There is jeopardy in revisiting a place of joyous memory. Risk in the raised expectations that many of the same ingredients will result in the same, delectable cake. But a second time around some ingredients are missing and some have additives and there is the chance they won’t combine in quite the same way. Not to mention the unpredictable variable of temperature. Why does it always come back to cake?
Sausage rolls are more the thing in St. Agnes, a stop off point on the migration to The Lizard. Sixteen humans, four cars and a dog, all bound for a holiday park mere miles from the southernmost point of the British mainland. But first, a brief foray on the north coast, for dramatic lines and vibrant hues and curious children. Minecraft takes on a whole old meaning.
We are decamped and scattered across fibro structures near Mullion. On site there is the usual mediocre pub food, a playground festering with past scrapes and tears and an outdoor pool that only seems to open between the hours of 12:87 and 3.574 on the first Tuesday after a blood moon. The staff are largely from the disgruntled set of Camborne Comp, moonlighting between here and Aldi and a quick vape after bingo.
This is all to be expected, all priced in, and I cannot fault our bungalow nor the location nor the amusement arcade with its strangely captivating spell of coins and tokens teetering on a precipice. Armed with buckets of bronze several people drift from one machine to another possessed. Convinced it is just a matter of one more tuppenny bit to score that Tweety Pie Tazo.
Being Britain I have no doubt some people will spend their entire holiday in this square mile. To me a shame, but whatever floats your boat. But there are real boats afloat just down the road. And sandy beaches and rugged cliffs and flowery lanes and pastel villages and scones and tea and beautiful birdsong and fluttery butterflies and ice cream.
And even good coffee. Coverack a case study in discovering whether things will be just as satisfying the second time around. It feels harsh to relegate Coverack to grey morning filler but I think the benign nothingness of the conditions make the place feel even more appealing. Cottage For Sale signs even more alluring.
Things were busier at Roskilly’s, where this time around on top of savoury lunch I made sure to take in the staple produce of ice cream. I made sure Avery made sure of this as well by ordering one of those ludicrous sundaes that comes in a ridiculous glass and is peppered with delicious garnish.
Now, I’ll sound like a right jerk here but I have to say Cornish ice cream has underwhelmed a bit ever since I became addicted to Gelato Messina. Which is a shame when you consider the natural, rain-soaked bounty of this westernmost county. It’s the Jersey cows that make all the difference, rain-soaked or not.
Rain soaking was proving pleasingly elusive as parts of Britain crept towards something like their twentieth alleged ‘heatwave’ of the summer. And the wall-to-wall sunshine was blazing just overhead… the layer of low cloud obstinately stuck to the granite mounds and precipices of The Lizard. A situation ripe for conjuring up that legendary Cornish mizzle.
At first the conditions were an acceptable background to evoke scenes that a used car salesman would describe as atmospheric. The historic quay wedged into Mullion Cove eerily calm, the flat silvery seas vanishing into an unknown horizon. Film noir moods satisfying for as long as it takes to get to the underwhelming chocolate factory up the road.
It’ll burn off soon, is the oft-thought line which is looking increasingly ludicrous, especially back up on the wild heights of the holiday park over lunch. But there are some scouts out and about on the WhatsApp family chat and there is a picture with blue sky on it. We pile on down to Poldhu, where the sun is tantalising just offshore. An hour later, I’m in shorts eating another so-so ice cream and some people are up to their neck in ocean.
Despite a very slow start, the sun lingers long into the midsummer sky. There is time for a rest and an infuriating wait for dinner, somewhere, anywhere, that will still serve you anything, please. The sun is well and truly up in Mexico by time a burrito bowl lands in front of me. In Cornwall it is now sinking faster than a taco and cold cerveza. Indigestion is just around the corner, as is the boomingly popular Kynance Cove.
At around 9:30pm it is relatively serene. Well of course there’s someone waving some ropes and smoking pot in a tribute to the sun gods, but there’s still enough room for everyone to space out on rocky outcrops. With a quiet car park and cast in lingering light, it is phenomenally beautiful to experience, even if the sun sinks beyond the land.
