July 15 - 28 Mornings with Amber

After the kids left, we stayed on at Nikki and Pauline's for almost two more weeks. We did a lot of touring and sightseeing in Cornwall with them. Before I get into those trips, though, I want to tell you about Mornings with Amber. This is how my days started from July 15-28.

Nearly every morning at seven during the weeks after the kids left, while the rest of the world was snoozing, Amber the springer spaniel jumped into the back of the car, Nikki and I jumped into the front, and we all went off for a run. Amber is a pup yet, and did all the running for the three of us, actually. Pauline couldn't come with us, as she had to work early in the mornings.

Vast rolling common grounds spread along the Celtic Sea only a few miles from Quintrell Downs. Below them wide golden Crantock beach stretches from grassy dunes to the foaming surf. Not far from Crantock Polly Joke (Porth Joke) beach is literally tucked between steep cliffs. The Cornish Coastal Path that traces the edge of Cornwall for 500 miles wanders the edge of the moorland and overlooks these beaches. This is where we spent the early morning hours.

We drove through the edge of Crantock Village each morning on the way to the downs. The narrow single track lane makes a turn at the cluster of white, thatched-roof cottages with walled gardens spilling greenery. In the early morning it was often dim. These cottages rose from the mists like Brigadoon returning.

Nikki usually parked in a sandy National Trust car park behind Crantock beach. A steep stony path led up to the moors from the lot. The path was close with tall brush on both sides. When we stepped off at the top, the great green expanse of the moorland spread before us. That hill was my morning test. If I could make it to the top without undue panting, I was having a good day.

Amber ran and ran with sheer exhilaration. She was up and around and about, but never really far from us. A maze of paths wander across the moor, and Nikki and Pauline know them all. I just followed, breathed deep of the fresh air, and gloried in the land and the sea.

Prickly gorse thickets made hideaways for rabbits-lots of rabbits. Sometimes a whole little meadow would be full of brown cottontails sitting out in the early morning sun. They were great sport for Amber who pounced among them with unrestrained glee. The bunnies were too fast for the spaniel, but she did her best to fulfill the hunting dog image.

Nikki and I followed sandy paths, crossed mowed meadows, went through sheep gates and climbed over stiles. Sheep and cows grazed on some parts of the moorland. Commons were open areas in England that were used by all the village folk to graze their stock. Now that Crantock and Cubert Commons are managed by the National Trust to preserve them from development and keep them in historic condition, I imagine grazing is limited.

Eventually we would come to Crantock Beach. What paths we followed and where we came down to the beach was set by the tides. The beach doubled in width at lower tides. Then we clambered down to the beach on a steep trail called Pewsey Steps. Some of the way there were cement steps; part of the trail was just flat stones along the cliff edge. The trail sort of petered out at the bottom of the cliff, and we had the great fun of hopping rocks and jumping over small pools and streams to get onto the sand. If the tide was up and the steps were awash, then we came down off a dune on a wide path of loose sand higher up on the beach.

We walked across the sands of Crantock, then, for a quarter mile or so. Nikki threw a ball for Amber to fetch. Amber joyfully splashed into the sea or beach pool for it, or threw up spumes of sand on beach retrievals. The expanse of sea, sand, the cliffs, and the dunes in the early morning sunlight were a world apart. I could have walked there forever. Others came with their dogs, but they were few and far away on the vast lonely beach. Mostly it was just Amber, Nikki and I, the sun and the surf, in an Edward Hopper world.

A couple of times we went to a different access, one where we parked in a field. My job threr was to hop out and open a wide farm gate and close it behind the car. It was all the same moorland, just a different area. This was Cubert Commons, the beach access area was Crantock Commons. All of it is managed by the National Trust. This is farther south, and the paths here go to Porth Joke (Polly Joke locally) Beach. A stream runs down onto the beach at Polly Joke, crossed by a plank bridge. Amber loved to splash after her ball in the stream, so we'd play there for a while before going back up on the moorland.

On the way home after the morning walks, Nikki always stopped at a neighborhood news agents to buy the daily papers. Then it was home to a hot cup of tea and breakfast.

