty-two right answers out of the forty questions. Oops.

What was the answer to the last question? The Seven Dwarfs.

(Can you name them all?)