August 2 and 3, Thursday and Friday

On the morning of August 2, Thursday, we said goodbye to the Simons. Jeff dropped us off at Halcyon Bed and Breakfast in Penzance. We had decided to stay there instead of going back to Newquay for the two days before leaving Cornwall for Bath.

Halcyon was a comfortable, friendly, B&B where we easily settled in. We just frittered away those two days doing whatever struck us. From the door of Halcyon we could climb higher up the hill above the shoreline to the main shopping district of Penzance. Thursday we did some shopping for exciting items like hair conditioner, eye drops, and stamps. We also picked up two pasties for supper at the B&B, and a block of Leiscester cheese and some apples for our lunch on the bus on Saturday.

Then we came down the hill from the shopping district to walk past small shops and sidewalk cafés, past boat yards, a small harbor, and a dry dock. Next to the seawater public swimming pool, which filled with new water at each high tide, the mile-long seaside promenade began. The promenade is on the top of a seawall that's about twelve feet above low tide. We sat on a bench in the sun and watched the world go by. Bright-colored flags snapped and flapped above us; children waded and dogs splashed in the sea on the stony beach below.

Eventually we got hungry. Bob stayed to hold down the bench while I walked along the promenade looking for food. Not far from our bench a couple was seated on another bench eating some good-looking fish and chips out of newsprint wrapping. I asked where they got it. The gentleman endangered his lunch by standing up to point out to me a restaurant on a side street behind the promenade. I thanked them. The lady asked where I was from. We gossiped for a few minutes, and I went on with my quest.

Using the search for food as an excuse, I walked the length of the promenade. I found another fish and chips takeaway and a small café with a varied menu, that's all. There are mostly hotels and B&Bs along the promenade. I reported back to Bob. Fish and chips did not excite him, nor did walking a mile to a dubious café. So we sat a while longer, then wandered back down past the boat yards to the small shops and eateries at sea level.

We came upon The Mediterranean Farm.

Behind five glass-topped tables under green umbrellas on the sidewalk there was a little nook in the wall that sold olives, all possible kinds of olives! They also sold sandwiches and such, with sides of olives. Olives are to us what candy is to a kid. I slid into a chair, plunked my purse on a table, and established squatter's rights while Bob went inside to fetch the food. He came back with two Diet Cokes, and we waited for our sandwiches and olives under the green umbrella in the sun beside the sea… well, not exactly. There was a car park between us and the sea. But close enough. Bob chomped down a salami and cheese pannini. It was served with a salad of colored pepper chunks, chopped cucumbers, celery and olives in seasoned oil, and a side dish of mixed olives. I had a hummus and fresh tomato pannini with all of the above. It was wonderful. (I don't want to hear about the salt.)

The next day, Friday, passed with similar amusements. For lunch, though, Bob wanted some fresh Newlyn crab. Newlyn, the village next to Penzance, where we had visited the Simons, has one of the few remaining successful small-boat fishing fleets on the coast. Plaice, mackerel, and crab are their biggest catches, though they bring in many other kinds of seafood. We started back at the olive bar and read menus along the street until we came to one with crab. It was a tiny café named Fat Fish, with two tables inside and four out on the sidewalk. We ate inside this time. Bob ordered his crab salad sandwich. He was served about two inches of crab salad piled between two thick slices of brown granary bread. Need I say more?

That night we had crackers and cheese in Halcyon's B&B room and finished up the wine on hand. The next day, Saturday, we had to leave early for a day on the bus to the town of Bath, a six-hour ride.

We've been asked why we go by bus and train rather than rent a car. We've rented cars every now and then on past trips, but haven't liked it. Bob's attention is concentrated on staying on the left side of the road and not knocking old ladies off the kerbs. My face is in a map. Neither of us enjoys the thatched cottages, the moors, and the sheep. On a bus we sit back and savor the ride. No worries. There's a toilet right at hand and we bring picnic lunches. We don't have to hunt up restaurants or restrooms in unknown places. The driver worries about finding the petrol stations, not us. Six hours on a bus reading, sleeping, and admiring scenery beats six hours behind the wheel hands down. That's one reason.

Another reason is that if you rent a car in a foreign land, you travel in your own little American bubble. When you travel with the people, you mingle with the culture. We can read bus and train schedules and know the tricks of getting around the crowds in bus and train stations. We talk to people and learn their attitudes, hear about their families, and create a rapport with them. It enriches our lives and helps us fit into their culture better. Besides, it's fun. We aren't standing watching the Brits; we are doing things with them.

And lastly, there's the cost. When we've rented a car for a period of time and gone to a destination, we've found that the car sits and eats money while we get around by walking, local buses, or tours. When we visit our friends, it's the same. We go about in their vehicle, and our rented car again sits. Car rental is expensive, especially as compared to bus fares. The National Express is a parallel to our Greyhound buses. They do the long distance runs. In Britain, we can get the same concession (senior discount) as the residents, which is about half price. We should rent a car for £89 when we can ride a bus to the same place for £24? I don't think so. See you at Debenham station. Don't forget your ham sandwich.

