July 29 and 30, Sunday and Monday

On Sunday, July 29, Nikki dropped us off at the bus stand for Western Greyhound Service 18 from Newquay to Truro. From Truro we took a First Service bus to Penzance, arriving there around noon. All right. That gets the travel out of the way. Now for some background details.

Back in '03 we were staying with Nikki and Pauline in Newquay in October. Pauline took us out for an afternoon down to the Penzance/Newlyn/Mousehole area. The town of Penzance and the villages of Newlyn and Mousehole are connected by a paved walkway along the harbors of all three, which border on Mount's Bay. We three were walking from Newlyn to Mousehole, chatting away, and met a couple at a turn in the path. The couple, Jeff and Pat Simons, had overheard the word “Florida.” They greeted us, introduced themselves, and asked about Florida. They had been on a holiday in Florida a year before. In the course of a lively conversation, we exchanged email addresses. They went on their way, we on ours.

Some time after we got home, we got an email from Jeff Simons. That started an email correspondence that spilled over into mailings of books, calendars, and clippings to each other over the years. When we announced that we were making this summer trip to England, Jeff and Pat invited us to visit them.

Fast forward to Sunday, August 29, and the bus station in Penzance. We climbed off the bus to be picked up by some people we hardly knew. The Simons had invited to their home people they hardly knew. We weren't even sure we could recognize each other. When I called them to say that we had arrived, I told them I was in a red raincoat and Bob had a white beard. Jeff told me to stand by the car park across from the bus station and that they would be arriving in a green car. We did and they did. They jumped out of their green Alpha-Romero, and we greeted each other with hugs like long-lost friends. So began a new chapter in Anglo-American relations.

We drove past the Penzance promenade along Mounts Bay with St. Michael's Mount floating in the center, unchanged since we climbed to the castle there only a few weeks ago. We drove into the busy fishing village of Newlyn, which snugs up against Penzance. Jeff turned up onto a narrow road beside a small river we didn't know existed. That was because we had never really explored Newlyn beyond the seaside walkway.

Newlyn, and neighboring Mousehole are, like most coastal villages, built on hillsides climbing steeply up from their harbors. So up we went, through a green alley of hedgerow and trees, into a new-looking residential district, around several sharp turns, up a steep grade, and into the driveway of 2, Barlandhu. It took a planning genius to fit those bungalows onto the steep hillside practically on top of one another. Simons' bungalow is tucked into the hillside in such as way that it doesn't block another house's view, and the uphill neighbor's balcony practically overhangs Simons' front yard to insure their view.

I do mean view. We hauled our luggage into the guest room, did a quick organization and dust-up, and went down the hall and into the lounge to visit with our hosts. We stepped into the room, and gasped. Practically one whole wall was taken up with glass sliders onto their balcony. Beyond the balcony all of Penzance spread out along Mount's Bay, Mount St. Michael rose from the sea, and the far shoreline of the bay described the horizon as far off as The Lizard. Jeff and Pat had been hugging themselves waiting for our reaction to the view. We didn't disappoint them! It was spectacular. They have the known world at their feet.

When they had got home to Ipswich seven years ago after looking at this house, they told us, they couldn't even remember where the stove was-or even where the kitchen was. It was the view they remembered, and it was for the view they bought the house. The rest could take care of itself. Jeff's family dates back for years in Newlyn, so moving here for him was a homecoming, as well.

Pat uncorked a bottle of wine and we settled in before the view to get acquainted. A couple of hours later we broke into the continuous chat and hilarity for a cold collation of chicken and salads. Then we reassumed our positions in front of the ever-changing scene for an evening of the same entertainment-ourselves.

While we chattered the lights came on along the promenade in Penzance. The town sparkled on the hillsides an around the bay. Out on the water a ship of the Royal Navy Lifeboat Institution, always posted at the ready, ran out its lights. Smaller boats, like fireflies, darted around the bay in the dark. Above all a full moon lit the sky and smiled with us. Around ten we topped off the evening with a nightcap of Scotch whiskey neat, then drifted off to snuggle under a duvet for the night.

