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.
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.
Nearby, the sleepy hamlet of Port Quin is celebrating in its sheltered spot, nestled between the hills that ooze out along its harbour to suddenly plunge into the Atlantic. A walk out to a headland marking the entrance to this enclave is a touch more blustery; the reward solitude and drama and vistas that make the heart sing and the heart ache. And ice cream that makes the heart say uh-oh we’re in Cornwall again aren’t we, better brace ourselves.
A little above The Strand, under wonderful, warming sun perched a wonderful pub overlooking the ocean. A pub that served up a local tribute, a tribute to the seas and skies, the clifftops and harbours, the wind and rain and storms and sun. The seasons battering and bathing and cajoling and churning the charisma and spirit into this magical Cornish land. Spring has arrived, and so have I. Cheers.
The reward for all this toil, traipsing through a sunny late summer in England was ice cream in Salisbury. In a land in which tradition appears widely cherished, what better tradition to uphold?
In times of such frightfulness one is best advised to turn to a cup of tea and slice of cake. Sat in a sunny position next to an orchard, sheep mowing the grass and a garden centre just around the corner, there is enough here to soothe the feet, the stomach, and the eyes. I’ve had better cakes but hardly many better contexts in which to eat them.
gbpilgrim 