July 22, Sunday

Nikki, Bob, myself, and our ham sandwiches and tea really covered ground this day. We started at the Flambards Experience, a theme amusement park not far from Penzance. We didn't go to ride the water slide or the corkscrew roller coaster. We didn't even see them. There are three parts to Flambards; the museums, the thrill rides, and the gardens. We went for the museums.

There are two museum experiences at Flambards, The Victorian Village and The London Blitz. We started with the Victorian Village. There are 50 exhibits in the village, all lifesize and lifelike people and buildings to create the village. It is truly a walk into the past, seen in lamplight. This was an English Victorian village, the kind of place that gave us the word Victorian. For us, it was fun to compare what we saw there with the American “Victorian” period. There were streets, lanes, and courtyards where we lost each other and then found each other again. If we saw objects we didn't recognize, we called Nikki, and she always knew them.

We peeked into one window, and spiders peeked back at us - dead, dried-up spiders, that is. Around the corner was the shop front, and a description. A fellow, can't remember his name, ran a chemist's shop (pharmacy) out of his house, as was common in the old days. When he died, the widow simply closed the door to the shop. Ninety years passed before that door was opened again. By one means or another, the intact one-room shop and shop front was brought to Flambards. It remains as it was found when the door was opened, complete with cobwebs and dirt. Eerie, but fascinating.

After playing in the Victorian Village for quite a while, we moved on to the London Blitz. That sobered us down. A bombed street is recreated, just as it was during the Blitz. People we have talked to, old people like us, say that the site is very true to the actual event. Again, Nikki gave us a lot of insight about what we were viewing. Did you know that people had large metal tables in their homes that were shelters for bombing raids? I didn't. They ate on them; they hid under them. There was one in a diorama of a typical wartime home. The curbs were painted white so people could find their way during blackouts, which lasted for months. Children were given gas masks that looked like Mickey Mouse, so they would wear them.

The most impressive diorama, to me, was the lifelike pub. Servicemen and local women mixed and socialized there, with the threat of bombs over their heads. You could see desperation in their faces as they sought pleasure and release in the company of each other. I never realized, until this summer, how much the Second World War had invaded England without invading England. You need to stand in Cornwall and understand that American and British armies alike shut farmers from their fields, commandeered homes, reconfigured the landscape. You begin to understand the civilian sacrifices for the war effort.

There was a War Museum attached to the Blitz exhibit, where we also spent some time. It, too, was informative, sensitive, and well done. Nikki and I were done before Bob, and we coaxed him out of there with the promise of a ham sandwich.

We three had lunch in the sun. Grassy, tree-shaded picnic grounds were also part of the Flambards Experience. We even bought fresh hot tea from a little canteen to dress up our lunch.

Then we were back into the narrow hedgerowed lanes and green tunnels and on our way to The Lizard. The hedgerows, particularly in Cornwall and NorthWales are wide and tall along the roads. They turn lanes into walled tunnels. There are occasionally little pull-offs for passing cars. If you meet a car and there isn't any convenient pulloff, you creep and jockey and pass each other as best you can. In more open land, there's a little more ease room if there are grassy shoulders. These are the country roads of Britain. Even buses go down them.

The Lizard is a peninsula we have never explored in our Cornwall treks. It is the southernmost point in Great Britain. The name “Lizard” is a corruption of the Cornish name “Lys Arth”. Lys Arth means “high land”. It's a high piece of land, all right, edged by sheer cliffs and wave-pounded rocks.

We stopped at the absolute most southern point, the Lizard Lighthouse. The lighthouse, the lands around it, and the coast before it are owned by the National Trust.

We first walked on a path through the moor grasses to a huge white building. It was perched on the cliff tops, gazing out to the sea. There was viewing tower at one end, and a lighthouse at the other. There is a lot to see at The Lizard, you could spend days there. Our day was growing short, so we just hit the high spots.