TO BATH

August 4, Saturday

A taxi picked us up at Halcyon at 8:15 a.m. and delivered us to the Penzance bus station. The station consisted of a small office and a row of covered bus stalls near the sea. Chill breezes blew misty rain through the stalls. We had a twenty-minute wait, and were plenty happy to see that coach pull up, I'll tell you.

The four suitcases went into the luggage compartments. Happily, the service started in Penzance, and no one was on the bus yet. We chose the front seats and settled in for a day's ride. This was our system. I carry on my backpack with the computer wrapped in my down vest tucked into it and my small bag over my shoulder with the camera and other necessities like passport and money. Bob carries the food pack and his shoulder bag with books, umbrellas, and such in it.

This trip, from Penzance to Bath, left at 8:45 a.m. At 3:30 p.m., we were to arrive in Bristol and change buses for the last lap to Bath. We were to leave Bristol at 4:00 p.m. and arrive in Bath at 4:45 p.m. That was the plan. That's what it said on my ticket.

From Penzance to Newquay the trip went fine. On schedule. Shortly before we got into Newquay, the driver announced that there were ninety-three passengers waiting in Newquay for this particular bus. Extra buses were being brought in, and some of us might need to change buses, specifically, passengers for Birmingham.

We knew exactly what waited on the cement in Newquay. Kids. Kids with belongings in pillowcases and rubbish bags, kids with neon green and orange hair, kids with tattoos and pierced everythings, surfer kids. Last week there was a big surfing competition in Newquay. This was some of the debris. We were thankful we had a front seat, as they'd all be behind us with their noise and junk.

We pulled into the Newquay station, and there they were, as predicted. Two extra buses were already there. Station agents and bus drivers were running back and forth frantically trying to get things organized. One bus would go directly to Birmingham skipping all way stops. Get those kids on. Change people from our coach to the Birmingham coach. Going to Leister? Get on this bus. The Bristol and London kids came on our bus. We watched dubiously as they trailed past us down the aisle.

We left Newquay forty-five minutes late. Once we got started, Bob and I had a morning tea of shortbread cookies out of the food bag, and water. We were just passing into Devon at noon while we lunched on cheese and crackers, apple juice, and oranges. Not a sound did we hear from the back. The surfers were so ragged out from partying that they all slept. There is a just Lord, after all.

At 3:30 we stopped in sunshine for a half-hour break at a Little Chef roadside service area restaurant. “Do not bring hot food back onto the bus; the bus will not be locked; the driver will not be on the bus; take your valuables with you.” Having done his duty with this pronouncement, the driver popped off the bus and lit a cigarette.

Bob tore off with the rest of the passengers to the restaurant. When you only have a half hour for 50-some odd bus passengers and all the local traffic to get food, it's survival of the fittest. Bob soon reappeared with a salami and lettuce sandwich, some crisps, and a bottle of water. He'd found a little take-out counter than everyone else had missed.

The traffic was horrendous. This is high season, and the roads of England are narrow. There are signs along the highways, “Expect queues.” We did a lot of sitting during the whole journey in through roads that became parking lots. One tie-up was eleven miles long, another five miles. I knew that from overhearing the driver talk on his Bluetooth phone. There were others. The driver kept his swearing to himself, but I did get occasional drifts that made me grin.

Time passed. We have got philosophical about delays, missed connections, closed stations in our years of travel in planes, trains, and buses. We watched the landscape, looked down into the cars beside us also caught in the web, and listened to the driver. I did calculate how late we would have to be before I felt it necessary to call the B&B in Bath. More time passed. We missed our connection out of Bristol. Still we sat in traffic.

I will say that National Express is organized. When our bus arrived in Bristol station, there were already people posted to shepherd us onto other buses if we had connections to make. I jumped off the coach to find someone to handle our missed connection while Bob collected luggage. We were shot down the row of stands to some strange bus, not National Express, that was leaving right away for Bath. The driver grabbed our luggage, we popped onto the coach, and we were off for Bath.

We arrived in Bath only about an hour late, despite all. Bath is remodeling their bus terminal, so temporary stands have been erected in the Avon Car Park. There was no sign of a taxi or a taxi stand. Thankfully, the office was open, a little temporary shack at the end of the stands. Taxis didn't come to the bus station. We would have to go to the train station to get a taxi. Wonderful. Where was the train station?

Bob had befriended a gentleman while I ran around trying to find a taxi. The fellow said we didn't want to walk to the train station. It was too far. Walking is really not a problem. We can each roll two suitcases behind us, and the rest of our baggage is hung on us. But we had no idea where to go, and neither the ticket agent nor the gentleman could give us good directions. They would start, then say, “It's rather complicated…”

I finally called the B&B and the manager gave me the number of a taxi company. I called the taxi company, and a taxi was there almost before I snapped the mobile phone shut. By 6:30 p.m. we were being greeted by Renata-from-Prague in Ashley B&B at 8 Pulteney Garden, and taken upstairs to a cozy pink room that overlooked the back alley. Home-again!

