'ello me hearties! Another travel blog has thus formed to tell the story of a trip down to the south west of England. It's not actually the first time down that’ away, having previously been refreshed by the beauty of Bath, engorged with gorgeous Cheddar cheese at Cheddar gorge, amazed by Henges made of Stone. The accursed jackpot of the 2p luck machines has been struck at Weston-Super-Mare, combine harvesters have been sung about, the finest Scrumpy has been sipped. But this time sights are set further afield, to the Lands End, Cornwall!
If you're not au fait with the lay of the English land, the Cornish part is the long spiky bit down the very south-west. It actually looks like it might be quite easy to get to as well, that is until you encounter what many refer to as the quintessential Cornish summer experience ... being stuck in your car on a winding one lane road behind campervans for hours upon end. In Cornwall, your definition of a "highway" is extended beyond all sane limits and here .... no one can hear you beep, especially when you are stuck behind a steam powered car. That's right, a steam powered car.
In case ye foolhardy sea dogs hadn't noticed, there is a distinctly pirate-esqe twang in the blog and a peg-leg glide in its stride. Cornwall is pretty much the epicentre of the salty pirate stereotype. Sure things have changed from those times of old, but one could really imagine some of the old dock towns like Lynmouth back in the day. Visions of classic night time scenes, where the cobbled streets are swathed in shades of blue, interspersed with the welcoming glow and warmth of a street light or doorway to a pub filled with grizzled old sailors. I think the Cornish people still hold the pirate dream close, it's one of the few places where "we be" is acceptable English, their flag is basically the English flag crossed with a jolly roger and they've really only just started widely accepting the pound sterling over pieces of eight.
Cornwall is an absolute stunning part of England to say the least. At its edges sit a perplexing contrast of wild, rocky headlands and cliffs pounded by a mercilessly angry sea or stunning beaches lying in a surreal calm. Up above the shore lie verdant rolling moors and forests with ponies and horses running wild like some school girl's childhood fantasy come true. The sky seems more blue here, the green more green, and the gentle forest canopied roads like some car ad, the people so relaxed they grow moss on them.
A belt-busting culinary adventure, it's here that you can get the most decadent scones and clotted cream teas in all of England. Couple this with Cornish pasties the size of a small dog (I highly suggest the Pork & Apple), ye olde crab sandwiches and regret stares back at you in the mirror long after your fair-weather friend "satisfaction" has since deserted you.
On the way to Lands End are many gorgeous sites, you can really get so much out of the endless daylight afforded by the English summer. There are seas side towns crusty with salt air a plenty, water powered trains, giant bio domes (please, no Pauly Shore quotes), miniature donkeys, Shakespeare played on open air theatres overlooking the open sea (as sharks circle below waiting for the actors to exit stage left). There is the car-less town of Clovelly - balanced on a hill of 30 degree angle - where the locals zip to and fro amongst flower pot lined streets on their little tree trunk legs. There is Tavistock, the home of Sir Francis Drake - who finished his game of lawn bowls before routing the Spanish stating "there was plenty of time to finish the game and still beat the Spaniards."
Finally, upon reaching Lands End, you are greeted with a foreboding sight. A rolling mist, thick and enveloping. It masks a silent peninsula, where waves have crashed endlessly upon jagged rocks and countless shipwrecks. But then there is a tacky gift shop, cafe and ghost ride that kind of spoil it a bit.
It was here that the voices called, to venture, to seek THE HOLY GRAIL!
Indeed one last side quest was in order, to Tintagel, the legendary birthplace of Arthur, king of the Britons. How did he become King you ask? Well, Monty Python summed it up best ..
King Arthur : "The Lady of the Lake, her arm clad in the purest shimmering samite held aloft Excalibur from the bosom of the water, signifying by divine providence that I, Arthur, was to carry Excalibur. THAT is why I am king."
Peasant : "Listen, strange women lyin' in ponds distributin' swords is no basis for a system of government. Supreme executive power derives from a mandate from the masses, not from some farcical aquatic ceremony. You can't expect to wield supreme executive power just because some watery tart threw a sword at you. If I went 'round sayin' I was Emperor, just because some moistened bint lobbed a scimitar at me, they'd put me away!"
Sadly there is not much left of the castle that once was at Tintagel, in fact there is naught but some stone steps and rocks that ascend precariously up a steep headland. Likewise Merlin's cave is now nothing more than an intertidal death trap for daft tourists and Camelot is but a dated 70's hotel ... and a silly place at that. In general, the town certainly has no shame in making the most of its Arthurian fame, boasting such fine traders as the King Arthur's Arms B&B, Merlin’s Gifts and Confectionery, King Arthur's Bookshop, King Arthur's Bistro and Ye Olde Merlin's Pasties (formerly Merlin's Milkshakes).
