One more thing before I go

Or two. I have a couple more posts in me before the travel blog goes into hiatus. Don't know when I'll get them together... but soon.

Penzance, Newlyn, Mousehole, and the train back to London

I wrote about today in my running blog, click here to read it. More pictures here. Tomorrow we head home.

As I was going to St. Ives

This morning started out foggy and windy (you would think the two would be mutually exclusive, but they were not), so I shelved my original plans to walk the coast path to St. Ives and instead rode along on the train with my parents. It's a 30-40 minute trip on the train, including a change in St. Erth. The trains are little three-car commuter trains, a far cry from the big train that travels to and from London!

In St. Erth we hopped off the train from Penzance—this one was going on to Plymouth—and crossed over to the St. Ives platform, Platform 3.* We had about ten minutes wait for the connecting train. The ride to St. Ives, though, took just another fifteen minutes.

The St. Ives station is about a quarter mile or so outside of town, and you can walk into town on a footpath that follows the coastline. This is the same footpath that turns into the coast path going away from St. Ives.

St. Ives, known as an artists' colony, looks like a painting itself, all pale shades of gold and grey and white. It has a little bit of the exotic—palm trees—and a good dose of tourist attractions, as it is a popular holiday spot, especially in the summer months. In the late winter it has an out-of-season charm, although on this sunny day the streets and sidewalks were hardly deserted.

We wandered along the waterside street, location of numerous restaurants and pubs, pasty and ice cream shops, and probably an arcade or two. I was trying to walk by the bed and breakfast we had stayed in before, but couldn't quite remember where it was. It is always strange when you come back to a place that had been so familiar years ago, and you feel like you should know where things are but can't quite sort it out!

My wanderings led us to the other side of St. Ives, which also looked familiar but slightly confusing. Then we walked right by Bumbles Tea Room, where my mother and I had once had a lovely cream tea. (Of course, that didn't set me straight but it was nice to see it again!) What did help was a sign pointing to “Fore Street.” I wasn't sure what Fore Street was but I suspected it was somewhere we might want to be. We walked in the direction of the arrow, and walked right into a Cath Kidston shop! Cath Kidston is sort of a Laura Ashley for the 21st century—purveyor of lovely patterned fabrics (many of them in candy-coloured stripes and florals) made into all kinds of accessories for the home and kitchen. I went in “just to look” and emerged with a few things...a pair of pajamas, a large stripey “laundry bag” which may very well find a role as an airplane carry-on, and a few other smaller bags which may or may not turn into gifts.

We had now entered shopping nirvana. Strolling up and down the surrounding street, I popped into a couple of clothing stores (yellow floral cotton sundress) and several of the child and baby stores that seemed to be rampant in St. Ives. Shopped out—or at least restrained by some sense of reason—we considered stopping for a Cornish pasty at one of the many pasty shops lining the streets. But my father wasn't interested, so I pulled the plug on St. Ives and hustled them back toward the railway station.

Leaving my parents (with the shopping bags) on the platform waiting for the train, I returned to the coast path and started in the direction of Lelant Saltings, about four miles away. I figured it couldn't be too hard to get to, as the coast path follows the cliff's edge above the seaside, and also tracks the route of the train. But while the train's track is level and mostly straight or gently curving, the coast path undulates up and down hills, and zigs and zags across the landscape. In some spots I could look down onto the golden beaches and sparkling surf; at other times I was surrounded by trees and greenery. The final stretch, shortly before I turned into Lelant, was almost dune-like, with beach grass and sand even high above the water.

About a mile or so from the station I approached Carbis Bay. I have memories (somewhat fond) of Carbis Bay, because five years ago my mother and I walked from St. Ives to Carbis Bay, then rode the train back to St. Ives. There is a long, steep hill from the footpath up to the station, and we only had a few minutes to get up it before the train arrived. My mother would happily have waited for the next train, but trains are few and far between, so I threatened and cajoled her up the hill as fast as we could go. When we did get to the top, we almost could not figure out how to get onto the platform, but the train operator told us to take our time, and we made it on without a problem. In retrospect, we could have just stopped at the Carbis Bay Hotel and had tea, but we didn't think of that until later.

