Sleepless in Port Isaac

One thing you have to grant the gulls: they are party animals.  They keep on talking and laughing all night.  At 3 am I'm up wondering what the commotion is all about outside: was there a seagull wedding, a wake, a christening?  Did some gull find a week's worth of french fries (sorry, “chips”) abandoned behind a restaurant?  Whatever it is, they are ON about it.  Through two rain storms.  But still, there are things to see even now.  At night, the thick moonshadows of the cliffs across the bay rise out of the black water of high tide, and come and go as the waxing moon slides in and out of rain clouds.  

By now you're realizing that despite the long hours traveling, only one of us slept gratefully through the night.  The other of us wandered about the Pot drinking instant coffee, reading our hosts' magazines about Cornwall, and finally at 3 am, gave up, brewed a pot of proper coffee, drank two cups, and fell asleep just as it was getting light at 4.  Around 7 we rouse ourselves, as the sun is already high in the sky.  The last of the rain is drying off.  The gulls don't care either way, judging by their continuing commentary.  Our neighbors let out their terrier, who dashes and leaps and barks out impossible threats to the gulls wheeling high above him. Occasionally a gull dives a bit more closely, to see if he's cleaned up all his dry food.  He and the gulls, they need each other. 

This sign in our driveway says "Public Footpath"  ??

By 8 we can hear someone behind us, up the hill, tossing things into an old battered Range Rover truck, cleaning out a garage.  Prior to their becoming the ultimate yuppie SUV, Range Rovers apparently were actually well-built and useful trucks.  The oldest, rattliest, clunkiest things on the streets of Port Issac, driven by fishermen with some pretty serious dreadlocks, still tote lobster pots, ropes, tubs of fish, dogs and a million other things up. down, and around the hills. Everyone gets out of their way: pedestrians because it's the smart thing to do, those of us driving rentals because, well, those trucks are well past being insured, or damaged. 

This is not trick photography.

Did we mention the hills?  Port Isaac is a baby San Franscisco. One can walk the sort-of level Coastal Path around the hillsides of the town, or opt for the so-called 'shortcut' over the top of the hill to the other side.  After sampling both strategies, we agree that the 'around' distance vs the Great Circle route over the top are probably about equal.  We have found many fascinating and irrelevant objects to examine while catching our breath from crawling up the hillsides.  We are starting to really dislike those wiry old men and women who march past us without a comment, walking staff in one hand and nylon sun hat flopping in time to their rhythm.  We suspect they are the Lance Armstrongs of the elderly hiker world, getting some kind of extra-Medicaid medicinal ‘juice’ from Mexican, or worse, Canadian doctors.  They are just too.....too.  We certainly don't see them in the Golden Lion downing pints of St Austell's Tribute Ale, so that can't be it.

Ah, the Golden Lion.  The interior is instantly recognizable to Doc Martin fans.  The food is reliable and fresh, the service informal, the facilities comfortably run down.  Only novices like us had to ask for the password to the WiFi.  Everyone else knows what that number written in 4-INCH HIGH MAGIC MARKER ABOVE THE BAR is. But we already look and sound like tourists, so we embrace it and go on. 

Don't Mess with Gretchen

Contrary to predictions, and the tenor of the night before, Sunday breaks out sunny, and windy as Kansas.  In all other ways this is definitely not Kansas.  Not flat, not dry. But as we follow the Coastal Trail, we can see the tops of the wind turbines we passed Saturday, picking up the sea winds and powering our lights, for all we know. The views are spectacular! The shops are open, and the restaurants are serving the traditional Cornish Sunday ‘carveries’ or roast meat meals.  Roast lamb with mint sauce, carrot and coriander (cilantro) soup, and for Gretchen, smoked haddock pate and baked plaice (local fish), plus a bowl of steamed vegetables and more St. Austells to go with. Did we mention her salad included pansy buds and stems?

Across the lane is Cliffside Gallery, Gretchen is impressed by the landscapes in oil pastels by Katie Childs.  The best one will be coming home with us, of course.  Katie is a local returned from London and now counts this her fourteenth year in her gallery.

 Back at our home, the ‘Pot, we are comfortably settling in to an evening of reading, writing and watching the Soccer Finals on the telly, when the Pot owners, Geoff and Mary, pop by. We would have ‘tidied up’ but clearly the maps spread out and crumby plates from our dinner pasties speak for our vacation status.