Cornish is a language which is on the extremely endangered list, so it's good to finish up with a useful bit of Cornish for you should you find yourself voyaging to this land filled with delicious cheesy comestibles. "Ple'ma keus, mar pleg?" means 'where is the cheese?'. Oh one does like to temporarily live beside the sea side.
If you're not au fait with the lay of the English land, the Cornish part is the long spiky bit down the very south-west. It actually looks like it might be quite easy to get to as well, that is until you encounter what many refer to as the quintessential Cornish summer experience ... being stuck in your car on a winding one lane road behind campervans for hours upon end. In Cornwall, your definition of a "highway" is extended beyond all sane limits and here .... no one can hear you beep, especially when you are stuck behind a steam powered car. That's right, a steam powered car.
In case ye foolhardy sea dogs hadn't noticed, there is a distinctly pirate-esqe twang in the blog and a peg-leg glide in its stride. Cornwall is pretty much the epicentre of the salty pirate stereotype. Sure things have changed from those times of old, but one could really imagine some of the old dock towns like Lynmouth back in the day. Visions of classic night time scenes, where the cobbled streets are swathed in shades of blue, interspersed with the welcoming glow and warmth of a street light or doorway to a pub filled with grizzled old sailors. I think the Cornish people still hold the pirate dream close, it's one of the few places where "we be" is acceptable English, their flag is basically the English flag crossed with a jolly roger and they've really only just started widely accepting the pound sterling over pieces of eight.
Cornwall is an absolute stunning part of England to say the least. At its edges sit a perplexing contrast of wild, rocky headlands and cliffs pounded by a mercilessly angry sea or stunning beaches lying in a surreal calm. Up above the shore lie verdant rolling moors and forests with ponies and horses running wild like some school girl's childhood fantasy come true. The sky seems more blue here, the green more green, and the gentle forest canopied roads like some car ad, the people so relaxed they grow moss on them.
A belt-busting culinary adventure, it's here that you can get the most decadent scones and clotted cream teas in all of England. Couple this with Cornish pasties the size of a small dog (I highly suggest the Pork & Apple), ye olde crab sandwiches and regret stares back at you in the mirror long after your fair-weather friend "satisfaction" has since deserted you.
On the way to Lands End are many gorgeous sites, you can really get so much out of the endless daylight afforded by the English summer. There are seas side towns crusty with salt air a plenty, water powered trains, giant bio domes (please, no Pauly Shore quotes), miniature donkeys, Shakespeare played on open air theatres overlooking the open sea (as sharks circle below waiting for the actors to exit stage left). There is the car-less town of Clovelly - balanced on a hill of 30 degree angle - where the locals zip to and fro amongst flower pot lined streets on their little tree trunk legs. There is Tavistock, the home of Sir Francis Drake - who finished his game of lawn bowls before routing the Spanish stating "there was plenty of time to finish the game and still beat the Spaniards."
Finally, upon reaching Lands End, you are greeted with a foreboding sight. A rolling mist, thick and enveloping. It masks a silent peninsula, where waves have crashed endlessly upon jagged rocks and countless shipwrecks. But then there is a tacky gift shop, cafe and ghost ride that kind of spoil it a bit.
It was here that the voices called, to venture, to seek THE HOLY GRAIL!
Indeed one last side quest was in order, to Tintagel, the legendary birthplace of Arthur, king of the Britons. How did he become King you ask? Well, Monty Python summed it up best ..
King Arthur : "The Lady of the Lake, her arm clad in the purest shimmering samite held aloft Excalibur from the bosom of the water, signifying by divine providence that I, Arthur, was to carry Excalibur. THAT is why I am king."
Peasant : "Listen, strange women lyin' in ponds distributin' swords is no basis for a system of government. Supreme executive power derives from a mandate from the masses, not from some farcical aquatic ceremony. You can't expect to wield supreme executive power just because some watery tart threw a sword at you. If I went 'round sayin' I was Emperor, just because some moistened bint lobbed a scimitar at me, they'd put me away!"
Sadly there is not much left of the castle that once was at Tintagel, in fact there is naught but some stone steps and rocks that ascend precariously up a steep headland. Likewise Merlin's cave is now nothing more than an intertidal death trap for daft tourists and Camelot is but a dated 70's hotel ... and a silly place at that. In general, the town certainly has no shame in making the most of its Arthurian fame, boasting such fine traders as the King Arthur's Arms B&B, Merlin’s Gifts and Confectionery, King Arthur's Bookshop, King Arthur's Bistro and Ye Olde Merlin's Pasties (formerly Merlin's Milkshakes).
Cornish is a language which is on the extremely endangered list, so it's good to finish up with a useful bit of Cornish for you should you find yourself voyaging to this land filled with delicious cheesy comestibles. "Ple'ma keus, mar pleg?" means 'where is the cheese?'. Oh one does like to temporarily live beside the sea side.