One afternoon Pauline and I took Amber out for her run. I got a perfect photo of Amber poised on the top of a small rise, every bit the alert hunter. The rabbits were everywhere, and Amber did manage to down one. However, after Amber had tossed it around a bit, the rabbit got tired of the game and ran off into a thicket.

It was a beautiful warm afternoon out on the moors that day. One of the paths Pauline chose through a field got narrower and narrower. Soon we were slashing through weeds that got taller and taller until they were shoulder height. Amber disappeared entirely into the brush, reappeared, then thrashed off again. What a laugh we had, flogging our way through the wilds of Cubert Commons! I took a picture of Pauline in the shoulder-high brush. A good old-fashioned stile over a hedge appeared, finally, and we all went over it. We landed in a mowed field and pressed on to Polly Joke so that Amber could play in the stream.

The last morning I went out on the moors, it was gray and misty. Just Nikki and I went. We didn't take Amber, and we got a later start. We went to Cubert Commons. I did my job of dragging open the big farm gate, and we parked in the moor grasses with two other cars. This time the route was different. Since we didn't have Amber, we could follow the trails through fields where sheep grazed. That was fun, making our way through clusters of wooly sheep on the high moor above the sea. I have a photo of Nikki surrounded by sheep, in the rain.

It began to get quite serious about raining as we went along. By the time we got to the headlands above Polly Joke, it was pouring down. I thought it was great out there in the wind and rain on the wide-open moors. I love to walk in the rain. It's exciting. Nikki didn't have the same perspective on the situation. She voted to head for the car. So we did.

We came down a meandering narrow sandy trail off the moor toward beach level on our way. People were climbing up the trails from the beach to our trail to get to their cars and escape the rains. We found ourselves in a long shuffling caravan of surfboarders, picnic hampers, crying babies, rolled up windscreens, half-folded beach tents, family dogs and tattooed teens. It was like wonderful. A fellow was struggling to carry a baby in a stroller he couldn't push on the sandy trail. A little girl dropped her stuffed toy. Her shrieks stopped the whole migration until it was found and returned. Two silly teenage girls ran by us, giggling and slipping in the wet grasses, to catch up with some boys ahead.

We left the straggling herd to cut back across the lower moorland back to Nikki's car. Nikki took a photo of me standing by the gate in the pouring rain, waiting for her to drive through so I could close it. I'm smiling in the photo. Smiling in the rain.

Back to July 15, Sunday

On Sunday, the day after the kids left, we five, Pauline, Nikki, Bob, Amber, and I went out and about. As when the kids were there, Nikki set out sandwich makings, small bags of crisps, and candy/nutrition bars on the kitchen table. Each of us made his or her own lunch and tucked them away in our daypacks.

It was not a wonderful day. The skies were gray. The winds were chill. But it probably wouldn't rain, the weatherman said. That's as good as you can expect most days. Pack up the sandwiches, get the umbrella into the pack, slide into a waterproof, and off we went to the gardens of Trebah. Bob and I wore the pants to our rainsuits on the outing for extra warmth.

Trebah is a ravine garden, built on the walls and floor of a gorge that descends 200 feet from its mouth to Yankee Beach on the Helford River. It's a fantastic place! It was begun in 1840 as a private collection of rare and exotic plants. Cornwall's climate has no extremes. It seldom freezes, and is equally seldom very hot. There are native palm trees in Cornwall. Exotic sub-tropical plants like it here. So do more northern flora. Trebah is on the Eden Trail, a listing of the 80 most beautiful gardens in the world.

Hundred-year-old rhododrendon and magnolia lined the paths and hung above us as we strolled in Trebah. We threaded our way through heavy forest and wild jungle. The greenery enveloped us, and then a vista opened and we were on top of an enchanted world.

You can't imagine the extravagance of colors and shades of trees that crowd the slopes in Trebah. This is no expanse of carefully manicured beds and lawns here. There is no expanse of anything except everything. The ravine is crowded with trees and exotica artfully placed for effect.

Nikki and Pauline led us to a woods of sixteen-foot high rhubarb, called gunnera. We ventured in. It was dark and mysterious. The Gunnera Tunnel, a winding path, led us through the rhubarb glade. Wide flat leaves above us shut out the light and nothing grew on the black soil below except the rhubarb. It was like a tunnel. The stems looked like rhubarb stems, but were as big as tree trunks. Now I know how a hedgehog sees the world.

