Leaving Cornwall

Leaving Cornwall

   The end of our trip (for these last four posts have been somewhat of a travelogue of my stay in the southwest coast of England, particularly around the towns of Newquay and Porth) brings a certain sadness as getaways such as this usually do, a mixture of being ready to get home and yet not wanting to leave.  But this trip seemed to have a slightly larger pull on us for we had attended many festivals while there, from sausage and pie festivals (these being more the meat pies since the sweet fruit pies those of us in the U.S. have come to associate with the word are more often called tarts or cobblers) to ales and ciders (much of Cornwall is known for its ciders and many ciders appears side by side with the taps that dispense lagers and ales in the pubs).  And ales are everywhere, one festival alone featuring over 80 craft ales, each served in pints, half-pints or third-pints (the drunk driving laws being very strict and enforced, not something I wanted to test since driving is already done on the opposite side vs. the right side, or as the English say, the "correct" side...this holds true even for going up and down stairways, one ascends to the left and comes down on the right).  And attendance at these festivals doesn't seem to depend on the size of the town, although the larger cities do draw quite the crowd.  And while our sausage and ale festival in St. Agnes had perhaps 30 people during the two hours we were there, the local magazine on ales had these statistics from the recent festival in the larger city of Falmoth which went on last October:  These enthusiasts managed to drink their way through 17,000 pints of real ale, 4,800 pints of cider and perry and a record-breaking 920 pints of Grandma's Weapons Grade Ginger Beerm made by Colin Tranah at Crofthandy to a recipe handed down by his grandmother.

   But this time, in addition to all the festivals and stories, it was again the people and the civility that made leaving a tad more difficult.  There were no loud voices, no cell phones or laptops in eateries (at least none that we noticed) and a willingness, almost and eagerness to engage in conversation.  On our last night there, we were honored to chat at the pub with a pair of singers, long retired and singing to both us and themselves as if newly in love;  Joyce was 82 and Gil was 84 and music never sounded any better.  Even the pub owner, Roger, recognized me from the night before, once again taking the time to introduce me to newly-arrived brews and stopping by our table to chat away a bit, despite being half of our age.

   Then came the weather, the tides and rain coming at full force as we left the pub, treating us to thuderous waves crashing against the rocks and all with nary a person in sight.  As we made it to Porth Island, an actual island jutting our so spectacularly into the ocean that even early Iron Age (and some Roman) settlements built fortifications there, the waves seemed to dare us to step just a bit closer to the edge to watch its special showing.  This was indeed something special for us since each morning seemed to push the tides so far out that once could easily walk miles along the sand all the way into town, around caves and baby mussels growing on the back side of the rocks.  It was a reminder of how much could change here, the water and land looking so innocent and welcoming, and then angrily showing its power and strength and unstoppability as if even we humans were little more than the little specks of sand which had already succumbed and now lived peacefully with the waters.

   So, was all this simply because of the area, the smaller towns still retaining a sense of its camaraderie amongst its locals and the occasional visitor (despite all the new growth occurring, much of this area was still the same, the crowds coming seasonally, either for the summer or for homes and housing purchased by the more wealthy from London who would occupy them for about 3 months or so and leave for the rest of the year).  I thought so, for tolerance seemed more pronounced, at least from my Americanized viewpoint.

  And then this appeared in Cook's Illustrated from way back in 2012:  In Vermont, most of us live in small towns.  Ours has a firehouse, two churches (each uses the services of the same minister), and a country store, Sherman’s, that sells pretty good coffee, miscellaneous hardware, jarred pig’s knuckles, beer, and nickel candy but no gas (for years, to discourage business the sign on the pump read “$8.21/gallon”).  We also have a small library with Saturday night movies, a surplus of sap houses, a veterinarian, a lawyer, and two large farms.  If you make the time to talk to the locals, you’ll find out that Axel is always ready with a fish story, and just when you wonder if even half of it is true, he takes out a few color prints that prove him no liar.  And there is no dearth of expertise in town about bread baking, logging, farming, hunting, Shakespeare, training dogs, history, playing the blues, construction, big equipment, and auto repair.  It isn’t easy to scratch the surface of a Vermonter, but once you see the pattern you’ll see it in everyone you meet.  The larger part is self-reliance, the knowledge that on a cold wintry night you can head down into the dirt-floor basement and restart the furnace, find the horses that broke through the fence overnight, or tell the difference between sugar and red maple.  The smaller part is an intimate sense of place, to know who lived in Beattie Hollow a generation ago, the last time the Sheldon store was still open for business, or who was buried standing straight up in his grave.  As in the golden ratio, the two things are intimately related, and together they form a constant, a thread that runs all the way from the town line by Hebron to the end of Chambers Hollow, where if you look closely enough, you’ll also come across the haunted chimney.  We often measure life by the number of new experiences we accumulate; Vermonters measure what remains steady.  There are good years and bad years in sap production or the number of deer weighed in at Sherman’s store, but each of us is expected to measure up in the eyes of our neighbors.  That’s the golden rule in country living, a sense of self and place in service of others, a formula that can be calculated right down to the last decimal place.

   Perhaps the entire trip was more difficult this time because of the discovery, the finding of a treasure this time because we weren't there for just a quick popping in and out of the car, a quick photo shoot here ("look, I was there") and then onto the next spot.  No time, I'm on a schedule, got to make it to the next place before my vacation runs out.  Suddenly one comedian's words came back to me, that Americans do anything but nothing while on vacation.  No, this trip was like so many when visiting family or visiting home.  This trip was relaxing (despite us walking and hiking so much)...the physical side was invigorating, but the mental side was stimulating.  Who knew that de-charging could become such a source of re-charging?

   And on a final note, I hope I can add this set of photos to give you an idea of the changing tides (and also add my apologies if my earlier tablet entries showed so many spelling errors, the auto-correct apparently going a bit wild once I would proofread it and hit the go-ahead, as if the program would scratch its motherchip while off and decide that surely I couldn't have meant that spelling or wording and change it).  We should all realize that even with full force and massive power, nature is nature and has many forms of beauty...if only was could discharge our preconceived thoughts and notions and just see and listen...measure what remains steady.