Back near the car park a steep cobblestone lane led down to the sea through a break in the cliffs. At the bottom we could get up close and personal with the great rocks and swirling surf. An historic Life Boat Station was tucked against a rock wall. It stood in the sea on its own cement pier. At one time a great rowboat lived in this little building. It was manned by volunteers who braved heavy seas to rescue shipwreck victims and search for lost fishermen. To me, the prospect of sliding down the slipway and into high seas in a rowboat is terrifying. If you live with the roaring main, perhaps it is not so bad. Still, many a lifeboat man lost his life to the sea. Now the work is carried out from a modern station slightly further down the coast.

About a third of the way up from the shore, a little teashop hugs the lane. I know that inside those stucco walls lurk fresh scones and home made slices of cake. Wherever two or three Brits are gathered together, there's a teashop. I've been in ones that have only four tables. As you may have gathered from my letters, Brits have tea early, often, and in-between. This creates a thriving customer base for teashops any size and anywhere. Teatimes and teashops are facets of the British culture we really should import.

From the Lizard Lighthouse we again followed green-walled roads, this time to two small coves, Mullion and Kynance. These are hidden places. Their names are not on tourist routes. Tourists from overseas, or Europe, or even other places in Britain do not have the time to take the time for local exploration. Trebah, Heligan, Mt. St. Michael show up in all the tourist brochures. Rightly so. They are fantastic places. The tourist has to discover the hidden treasures. In Cornwall, Nikki led us to them, which was our good luck.

Mullion Village and Mullion Cove are quiet and scenic. The village is the largest on The Lizard and has all the amenities that tourists adore; accommodations, shopping, sea views. The harbor, 200 feet below the village, is protected by seawall piers built in 1895 by the then Lord of Lanhydrock. It is a true hidden treasure.

Kynance Cove, on the other hand, is rugged and wild. It is owned by the National Trust and reputed to be the most dramatic bit of coastline anywhere. Dramatic it is. Spectacular, even. In my novel, Stones Seven, the wandering players fight their way along a moor-topped cliff-rid coastline that I brought home from Cornwall years ago. I hadn't seen Kynance Cove, though, or it would have been in there. Oh, well, in my next book…

Kynance Cove is a towering mass of rocks and crags beside and in the sea. At low tide, as when we viewed it, there are tiny pocket beaches. But these are only uncovered for a few hours, then swift tides bury them. There are caves, too, to explore at low tide. The wildness is the attraction. It is said that storms from the sea are spectacular at Kynance (when viewed from a safe distance). It was the wildness, the glistening rock slopes, the towering cliffs, the churning sea that grabbed me. Kynance is a chance to dabble with Mother Nature's powers and then get away before she catches you.

Oh, and there's a teashop balanced on a rock shelf at Kynance well above the high tide mark. What is danger without a cup of tea? Keep the stiff upper lip, my dear.

July 23, Monday

The church at St. Just-in-Roseland qualifies as another hidden treasure. And what a treasure! Down winding lanes on the Roseland peninsula there is a place of enchantment. It's a small ancient church, a stone church with a clock tower, but only one aisle inside. A storybook church, it is.

St. Justus church was built in 1250. Not only that, but the church was built on the site of a chapel that is documented from the 400s! Not only that, but it is a quiet pretty secret church alongside a pool and tidal creek.

St. Just is surrounded by verdant semi-tropical greenery. A vicar brought tropical plants to plant around the church, and they loved it there. There are palm trees, lantana, and fuschia in the church grounds. The church, as I said, stands next to a natural pond. Behind it, a lush green churchyard climbs steeply uphill. Churchyard infers that there are graves, and there are. Ancient tombstones tilt and tip in the greenery, inviting us explore their pedigrees.

I've been talking like a tour guide. What did we, Bob, Nikki, and I do at St. Just? We walked down the lane to the church. We went inside. The stonework and woodwork, so ancient, was fascinating. I took pictures of keystoned arches and beamed ceilings. I took a picture of a Gothic doorway crowned with fresh flowers. It is a small church, with its just one central aisle. Its size just adds to its charm. It's a church you could love, even if you didn't like the vicar.

We walked footpaths through a part of the churchyard. These paths eventually make their way up to the Coastal Path and on to St. Mawes, just a couple of miles away. We strolled around the pond to get a view of the church over the water. What a view! It was a Constable painting come to life. I think we all rather hated to leave there. It was a sanctuary from the world, from modern life. A hiding place, if you will, a pool of serenity.