We threaded our way among shoulder-high tropical ferns and gazed up at exotic fern trees. We paused at Alice's Seat and took photos. Alice's Seat is a shelter house built in traditional cob manner with a thatched roof. The stream lost itself in pools, then flowed out of them and down the ravine. We discovered a hidden pool with orange and gold koi drifting lazily. The twisting trails sloped on down the ravine walls. We came out of greenery, suddenly, into a world of hydrangeas. The ravine ahead was absolutely full of blue and white hydrangeas. Literally acres of massed hydrangeas flowed alongside the stream to the river. It was an amazing sight.

The hydrangeas in Cornwall this summer had flower heads as big as, as, well, I don't know what, but they were huge. I'm pretty proud of my one blue hydrangea bush, and took photos of it before I left Florida for my garden web program. Now I'm almost ashamed of it. Cornwall had rows, hedges, of violet, hot pink, blue, or purple, hydrangeas. Trebah had them by the acre.

I got a photo of Pauline taking a photo of the hydrangeas. I took photos of the hydrangeas. At one point a Monet-like arched hydrangea-blue wooden bridge crossed the stream among the hydrangeas. We all took each other's photos posed on the bridge. While we followed the hydrangeas down the stream to the river, I learned something from Nikki. In England, there are two distinct types of hydrangea blossoms. One is flat, and commonly called “Lacy Cap” blossoms. The other is the familiar ball of blossoms, and it is a “Mob Cap” hydrangea bush.

As the stream neared Yankee Beach, wonderful exotic shoreline and water plants replaced the hydrangeas. Then it all ended and we were at the beach. Bob had been waiting for Yankee Beach. Why?

In 1944 thousands of American soldiers pushed off this beach for Normandy, France, on D-Day, the Sixth of June. While the Nazis occupying France were fed false information that would leave them to believe that the attack would come at Calais, Americans were secretly massing in Cornwall to land at two beaches, Omaha and Utah, on the French coast near Caen. Those who left from Yankee Beach landed in France at Omaha Beach. Those to land at Utah Beach left from another Cornwall beach. To the north in England, Canadians and the British were likewise gathering to attack three more northerly Normandy beaches.

Bob is a student of history, particularly World War II. His library is filled with books on WWII. He has a collection of old newsreels and documentaries on the war. It is his passion. The opportunity to stand on this beach was one of the high points of his years. Even more, in August we plan to go to Normandy. He can then stand on Omaha Beach to close the connection. I took a photo at Yankee Beach. I'll take another at Omaha Beach.

It was chilly, actually cold, on the exposed beach. There were two small metal tables and folding chairs set out on the cement apron at the water's edge. Signs in front of a small building at one side of the apron offered ice cream. Aha! Tables! At least we wouldn't have to sit on damp ground to eat our lunch.

We flopped down at one and hauled out our ham sandwiches. Happily, Nikki and Pauline had brought flasks of hot tea. We warmed our hands on the plastic tea cups and huddled around the table. When English who travel with us bring along hot tea, they have to bring two flasks. The Brits always have milk, and sometimes sugar, in their tea. We don't. We've tried it, but don't like it. So one flask has cream and tea, the other has tea for us strange ones. It's all hot, and that's what counted this day.

A few tourists came out onto the beach, wandered around, and disappeared back into the garden. We hadn't finished our lunch when the young girl in the ice cream shop came out and began folding up the tables and chairs. She was calling it quits for the day. It definitely was not a day for ice cream. She let us finish our lunch. We helped her fold up our table and chairs, and went back into the garden ourselves.

For supper, we went to a favorite restaurant of Nikki and Pauline, the Bowgie Inn. The sun had grudgingly appeared, though dark gray clouds hovered to the east. It got a bit warmer, and certainly dryer. The Inn is a large pink building above Crantock Beach. Views from every window are great scenes of the beach, the bay, or the cliffs of Pentire. There are decks, sun lounges, bars, and dining rooms. It is a big place. We sank into a corner booth with a sea view, ordered a beer, and relaxed. It was a perfect ending to a busy day.