Fast forward twelve hours to a stunning mizzle-free Thursday in early July and the fluoro-vested National Trust parking assistants are out in full force. Roger, head to Annabelle in a north-north westerly bearing and turn 270 degrees to line up next to the brambles with a clearance of 425 millimetres to starboard sir. Are you a member? Jolly good.
To be fair, if there is a need for National Trust parking attendants (I suspect the job is actually advertised as ‘Access & Experience Facilitator’) it is here. You can only imagine the carnage and open warfare in their absence. Like the emmets of local infamy, a procession of all sorts march downward from their cars, laden with striped bags, snorkels, blankets and buckets and spades. It is one endless conga line of flip flops, but the epic landscape consumes them fairly well. The tide is – thank the moon gods – out.
What follows is a wonderful couple of hours delving into sandy inlets and timidly inching feet into fresh waters while many others frolic unencumbered in the deep sea. For relaxation there is a trip to the café and a laze on a raised ribbon of sand. But relaxation can only be fleeting, niggled away by the inevitable turning of the tide.
You start to notice the changes slowly – a submerged rock here, disappearing seaweed there – but all the while you are wondering when it is best to leave. Once that small pool starts to link up again with the ocean, ankle deep. Others linger and incredulously a line of tourist ants continue to rock hop down to the shrinking bay. Destined to become as congested as the Northern Line at eight in the morning.
You may well think Insta-friendly Caribbean waters and Marbella vibes are as good as it gets but, for me, peak Lizard satisfaction was a more understated affair. It was a simple walk down a lane to Housel Bay in late afternoon sun. A Cornish summer’s day in which life was burgeoning and bountiful, much of it packed into the high hedgerows leading down to a placid, inviting sea. Timeless – and like the time before – producing a longing to linger longer. To happily comeback again.
There is a colony of koalas here, and I was pleased to come across one in the first hundred metres of my walk. It was around midday and hot, exactly the kind of conditions in which you should not be out walking. But with this early sighting, the pressure was off – no more relentlessly craning one’s neck upward in the usually forlorn hope of spotting a bulbous lump that isn’t a growth protruding from a eucalypt. I could instead loop back to the car concentrating more on keeping the flies from going up my nose. Yes, they are absolutely back.
Still, should you wish to rise from this indulgent slumber, another hour or so east will bring you to the western fringe of the Blue Mountains. Suddenly things change, and not just the petrol price rising thirty cents a litre in as many kilometres. The day trippers are out in force, the coaches idling at every single possible lookout, of which there are many. The escarpment top towns of Blackheath and Katoomba and Leura are brimming with people shuffling between café and bakery, spilling down like ants to the overlooks nearby. Below the ridge, however, and the wilderness wins. Only penetrable at its fringe, placid beneath a canopy of ferns and eucalyptus.
Or it can be wonderful, arriving a little before rush-hour and just after the parking attendant has gone home. This yields a quiet fist pump of glee and a good mood in which to walk the parklands. Along the river, the tide is high and holding on, and clouds part to release the sun. Forget the roar of traffic along the Embankment, and the mould-tinged sails of Sainsburys, and focus instead on the flourishing green of the woods and bounteous swathes of wild garlic. Embrace the chirping birds and walk with the hope of encountering a deer.
Look down upon manicured fields and be thankful that this is indeed upon your doorstep. A doorstep in which the land and sea meets, producing conditions that are often frustrating but usually fruitful. Beyond the chav-filled potholes of the city, a land of strawberries and cream or raspberries and cream or just cream goddammit.
Indeed, the weather didn’t bring too much to grumble about and my shorts proved a justified inclusion on the continent. There were countryside ambles and meanders through parks, Easter egg hunts in the garden and trips to the market. All the usual trappings of life on the French-Swiss border in Ville-la-Grand, snow coating distant peaks while spring was springing all around.