We left St. Just through leafy green tunnels and winding lanes to go from the serene to holiday fun. St Mawes, like Fowey, is a holiday destination. The harbor was filled with sailing yachts. There is a long, curving quay with shop fronts and home front doors right on the walkway. Everyone has a view of the harbor.

We strolled along the quay, then drifted into a café with a wall open to the harbor. The sky had gone gray, and there was a sprinkling of rain. It was teatime, anyway. We all had tea, and Bob and I split a flapjack (oats and honey snack bar). If there's food around, Bob must have it. (Note that I didn't balk at my half.) We sipped our tea, chatted, and watched the sailboats in the harbor. It was a pleasant interlude.

We ambled onward along the quay. From the café it was lined with private homes. At the end of the quay, we strolled down a lane back to the car park. The lane was lined with elegant holiday houses up on the hillside. There's money in St. Mawes.

Our last stop was Porthloe. Porthloe is a tiny fishing cum holiday village. It's another hidden corner of Cornwall. The fishermen go out every day, but the balconies along the small harbor are filled with holidaymakers. We saw them sleeping in their beach chairs or flirting at café tables. At Porthloe, the only road into the village goes into the water. You wouldn't want to drive home drunk; you could end up swimming.

We parked about a block up the hill from the harbor and walked down to the water. Fishing dinghies and lobster pots lined the lane. Porthloe is where you go when you get away from it all. There is one restaurant/bar. Otherwise, you're on your own for entertainment. It is possible to swim from the shingle beach, but not advisable. You could get prop cuts on your derrière. The only way to get ashore with a boat is where the lane runs into the water. The only place to swim is where the lane runs into the water. This is a working fishing village. Holidaymakers come in second.

It is wonderfully picturesque in the cove, and quiet. Mix up a martini, settle onto a chair on the balcony, and enjoy the sunset in perfect peace. Not all bad, I'd say. Two olives, please.

July 27, Friday

Friday, July 27, dawned sunny and bright. The morning was spent doing laundry and other odd jobs. I took the “circular walk” of the neighborhood in the morning, also. I began by going to the right out of Nikki and Pauline's gate, and followed the narrow road down the hill. I met Pauline coming up the hill with Bonnie the boxer and we chatted a bit, then both went on our ways.

The pavement ends at the bottom of the little hill and the road goes into a dirt country lane. Hedgerows line the lane and trees hang over like a lacy roof. That part of the walk is not long enough. The track comes out alongside The Willows pub on a busy “A” road that goes to Truro. There's a narrow asphalt walk right alongside the curb of that road which goes to an equally busy traffic roundabout. Quintrell Inn, a large pub and restaurant, stands right up to the pavement of the roundabout. If you were a nervous person, you would want to sidle up to the front door of the pub to avoid being clipped by a rearview mirror.

The last lap is the road alongside the Quintrell Inn straight down to the Two Clomes pub two doors from Nikki and Pauline's house. We've had several pints and played quizzes at the Two Clomes. We've had a lunch and a pint at the Quintrell Inn. It stands to reason that we really should have a pint at The Willows before we leave. The walk takes twenty-five minutes, as a rule, if you don't stop at one of the pubs.

If you remember the Postcards about early morning beach and moor walks with Amber the spaniel, you may also remember Crantock village. I described it as a cluster of thatched-roof cottages appearing out of the morning mists like Brigadoon. We went back to Crantock on this Friday afternoon, Bob, Nikki, and I, to see the village when it was awake.

There was more to Crantock than I imagined. It certainly deserves to be called “quaint” and goes on the Hidden Treasures list. Crantock is a village, remember. It's small and cuddly. We started with an art gallery cum gift shop in one of the thatched cottages. We stepped into another couple of tiny gift shops, and another art gallery.

Artist Marion Rowland runs this gallery, The Crantock Art Gallery. She does very nice watercolors of local scenery. The little Gallery was stocked with her watercolors and prints of them, of course. There were also notecards and other items, including cork-backed placemats. I've brought back two sets of scenic watercolor cork mats from Britain over the years. Those sets are dead and gone. Though Marion Rowland's mats were a bit small, I really liked them. But I didn't get them that day, thinking I would come back the following week to buy some. I never did, though, get back to Crantock to buy my placemats. They're still waiting for me.

