There And There and There

View from our terrace

Fishing boats on their elbows

The Doc's Practice

Mystery flower, so far

Our side of the bay

We plan our trips like campaigns: we survey the field of battle, identify the obstacles, pore over maps and plans and schedule each move in detail, writing out the tasks and their due dates.  Then things happen in their own way and in their own time, and the careful plans are like a fond dream. Sometimes a very fond dream.  Then we just laugh.  What WERE we thinking, anyway?  It's when we discover things we didn't know about ourselves, or didn't want to guess: no, Ted can't instantaneously convert to right-hand sitting, left-hand shifting, left-lane driving while trying to extract us from Heathrow Airport.  As a result we had an impromptu tour of parts of western London.  Which parts, we have no idea. The turning point came when we spotted "M4" painted on some obscure city street and we followed those M4 signs like mice after bread crumbs, until at last we retraced our 12 or so miles of driving in the wrong direction and successfully inserted ourselves into the 10-mile long stream of traffic heading southwest out of London. Most of these folks were headed more or less the same place we were, as evidenced by the preponderance of campers, overstuffed vans, and old land rovers with bicycles, lawn chairs, and the occasional family pet strapped to the roof.  (Just kidding about that last thing).   It is the early phase of high vacation season in England, and we were in with the advance guard of tourists heading to the Disney-like remoteness of Devon, Dartmoor, Bodmin Moor, and Cornwall.

Looking inland from Fore Street

Which means that traffic on the 4-lanes moves at both 50 and 90 mph, depending on whether the vehicle is towing a trailer or not.  When it narrows down to 2 lanes, which happens every 10 miles or so for no apparent reason, well, then it all moves at 50, doesn't it?  It doesn't always pay to get too emotionally attached to high speeds, because the Brits will throw a random roundabout in your path just to burst your bubble and get you back down to 35.  Or worse, small towns.  Wait, little villages are the reason we're driving 250 miles.

Houses stacked up the valley

And so they are.  At the end of a long drive, along dwindling roads (with signs like 'temporary surfacing' and 'Give Way' (to the larger road) we find ourselves creeping straight down a 10-foot wide path bordered by vertical walls of growth on the very edge of the lane, facing "The Old School Restaurant and Inn".  Suddenly we're in Doc Martin land and everything seems familiar.  We creep up our assigned street, after seriously considering which alley was the hiking path and which was the car path, and with great relief wedge the red Golf into it's custom-sized parking slot just outside the door of the "Lobster Pot".  Parking is nearly impossible here, so renting a place that merely required that one's car be no longer than a Golf was a great advantage. 

Stonehenge and groupies

So after about 24 hours of continuous travel, we revived ourselves with a pint of St. Austell's and some fish and chips in the Golden Lion pub down the hill.  It looks eerily familiar, as does almost everything around the harbor ("Is this where Bert and PC Penhale got locked in the cooler?" "Is this Louisa's White Rose cottage?").  With food under our belts, we can't resist hiking up to the Doc's house for a picture or two, Gretchen furiously firing away with her camera in the low evening light as the fickle sun streams into the bay.  The fishing boats lean on their elbows in the sand as the tide retreats, and three boys kick a soccer ball around in the space left by the water.  The gulls wheel and spin overhead and their screechy calls seem to mimic kids, or cats, or Dementors. Several dogs and their humans jointly amuse themselves, chasing the gulls and anything else in or near the water.  It's very windy, chilly even, and lush with flowers.  The buildings are crusty, creaky, mossy and implacable.    It's perfect.  Our campaign was a success, after all. 

Best Seat on the Bay

Early Sunday Morning, Port Isaac

Our little "Pot" house is cozy and sparkling clean, with the minimum of furnishings and appliances, seeming slightly miniature. When the hot water tap is turned you can hear the boiler kick on, in its neat box on the wall six feet away. The shower heats water as you use it, and the toilet has two flush settings (solid and liquid). There are charming sea and beach-related objets d'art sprinkled around, and the furniture and kitchenware are from IKEA. Turning on the stovetop and oven requires multiple switch-flipping - we've referred to the written instructions several times, but we really enjoyed our breakfast of farm fresh eggs and Cornish saffron buns - with coffee.