Hubba, Hubba

    Okay, so I got a bit of flack over the Hubba-Hubba thing and how some sites say that it was the U.S. military that originated the term (possibly over its "hup, hup, hup" marching theme) or that some Cornish historical sites show only the words "heva" or "hevva" but no "hubba;" and I'm no expert but then again I didn't know the origin of the phrase either and figured that when I saw the little metal emblem buried in the concrete by the Newquay town council that they were adding just a bit of humor to the whole thing...until I read about the huers and that was their Cornish call of spotting a school (okay, shoal) of sardines (to be fair, the smaller size fish are considered sardines and the larger ones being pilchards), all that in the last post.  Anyway, that's my defense of hubba hubba...at ease, soldier.

    But while we're on the military, two old timers from the town told me (at separate times) that they had worked for the MOD or Ministry of Defense when they were younger and had driven nuclear weapons deep into the hills of the underground airfield.  "Oh there's miles and miles of tunnels underneath here," one said, "people have no idea."  It had been rumored for decades of course, that the U.S. had once hidden such weaponry in that airfield during WW II when they took it over before giving it back to the Britain and the RAF; renamed RAF St. Mawgan the base has since given the airport portion to the Cornwall County Council and the airport opened for business in 2008 to the public (we took FlyBe but there are several airlines now serving Newquay).  And with the widest runway (but not longest, as was rumored, but still one of the longest in the U/K.), the airport has Virgin Orbit and Spaceport already advertising their satellite plans.  Wait, this little town airport of Newquay where you still walk on the tarmac to board?  But that stuff about driving nuclear weapons and stuff underground?  After all these two were talking about doing all of this nearly 60 years ago (one of the gentlemen is now 77)...wait, that puts it well into the late 1950s.  Cold war and all that.  Yet those rumors just may have some credence as Wikipedia added: RAF St Mawgan is currently home to Defence Survival Training Organisation (DSTO), which is a tri-service unit that teaches 'Survive, Evade, Resist, Extract' (SERE) methods for the Armed Forces in support of operations and training.  

Old mine settling tanks on the coastal path to St. Agnes

    All this talk of hidden tunnels and such got me asking about some of the vacant lots that dotted the main street.  Hotels were all around them and yet, these lots had been vacant since I first visited decades ago.  It sunk, our same friend told me...the hotel.  The mine underneath apparently gave way and thus went a big chunk of the hotel.  Did I mention that this area (think Poldark) was known for its mines, even pumping out seawater to get shafts ever deeper.  I had to think of his earlier words of miles and miles of tunnels.  Ah no matter, we were once again doing our little jaunt over the hills to get to the mining town of St. Agnes, which takes you right past the former Cligga Head mining installation that looks as if could have housed big anti-aircraft guns (and perhaps centuries earlier, the huts for huers spotting shoals of pilchards)...but imaginations aside, the concrete circles were actually filled-in settling tanks for the mined minerals.  It was all from a different time and as with many areas, had seen both mining and war come and go.  But the coastline didn't care.  Its waves would still crash against the rocks, its tides would still float in and out, its beauty would continue whether anyone looked out or not.

View from the patio of The Harbour

   Mining, especially back then, had to be hard work what with the dust, the physical exertion of chipping at the rock, and the small spaces providing little room to turn or stretch.  Come to think of it, it was much like the many showers that dot the homes and rooms of the area.  Drop your bar of soap and likely that's where it will stay until you are finished.  But you just get on with it.  Which is what we did, heading to an old haunt, the Harbour; as we sat on the patio having a local lager, chef Aaron Janes came out, gave a puzzled look to my wife as if trying to remember, then turned to me and yelled, "I remember you, mate!"  He had just finished making a sorbet from the apples of the tree just below us, served with an apple fritter ball from the same apples, and topped with a blackberry couli (from you guessed it, the blackberry bushes growing below us).  Delicious.  Nearby, the local pub had to up the ante, its own tiramisu desert offering described on the menu as..."Chocolate sponge topped with brandy cheesecake, a layer of Masala & coffee biscuit mix.  Finished with a cream cheese frosting and a sprinkle of cocoa."  Yup, delicious II.  

    But almost more than the striking scenery and crisp weather always keeping you on your toes, it was the people who pretty much made our trip.  Besides Aaron, there was George, a Scot with a smile as broad as any, straight out of a sketch book and a face that instantly etched itself into your memory despite him having only two teeth as evenly spaced as 7-10 bowling pins.  And despite his having sold his favorite car and trying to stretch out his remaining money, his first words on meeting me were, "Can I buy you a drink?"  My wife and I had sort of snuck into another youthful party where our friend was playing in the band (we were the only ones dancing), the rest of the crowd out on the patio where the free bar was being kept busy; but that bar wasn't for us crashers which is why I ended up outside ordering a round and bumping into the inquisitive Scotsman George.  My lucky night.  And what proved an even bigger delight was meeting my wife's cousin, someone whom she hadn't seen in 40 years.  Both he and his wife have advanced stages of cerebral palsy (which requires them both to have full time aides) but you would never know it to meet them.  Despite their physical limitations, their attitudes were through the roof, making us so laugh and enjoy our time together that we took them back to the place we were staying where they motored right in and began chatting with the other guests; and as it would turn out, his wife had grown up in the same town as the owner, just a few houses away.so off they went on their own reunion trip as neighbors, teachers and shops were dug out of the past, all to the delight of everyone.  In no time at all, the sky was turning and they faced a long drive home (yes, their vehicle is equipped for him to drive but not today for he was enjoying his rum & Cokes) and we parted, both my wife and I having learned so much about true strength and what it really means to "just get on with it."  Those two have likely seen more of the world and attended more concerts than we ever will (Andrea Bocelli is their next scheduled concert).  And by the way, her cousin is on track to getting his masters degree.

Stairs to one pub's toilets

    One still had to admit that as with the miners, it can't be easy.  Many of the old buildings and pubs present small hallways and even smaller stairs to toilets with retrofitting difficult if not impossible without excessive damage.  But to its credit, many of the towns have designed nearby public facilities (unisex and most featuring automated and timed hand-washing stations, many with ultraviolet sterilization lights to finish).  They're large, clean, use minimal recycled water, and free.  Nice.  And here's what I was taking away from this trip...I could do with less.  Less room in the shower (my own shower already has an older low-flow showerhead so I was used to only dribbles of water coming out), less 3-meals-a-day mindset, less rushing, less get-a-million-things-done attitude, less more-more-more.  People we bumped into had already learned much of that, and they were all ages.  And I knew that we were seeing only a small spectrum of people in a rather small city and a rather small part of a coastline of a rather small country.  But even in generalizing, there were lessons to be learned.  

Rush hour near Porth, the town next to Newquay

   Borrowing again from Teresa Jordan's book on her living a year trying to follow Benjamin Franklin's list of thirteen virtues (something he embarked on but ended up commenting, "I was surpris'd to find myself so much fuller of faults than I had imagined."), she noted in her chapter on taking time for things: We often complain that we don't have enough time, but in fact we have all the tie in the world, all the time that exists, and it only exists right now.  We can bequeath the fruits of the market economy to our loved ones and leave them well-off financially, but from the moment we take our last breaths, we can't give them another minute of our time.  I was still learning for certain, but boy what a wonderful education...