Annecy, on the other hand, is a gem of a place to take in an ice cream or do whatever you should please. From the hive of construction that is Annemasse station, a pleasing hour long train ride delivered my nephew Guillaume and I to what has been described as the Venice of the Alps, largely on the count of a canal infiltrating a few of the streets and – possibly – gondoliers wailing about their need for Walls Cornettos.
The waterways and the flowers and the daytrippers milling about eating ice cream largely find their way towards the jewel in the crown that is Lac d’Annecy and its quite dazzling surrounds. Clear, glacial water hosts an array of boats, encircled by forests, villages and rapidly elevating peaks. It’s a popular spot to row or cruise or be a hoon on a jetski. Or even pedalo for half an hour in a large figure eight. Everybody loves a tourist.
The frequent sight of tourists eating ice cream impels one to wander the streets like a tourist to seek out an ice cream. Heavily topped cornets increase in frequency back near one of the canals, and a large queue meanders from the serving hatch of Glacier des Alpes. Patience may be rewarded with sublime ice cream but neither Guillaume nor I had much patience and opted for a perfectly satisfactory version nearby. Safe from the clutches of any devious gondoliers.
And so, the last evening in France turned out as sunny as the unseasonably warm sun that was soon to fade away in Great Britain; to be replaced by a storm so irritating it was awarded a name (Hannah), heralding a permanent return to long trousers. One last slice of gateau would compensate for the impending doom, and cap off a very fine Easter; my first in the northern hemisphere since 2006. So, fake summer or real, it was undoubtedly one that will go down in history.
…And just like that the world spins and you fight against it for a day or so in this never-never land of cold air and reclining seats and unappealing movies and rice with two lumps of what might be chicken. Dessert is more of a highlight because it involves – somewhat poetically – Salcombe Dairy Ice Cream. Here I am on a Singapore Airlines A380 headed for Australia and dessert comes from a little patch of paradise on the south coast of Devon. In that taste of creamy cherry are the lush meadows and deep blue seas of home. 
At some point the world becomes tropical. There are bright lights, acres of glass and miles of travellators. You could buy a Rolex or a roti with some weird money. It is five in the morning and people are eating dinner. You are somewhere in the world at some point in time but not much of it makes sense. If only it was all a dream, the relaxing sound of running water and floating butterflies lulling you into restful sleep…
It’s taken a while for summer in Canberra to arrive, with the inevitable false starts and the fake summer that usually emerges for a week or so in October before retreating with startling rapidity. The variable weather conditions are largely a boon for nature which bursts into a frenzy of colour and gargantuan jungle of weeds. One minute you have a perfectly respectable outside patio area, the next it’s a (*culture alert*) frenzied sketch from Rousseau. Best to try and ignore the weeding and admire how the professionals manage things at the Botanic Gardens.
There is a point for me in which winter in Canberra is definitely over and summer is certainly on the way. It’s that day when you decide to walk in the shade to cool down and protect, rather than seek out a warming sun and its melanoma vengeance. You know you should get your floppy hat out despite looking like a numpty in it. And largely avoid the midday sun for disproven fear that it is this that is making your hair grey and not the inevitable march of age and genetics.
Anyway, the best times are the day’s extremities as the amount of sunshine increases. Those cool mornings when Wattlebirds wake you up at 5am and you could be tempted to a) get on your bike for a beautiful lakeside ride of virtue or b) turn on the radio in the hope that you will doze back to news of Cooper Cronk being signed by the Northern Beaches Numbats. And, at the other end, there’s those lingering light evenings, in which twilight golf is a possibility and cold beer and barbecues become a more frequent consideration.
All this water, all this sunshine, all this warmth and cool change. A time for shorts and hoodies and rainbows, many rainbows. Rainbows and butterflies as summer seems to assert itself with greater authority. But still Christmas hovers as a lottery between scorching bushfires and mild drizzle; no doubt it will be 35 degrees for a classic roast or a chilly 18 for a poolside barbie with novelty oversized prawns. Only time will tell.
gbpilgrim 