July 16, Monday

On the next day after exploring Trebah Gardens, Monday, the five of us (Bob, Amber, Pauline, Nikki, and I) were off again, this time to the Stithians Show. The Stithians Show, held near the village of Stithians, is only held on one day a year, always on Monday. It is what we would call a county fair, and everyone loves a fair!

Our first stop was a great white tent housing Cornish foods. Right inside the door, just right inside, we lost Bob. A huge pig had been roasted on a spit by the Cornish Pig Company. Hot pork sandwiches were sold on the spot. There wasn't much left but the bones of this particular pig when Bob got there, and another wouldn't be ready for an hour. Bob stood and eyed the bones wistfully, so they let him have some scraps.

We moved along with the crowd past tables of honey, sausages, herb vinegars, scones, cakes, and preserves. One table was piled high with bakery boxes of Cornish pasties, steak pasties, traditional pasties, lamb pasties, vegetarian pasties. More boxes were stacked under the long table. They were selling so fast the baker hardly had time to put away his money from one sale when someone else picked up a pasty. Nikki predicted that by lunchtime they would be gone.

Pengenna Pasties had a corner booth. We'd heard of them before. They offered scones, pasties, and sausage rolls. People were lined up there, and it was hard to sort the Pengenna queue from the moving crowd. But we forged through and onward with a minimum of pushing and “excuse me”. Next to Pengenna a lady offered curries and other Eastern delights. They smelled wonderful. The most novel booth showcased fruitcakes baked in wooden boxes. The sample tastes were very good, and we do like fruitcake. They offered to mail the cakes, or, I could buy the cake and mail it myself. Seduced by currants and candied cherries, I picked up one of their business cards. Then I calculated the frustration of carrying a fruitcake all summer, or the cost of having a fruitcake mailed, and put back the card.

We watched the judging of groups of huge black cattle, shopped at the commercial booths, had our morning tea on the run. Très Chic booth advertised “Ladies Quality Fashions and Accessories and Hat Hire.” I took a photo of their sign. I don't think I've ever heard of renting hats in the U.S. But then, elaborate hats are not part of our culture. I like hats. I rather wish American women wore them more.

Pauline really wanted to see the Flower Show. We couldn't find the Flower Show tent. It was one o'clock. Picnic tables about the grounds were full. Every flat place where a person could place a fanny was full. Trusting in luck, we found our way back to the Cornish Foods tent in search of pasties. As before, we had to travel with the crowds around the tent. The first pasty table was empty, the baker long gone. We forged on to Pengenna and got in line. “We” meant Bob, Pauline, and I. Nikki was seated in a small spot on the circular base of a big green tractor under a yellow umbrella with Amber at her feet. The rest of the base was shoulder-to-shoulder with others seeking respite for their tired feet.

A fellow in a white apron and white hat came down our waiting line at the Pengenna booth. “There's only a dozen pasties left. There's only a dozen pasties left.” I looked at the long line in front of us, and started to leave.

“No,” said Pauline. “Let's wait and see.”

All right. I stayed where I was. When we got to the counter, there were six pasties left! I guess most of the folk ahead of us had bought sausage rolls. Hooray for us. We clutched our pasties and worked our way out of the tent. Back at the green tractor, another space had opened up. One of us plopped in that one. People shifted, some got up, others sat down, and we managed to soon all be seated in a row under the big green tractor and yellow umbrella for our pasty lunch.

After lunch we came upon a demonstration of building traditional Cornish hedge walls. A group is trying to revive the art. I was immensely curious about it for possible use in my books. Medium-sized rocks were scattered all around the site. The builders, two of them, carefully selected each stone, and placed it onto the partly built wall. If it didn't fit, the stone was tossed aside and another one tried. This has to be done twice, as two walls are created, about eighteen inches apart, and filled with packed dirt in between. It is a tricky process. The dirt helps support the stones, so stones and dirt are both used together as the wall grows higher and more narrow.