Monday dawned sunny and promised a perfect summer's day. We piled into the Alpha Romero and turned our noses southwest toward Porthcurno to see the Minack Theater.
The car park for the theater is at the top of a long, winding single-track road. It climbs uphill to the crest of great cliffs along Porthcurno Bay between the English Channel and the Celtic Sea.

Porthcurno Beach is a semi-circle of yellow sand surrounded by hulking granite cliffs. We walked down some steps, then onto a small flat island of dirt at the brink of a cliff to see the beach far below. Narrow, nearly vertical steps cut into a cliff face descended from our little dirt island to the beach. Colorful wind screens and beach tents dotted the sand far below us. The water was full of swimmers and splashers. Now this is England, remember, floating around in the Atlantic Ocean. The Cornish beaches are always busy in the summer. The water does well to get to fifty-six degrees and they love it. You have to be a native.

From our view of Porthcurno we went back up the steps, across the car park, and to the Minack Theater. Minack, in Cornish, means “rocky place.” This theater is all of that. The seating is carved into a steep seaside wall, and the stage is a plateau below the audience that is just a pause in the cliff's plunge to the rocks and sea below. A low wall across backstage protects the actors from falling overboard. There are seats for 750 people in this rookery, and they are nearly always full during the seventeen-week summer season.

As if the theater isn't amazing in itself, its conception and creation are even more so. In the 1920s, Rowena Cade was much involved in village plays that she staged in the back garden of her large cliff top home. In 1930, at the age of thirty-eight, she decided to create a theater and began to carve one into the steep slope behind her garden. It became the passion of a lifetime. With only the help of her gardener, she sliced tiers into the granite, sculptured seating and stages with concrete, built stone walls, and built her theater. She drew Celtic designs and wrote the names of plays into wet concrete with a screwdriver. Though she looked thin and frail, she was still hauling stones and working on her theater into her 80s.

We climbed down the winding steps into the theater, walked along tiers of seats, and got to the stage. Looking back up could make you dizzy. There are a few concrete set pieces on the stage, built in random order to accommodate certain early plays, and adapted now by a wide range of theatricals and even concerts.

Rowena worked on steep and dangerous slopes and drops. The only things that ever went over the edge, though, were stones and one wheelbarrow. Below the stage is a narrow path along a ridge bordered on both sides by the sea. It widens at the end enough to hold a stone arch with a metal gate. Beyond that gate is a small grassy knoll Rowena used as her quiet spot, her private garden on the sea. You can only see the path and gate from the stage.

Off on another outcropping next to the theater, late in life, she built a concrete “table.” The sides of the outcropping are supplemented with rock walls. The large circular cement table sits on top. Photos of the “table” show her screwdriver artwork on the tabletop. I could see the table from the theater seats. However, the public is not allowed to try to get to it, as it is too dangerous. The thought that that small woman hauled concrete in a wheelbarrow out on a steep outcropping and built that wall and sculpture boggles the mind.

When we were done exploring the theater, we stopped into the Minack tea shop for a tea with a view down the theater. We took pictures, indulged in a chocolate-topped flapjack, and enjoyed the restorative tea before we moved on.

We didn't “move on” very far, just back down the narrow one-lane road to the Porthcurno Telegraph Museum. The first undersea telegraph cables that linked Britain with her empire came ashore at Porthcurno Beach. The biggest enemy of undersea cables is ship anchors. In Victorian times, Porthcurno Beach was isolated. No ships came in there; no fishermen went out of there. The cables were safe. Porthcurno Station grew into a large training center for telegraph operators who were then sent out to the far reaches of the British Empire.