We dragged our luggage up the stairs, dumped it in the room, and set off on a foray for food and drink in our new town-away-from-home. We walked down Pulteney Garden, and there, not a half block away, was the Royal Oak Pub. A pub practically at our door! How lucky can you get? We did a geriatric speed-walk to it, and I came to a halt. Large young males filled the two picnic tables at the road's edge. Loud guffaws and shouts rolled through the open door and windows of the pub. I looked in. The place was crammed with men, loud and drinking men. Rugby players ran up and down the field on a wide-screen TV blasting the game above the rabble. I refused to go in. Bob went in, walked around, and came back out. No room at the inn, anyway. We went on.

In another block we came upon a canal and hand-operated locks. There was a green little park area beside the canal, and park benches where you could watch the longboats lock up and down. We'd surely do that before we left town. Can't think of a nicer way to waste an afternoon or evening than sitting on a park bench somewhere interesting.

On we went, across the street and around a corner. Hooray! Another pub, The Ram, was in our sights. The was a pause in our race to The Ram so Bob could pop into a newsagent's and look for a USA Today. No luck on that. On to The Ram. The picnic tables here had couples and quiet groups under the umbrellas. A sandwich board blackboard outside listed the specials for the day.

Inside, the pub was almost deserted. I studied the menu chalked up on the wide black ceiling beams while Bob went to the bar to order drinks. Sudden music through wall speakers at about 120 decibels sent me skittering to a back room. A soccer game at 90 decibels filled the empty room from a TV mounted in a corner. I figured it could be turned down or, better, off. I just had to find the remote. Bob appeared with our beers, a bag of salt and vinegar crisps, and the news that they weren't serving food for some obscure reason he didn't understand.

“So why did you buy the drinks?”

“I had them ordered before I found out about the food.”

We took a few gulps and dallied with the crisps. I never did locate the remote. The empty room was depressing. We found the thought of a beer and a few crisps for supper depressing. We moved outside to a picnic table in the sunshine to see if that improved matters. At least it was quiet, even if the sun was in Bob's eyes.

We went a different route around the block when we left The Ram, crossed a different bridge, and discovered another set of locks with a viewing area. Better and better. From there we went down the street of the Royal Oak. No one was at the picnic tables by the road. We tentatively climbed the steps and looked inside. The game was over. The rough crowd had gone. The TV was on, but the sound was turned down.

Sun was streaming through a door next to the bar. That must be the beer garden advertised on the chalked sandwich board out on the sidewalk-along with free Wi-Fi. I looked out the door. There were tables out there. That's where the people were. I found us a table near the back of the garden under a green umbrella. It was a little table for two framed by two planters of lacy bamboo. Bamboo in big pots lined the garden sides and rather hid the car park surrounding it.

Bob came out from the bar with two pints, a bitters for him and a Guinness stout for me. He had ordered a steak and ale pie! Things were definitely looking up. A young man delivered our tableware, packets of brown sauce, horseradish, salad cream, and the pie. Ah, the pie! It had been baked in a deep casserole, like a crock, with a pastry crust. Inside, hunks of lean steak and mushrooms floating in an ale gravy pushed up the crust. It was lovely. A salad of what we would call a mescaline mix of lettuces came as a side.

Kitty-corner from us a group of five young men were finishing up what must have been a long afternoon. It looked like they had been having the British equivalent of shots and beer. For one, at least, it had been a long afternoon and was going to be a short evening. He was definitely worse for wear. His head dropped, then he jerked up and tried to look alive. He stood up, staggered, grabbed a pole, and slid down to the seat again. His fellows laughed, but tried to help him. We watched in amusement.

“There,” said Bob, “but for fifty years, go I.”

“Ah, yes,” I said. Memories of college days floated back.

We finished our steak and ale pie with great satisfaction. I almost hated to leave the beer garden; it was so pleasant there. The five fellows had gone, A couple replaced them, obviously in love and hanging on each other with their eyes over a couple of lagers. But leave we must. We strolled the block home and climbed the stairs to our pink room.

When we got back there, though, we remembered that we had no wine. A bottle of wine is heavy, so we didn't want to haul one all the way from Penzance. I had a thought. Maybe the newsagent that didn't have a USA today did have wine to sell. Most newsagents do.

Once more I went off down the walk, now at 8:45 p.m., past the Royal Oak and around the corner, past The Ram, and to the newsagent. They did have wine-and beer and liquor and liqueurs. Well stocked, that place. I looked things over and then bought the cheapest in the house. It was Rivercrest Ruby Cabernet, a California wine. I didn't care where it was from, just that it was cheap. £4.59 for a bottle of wine translates into $9.46 we were paying for that skinny 700 ml bottle. Luckily, it wasn't a bad red wine. In fact, it was pretty good. But no one ever said we were wine connoisseurs.

Back at the pink room, Bob uncorked the wine. He poured it into the water glasses. I got out the snack mix and poured it into the teacups. We plumped up the pillows, then climbed into bed with our books, wine, and snacks. Ah-h-h-h. Life is good.