Trust

Trust

   Another interesting (and pleasant) discovery out here in the English countryside (if you've missed the earlier posts, my wife and I are vacationing along the western coast of Cornwall where she grew up), is that so many of the places we've visited have such trusting people. Now is this limited to the pubs and restaurants or the smaller towns and villages (say, vs. London), well perhaps. But it has nonetheless been a happy discovery.  And let's start with one little town we visited, St. Agnes.

   Did I mention that we had just finished our five-mile walk, were quite ready for a pint when we faced the prospect of taking the shortcut across the sea rocks (which we had done before since we'd done this hike many times), or tackling the footpath, another half-mile long and mostly straight up before it finally creeps downward into the town the final five-hundred yards or so.  But since we had done the hike before, we somewhat recognized that the tide was coming in and despite the attractive but shrinking stretch of sand ahead of the rocks, we figured that our tired legs might not be up to matching the speed of the incoming tide. So, perhaps because of my wife being trapped on the rocks as a child, or perhaps because we were a bit older and wiser, we elected to slough up the hill path and to get there to the pub a bit later.  Along the way, we met a few more interesting people on the path itself, and belatedly plopped down into the pub eager and thirstier than ever.  A quick bite, a few pints and a few glasses of wine later, and we were joking with the locals, all two of them (it was only 3 in the afternoon).  Then the helicopter sound, the people popping in to eat then casually taking their food and drink to the outdoor tables.  No big deal, we thought, for we had done that same thing before, but now we were just tired and relaxed, ready to taste the next beer (and this time, actually taste the beer vs. just guzzling it).  The local couple returned, relatively unconcerned, and glanced over our way.  "Some people trapped on the rocks and the tide's come in," they said.  "Chopper's out."  We shrugged (we were still eating, after all).

   "Is it?," said the pretty lass working the bar.  "Yeah," the couple said, "must be too choppy to use the boat," they bantered, as if the rescue operation was no big deal.  "Getting close to the rocks...police rappelling a man down."  "Are they?," said the lass, to which the couple said (to her), "should go have a look."  She left, then the couple left their drinks and just before leaving took a glance at us and said, "watch the bar, will you?"

   The rescue was indeed amazing, the rotor blades seemingly just a few feet away from the walls of the cliff.  But what stuck us more was the trust so casually given to us, two tired-looking foot soldiers who had wearily arrived in their bar (fully stocked with some fine bottles of scotch, I might add).  And their's was not the only place.  At our B&B, we mentioned to Colin that we would pay the balance of our bill in a few days, mostly due to the limits we had put on our accounts at the ATM (in case our cards were stolen, ironic now, looking at the title of this post).  "No rush," he said, "certainly don't stress yourself over it."  But come the next evening, we had the money in hand and dutifully handed it over to Lizzie.  "I think that's what we owe you," I said, to which she walked over and casually placed it over the pile of cash we had given her the other night, a pile just sitting openly on the kitchen counter.  "I haven't even counted it," she shrugged.  "Terrible, aren't I?," she giggled and walked away.

   The next night, we ate a nice meal (well, mine was delicious but my wife's beef was "tough as old boots" as she put it and basically left untouched on her plate  ).  On paying the bill, the waitress rung up our meals but not our drinks, which I let her know, and she dutifully rang them up and said sorry, as if genuinely so.  But as we got our coats, here comes our waiter with a pile of cash and an apology.  Not necessary, I said. But no, he replied, "I felt that meat (on my wife's plate and he meant that he had actually felt it) and it was inedible.  Normally our chef does a great job with our roast dinners and he insisted I return your money."   My wife thanked him but again said that she was fine and not trying to get her money back to which he said, "I know you weren't; you're genuine people."

   In pub after pub, place after place, there seemed to be little concern about us walking out without paying, or skipping town, one place even setting us down along a table in a back room while one of the managers counted the day's monies, the bills and coins piled high on the table.  "I'll be right with you," he said, "and my colleague will bring you some menus."  But when a few minutes went by and his colleague didn't arrive, the manager simply got up to go get the menus, leaving all the cash sitting temptingly (for someone, anyway) on the table.

   It's been a refreshing return to a world of trust, a world that sometimes seems to be vanishing, especially in our world of crime shows and closed-circuit cameras, a world that one could almost say  "used to be."  But for us, at least in the few small corners of the world that we've visited, trust seems to be more the norm than the exception.  And likely, that might be the case elsewhere in the world.  Perhaps all it takes is a trip to the country, a trip to recharge your batteries.  And who knows, perhaps such a trip will recharge more than your body and mind, but also your faith.