In WWII, the operations were moved into bomb-proof tunnels underground. Most of the exhibits were in these underground tunnels. We attended a lecture on how the telegraph system worked, and then wandered through myriad interactive and demonstrative displays. We dotted and dashed Morse code on antique machines and talked to each other on a seventy-foot speaking tube. There is a workshop down there where the collected historic equipment is kept in working order by volunteer mechanics. Two volunteers were engrossed in tinkering with antique machines when we stopped by to watch.

One by one we straggled out of the tunnels and gathered at the museum office to head home. Porthcurno is less than half an hour from the Simons' bungalow. In about half an hour of coming out of the tunnels into the sun we were sitting in the same sun in Jeff and Pat's back garden sipping tinto verona.

And what, you ask, is tinto verona? It's a Spanishy thing of peach schnapps or peach brandy or any peachy liquor you have, gin, lemonade and red wine that glowed crystal carmine red when I held it up into the sun.

A fountain showers into the goldfish pond, gulls squawk in the sky, and conversation is king here above the sea. After a couple of hours spent in this hedonistic pastime, we brushed ourselves up, slipped into light jackets, and set out to walk down to the sea and to dinner.

The way down was down the hill on a footpath and then onto a narrow street. Not very far down the hill Jeff made a right turn into a gap between two houses, and into the past. We stepped suddenly onto a lane of rounded cobblestones. To our left, rows of small timeworn doors opened into fisherman homes over 200 years old. To our right, short cobblestone lanes were also lined with low doors of fisher cottages. Pots and hanging baskets spilled flowers down the house walls and onto the cobblestones of the narrow lanes. This was Fragdan.

The small row cottages of Fragdan (Fr_-gun), or Old Newlyn, are now mostly seasonal homes or holiday rentals and very much alive and well. But the flavor and appearance of these charming lanes and their venerable dwellings is preserved and won't be changed. An old lady came out of one of the houses to water her flowers. I got her picture without her knowing or posing. She so fit into the atmosphere of history there. Jeff's ancestors lived in Fragdan, but he has not been able to identify the exact houses.

From Fragdan we walked along the streets of Newlyn for a ways, and turned right again. this time to stroll beside a little river. After a ways we came to a big white stucco building with THE MEADERY across the front in big black letters. Dinner!

We crossed the river on a white bridge and were soon in the door. A serving wench seated in a rustic booth at the far end of a long room. Pillars, coats of arms, serving wenches in costume, and heavy dark furniture supported a medieval theme. Lighting was dim and relied much upon candles. At one end of the room were stained glass panels with The Meadery traced in them. At the other end a salad bar was tucked in a nook framed by carvings. A Meadery is a restaurant that sells, and sometimes makes, mead. Mead is a potent wine made from honey that dates back to very early times, even before Druids. The Cornish are very proud of their mead.

There was a bowl at the end of our table with a slice of lemon floating in water. That, Pat told us, was a finger bowl for when-or if-you ate your food with your hands. We didn't, except for the fried mushroom caps. The mushrooms were presented in medieval wooden trenchers. I got a photo of them. Dinner portions came in “small,” “medium,” or “large,” for any item on the menu. I ordered a small fried scampi. Small was recommended. We all got “small.” None of us could eat it all. The peasants don't go hungry from that king's table, for sure.

So how did we get back up that hillside? Jeff walked up and brought down the car, gathered the rest of us, and up we went. When we got home, we met again in the lounge in front of the sea. Pat popped the cork off a bottle of red, and we took up from where we had left off last night, entertaining ourselves by talking about ourselves.
It was near midnight before we finished off the Scotch nightcap, pulled the drapes over Penzance, and dragged off to bed.

July 31, Tuesday

Nine in the morning! It was nine a.m. when I picked up the travel clock beside my pillow and peered blearily at it. We never sleep until nine a.m. I jumped out of bed and pulled the duvet off Bob to get him moving. We had people to see, places to go, things to do.

The house was quiet, so we were not the only ones to have a lie-in this morning. But Pat soon appeared in the kitchen, and we tackled the day. Turned out that Jeff had been up earlier and had gone out for fresh-baked pasties. They were not for breakfast, mind you, but for a special supper. More on that later. We've got work to do first.