When all is done, the top of the wall is planted with hedge shrubs. As time goes on, other plants grow from the spaces around the stones, and eventually, if the wall is not closely trimmed, it disappears into the brush. So it pays, if you are thinking of running through a hedge, to check it first. You could run into a stone wall. Nasty shock, that.

Pauline asked about a dozen people, and we did finally get to the Flower Show. Some of the exhibits were fantastic. The categories and judging criteria were entirely different from our fair shows. Some of the exhibits were entirely different from our tastes, and I'm talking about all four of us, not just us Americans. But the judges didn't ask us.

We went through the crafts and the rabbits, then Bob and I went out to see the antique steam engines while Nikki and Pauline did some shopping. The steam engines included an old traveling steam calliope. Well, that's as far as we went. We just sat down and listened to the music until Nikki and Pauline were done. We all paused on the way out of the show grounds to watch the horse jumping for a while, then called it a day. If you happen to be in Cornwall during the summer of 2008, the Stithians Show will be July 14. Get it on your calendar.


July 17, Tuesday

We couldn't tell much about Kingsley Village when we drove up to it with Pauline. It was just a huge building with no windows. Inside, to our surprise, it was bright and airy. How? Many of the display areas have high roofs of glass panels.

Kingsley Village is about Cornwall. It is a conference center, and it is a showcase for Cornish products. Now that's a stroke of genius. These are not little glass showcases of Cornish products; they are large market areas where people shop from all over Cornwall and points north. Schedule your conference there and enjoy our markets. What a way to sell Cornwall!

We three began at a huge showroom of Cornish-made products, everything from wet suits to photo frames. Though we spent quite a bit of time there, we didn't buy anything. Their big push was surfing gear from a corner of the room called the “Surf Shop” The west Cornish coast, particularly at Newquay, draws surfers from all over the world. I've been on a surfboard once, maybe twice in my life. Then I got too old.

A long mezzanine gallery featured work by Cornish artists. The gallery is permanent to Kingsley Village; the exhibits vary. Pauline and I spent some time there. I really enjoyed that, being an art gallery aficionado. Bob moved through the art work faster than we did, then sat down to rest his hip. The cell phone we bought at Woolworth's, the cheapest one we could find, was a bit cranky. Like the rest of the world, as soon as Bob sat down he pulled out the phone, stared at it, and began punching buttons.

The little lobby where Bob rested was in front of the lifts (elevators) to the conference center rooms. Another fellow sat a ways from Bob, reading his paper. He must have been a little surprised when a fellow appeared above his paper and asked him, in an American accent, if he had a mobile (cell) phone.

“Yes,” he said.

“Would you please call me? I'm having trouble with mine.”

Bob gave him the number and retreated to his chair. The fellow dialed, Bob answered, and all was well. When Pauline and I came along to collect Bob, he and the fellow were in a heavy conversation about the war in Iraq.

We went on, then, to The Palate deli and drooled over freshly baked bread, pastries and pasties, cakes and Cornish cheeses. Glinting bottles from translucent white to the deepest burgundies ranged on tables and along the shelves. Wines from local suppliers such as the Cornish Moorland Winery, meads from such as The Waterside Meadery in Penzance, and cider (called “scrumpy” locally) from such as the Cyder Farm tempted us. Cider in Europe, incidentally, is nearly always alcoholic. Amy and Craig, when they were here, got attached to a popular brand of cyder named “Strongbow.” It is exported to the U.S. but they haven't found it at home yet. I ranged along the shelves admiring the graceful bottles and reading labels. When I'm not an art aficionado, I'm a wine buff.

Cornwall is fish. Historically, those men who did not mine tin, fished. They still fish from nearly every coastal town and village. Newlyn, a small village we'll be visiting in August, has the largest fleet of independent fishers in the United Kingdom. The Kingsley Fishermonger showcased fresh-caught eels, shrimp, and fish of every description. Many of them we'd never heard of.

The Cornish Butcher took up the next showroom with chops and roasts, sausages and steaks. Duck, goose, lamb, venison, beef, pork was spread in coolers, hung, or spitted around the room. This was Pauline's real objective, good fresh Cornish meat. We wandered, we sampled sausages, we discussed. She bought a pile of meat, I can't remember what. But I do know that when it appeared on the table, it was good eating.