There's a lovely teashop in Crantock with a flowery outside eating garden. We didn't have time to sample its wares this trip. Hate to miss a cream tea, you know.

There are also two pubs. One, The Old Albion Inn, is vintage. Albion is simple white stucco, thatched-roof building traditional to Cornish fishing villages. Its historic austerity is its attraction. There's a chamber under the stone floors once used by seafaring smugglers. Smugglers and pirates are historically embedded in the Cornish culture. Have you ever seen the Pirates of Penzance? Pirate treasure could still be hidden in those sea caves and secret beaches.

The other pub, The Cornishman, has colored lights strung around its garden full of picnic tables, ready for a party. They are right across the lane from each other. I first wondered how such a tiny village could support two pubs. Nikki reminded me that popular Crantock Beach was just over the dunes from the village, and Newquay was only five miles away. Aha! I'll bet Crantock jumps on summer evenings. But you have to know it's there. I'll bet 99 percent of the tourists to Newquay never know that Crantock village exists. That's good.

We didn't dawdle on our tour of Crantock, as we had to be home for an early supper of Cornish pasties. This was the night of The Last Night of the Cornish Proms concert in Truro! After supper we smarted ourselves up with the best outfits we could find in our suitcases and presented ourselves to Nikki for the outing.

An electric air of anticipation filled the lobby of the Hall for Cornwall. Folks dressed up for the concert laughed and chatted with friends. Some early arrivals sat at small tables near the bar and sipped drinks. We found the toilets and made the obligatory stop. The Ladies had a queue, of course. But everyone was smiling. I made some small talk, like the others, as I stood in line and washed my hands. We bubbled with anticipation of a fun evening.

Our seats were good, about halfway up the auditorium, on the second level. Black and white Cornish flags were tucked in our programs in case we were struck with a spirit of patriotism and wanted to jump up and wave them.

The concert opened with the St. Keverne band. St. Keverne is a village on The Lizard peninsula. The band is made up of all ages, kids to white-hairs. They have won a number of awards, and I could see why. They were outstanding, almost like an organ. I never knew kids could play so well. Proms are concerts of popular music. The program stated with the folk tune, “Padstow Lifeboat,” ran through Gershwin's “Summertime,” and gave a taste of opera with “Un Bel Di” from Madame Butterfly, among other selections.

St.Keverne's band alternated with the Mevagissey Male Choir. Well, we felt almost a kinship with them, having walked their quay and poked into their shops. We applauded them with fervor.

The host, Philip Hunt, promised a surprise act in the second half of the concert. Bob and I had a surprise before that, though. Ice cream was for sale in the auditorium during the Interval (Intermission). We'd never seen that before. Nikki fought the mobs and got us each a cup of smooth, rich Cornish Cream ice cream. We just kicked back in our seats and enjoyed it to the last lick.

At the end of the Interval, the curtains opened to an empty stage. Very quickly a group of nine or ten men and women ran onto the stage and sort of lined up at lower stage right. They were dressed in black slacks and polo shirts, some tucked in, some hanging out. The whole effect was distinctly “casual.” They quipped one-liners and they sang. They sang well, tossing off a run of traditional songs, pub songs. For that's who they were, pub singers. They were friends who met at their local pub for sing-songs every Monday night. The audience said goodbye to them with Cornish flags waving and wild applause.

The programmed concert resumed, and the second half was as enjoyable as the first. The final event was a “Community Sing” of traditional songs with the band and the choir. Bob and I gave it our best. We knew many of the tunes, and the words were printed in the program.

“Trelawny,” the “national anthem” of Cornwall, brought the audience to their feet. Black and white flags flapped lustily, ours included, as we belted out…

and on for four more verses and choruses. The last “Here's twenty thousand Cornish men Will know the reason why!” dissolved into whoops and cheers that kept on through the curtain calls. We three were still humming it on our drive back to Quintrell Downs.