After breakfast, we drove over to Penzance, to the bus station and TIC. Bob and I had decided to stay in Penzance Thursday and Friday, so we needed to find a B&B in Penzance and to change our bus tickets to Bath on Saturday to leave from Penzance instead of Newquay. With Pat's help in selecting a B&B, she and I got the jobs done while the fellows held down a bench outside the TIC.

From there we all strolled to the town business streets and got a few more errands taken care of. By then it was tea time. Jeff and Pat took us to one of their favorite little cafés, Mackerel Sky. (A mackerel sky is a clear sky with little white clouds, the sky of good weather.)

The café was almost hidden down a narrow lane between tall buildings. I don't remember what the others had there, but I had a cream tea, as usual. What a gift! The warmed scone came dusted with powdered sugar and topped with half a strawberry. The little dish of thick yellow Cornish cream had flecks of crust in it and, and, instead of strawberry jam to spread on your cream, there was a little white china dish of artfully arranged sliced fresh strawberries! It was a tea fit for a queen. I ate it all, and didn't even get any powdered sugar on my navy blue pile jacket.

We strolled through a pleasant town park of lawns, trees, and flowery borders on our way back to the car. The afternoon was spent in the Simons' back garden in the sun sipping tinto veronas again. We had to quit early, though, and put away the chairs and turn off the fountain. We had a big night coming up. We were going to the Minack Theater on the cliffside to see a production of Ibsen's Pier Gynt.

When the sun goes down and the winds blow off the sea, it gets cold at the Minack. Real cold. Jeff and Pat loaned us winter jackets. I had brought with me a wooly hat and gloves. I also put on my rain pants for extra warmth and wind protection. Pat packed blankets for over our legs, the pasties, and bottles of wine. A night at Minack is a major excursion.

Pat and Jeff are “Friends” of Minack, and therefore have priority seating like, practically on the stage. It was still fairly light when we got there at seven. Down, down, down the steps we went to our concrete seats created and carved by Rowena Cade. There was only one row of seats between the stage and us. The prompter sat just in front of Bob. We were that close to the action.

Before us, across the stage, the cliffs of Porthcurno made an arc to our left. The rest of the backdrop was ocean. To our right, where it was more exposed, Pat pointed out the “white horses,” the white caps of breaking surf on the cold Celtic Sea.

We spread the blanket over our legs. Pat passed along a pasty and wine in a stemmed glass. This was style. A couple of women in front of us had a curry over rice, followed by a cake served on a plate with their wine. Pat said they bring elaborate meals like that to every performance. They take turns providing the meal, and try to outdo each other. Well, our pasties made a better meal, and were much easier to eat. We did enjoy watching others come in, spread out their blankets, and break out their wine and snacks.

Pier Gynt slipped onto the stage and slouched onto a wooden box seat midstage before we knew he was there, and a good ten minutes before the performance. His head was down. He did not move. What a great ploy to capture the attention of the audience!

The only set pieces in addition to the minimal concrete steps and platforms of Rowena Cade were two black wooden boxes that could be used as seats or podiums. The staging was inspired. The play happened, and gripped the audience. I wish I could describe the feeling of sitting with a stemmed glass of wine in hand, in the freshness of a wind from the sea, and watching players perform in front of wild darkening waters and sky. When a player leaped to a platform on the cliff edge with the sea behind, the emotional impact was tremendous. I felt like one of the Fates overlooking mankind and eternity.

Jeff told of one time they had come to a concert at the Minack. As the orchestra thundered out the 1812 Overture, a real thunderstorm was moving across the sea before them. The effect was magical. The crashes of cannon from the orchestra were echoed in thunder and lightening over the sea. Some of the magic was lost, however, when the storm reached them and drenched the Minack.

This magical evening of ours was too soon over. Back at the room with a view at Jeff and Pat's bungalow, we relaxed with a nightcap and some chat, then called it a night