On a couple of occasions I did worry whether I was going the right way. Once the path split and I truly did not know which was the right way. I think I actually chose the wrong way, a pathway that accessed waterfront residences rather than the actual coast path, but after a somewhat panicked enquiry to a man in a garden (after the path seemed to end at a rail crossing), I crossed the train tracks and rejoined the actual footpath.

In Lelant the path ended, for my purposes anyway, and I walked through town toward the Lelant Saltings Station. There is a Lelant Station, but the train only stops there a couple of times a day, and then only by request, and this wasn't one of those times. At Lelant Station I asked a man in the car park if I just kept on the same road to Lelant Saltings Station, and he said yes, but warned me it was much further than it seemed!

It was about 3:15 at that time, and the train I wanted arrived at 3:35; after that there wouldn't be another train for an hour. I picked up my pace to a brisk walk, hoping that the station wasn't much more than half a mile away, thinking that 3:25 would be a reasonable time to get there.

I walked, and I walked, and I walked. 3:25 arrived, and I was approaching the intersection with a major road. That worried me a bit, as it didn't seem consistent with my map. But at the road I saw the railroad symbol on a street sign, so I knew I was still on the right track, though quickly running out of time. I followed the signs into another road, then into a housing estate, wondering if this could really be right. Spotting a couple of women ahead with a baby carriage, I shouted to them, “where does the train stop?” They pointed in the direction I was going, so I kept on.

Finally I reached the parking lot, crossed it, and climbed up to the platform. I got there at 3:32, with three minutes to spare! Enough time to sit on a bench and take pictures of the train when it approached.

From there it was just a couple of minutes ride to St. Erth, then a ten minute wait for the Penzance train. By a little past 4:00 I was back at the hotel, just over two hours after I left the St. Ives station.

Tomorrow morning we head back to London, on the 10 a.m. train to Paddington.

To see more pictures of St. Ives and the coast path, click here.


*Five years ago we had the hardest time figuring out which platform was for the train to St. Ives. Now it seems ridiculously well marked. I don't know if we were just blind and stupid back then, or whether they've improved the signage!

A Sunny Day in Penzance

After I finished breakfast this morning and while I was still sitting in the dining room using my laptop, Ben (assistant manager and breakfast cook) mentioned the sunny day we were having, saying “it is hot out there!” I had already been out running, and though it was bright and sunny and pleasant for running, I hadn't especially noticed it was what I would call “hot.” (And I'm from a part of the U.S. where people break out their shorts—cargo shorts of course—when the temperature breaks 50º!)

But I took note of his comment and my own observations, and when my mother and I headed out around 11:00, instead of a warm coat I put on a khaki jacket. And brought my sunglasses, of course.

The sunglasses came into use almost immediately, for it was quite bright out. We followed the streets around the hotel (into a very uninteresting area that my mother called “a total waste of time,” primarily because it required walking up a longish hill to get back to the main streets). We did emerge into one of the primary town streets, however, the politically incorrectly named Market Jew Street, and walked up it into Causeway Head, another main shopping street. We weren't shopping, really, so instead of stopping we just strolled along, taking special interest in the windows of various bakeries, all of which exuded the tantalizing smell of freshly baked Cornish pasties and other savoury treats (as well as your typical bakery goods, including a plethora of hot cross buns and other yeast buns).

On the way back down we succumbed to one such shop, and decided to get Cornish pasties* for our lunch (it was noon by then). Cornish pasties, if anyone is not already familiar with them, are essentially turnovers, filled either with a traditional steak and potato filling, or variations such as chicken, cheese and onion, etc. There were a number of different options at this shop (as well as other pastry wrapped goodies, like sausage rolls), but I didn't look much further than the steak pasty. We each got a “cocktail-sized” pasty, which is not nearly as tiny as it sounds (I would consider cocktail-size to be the size of a potsticker). This is what I would call “small,” about four inches wide, I would guess. The “small” size is at least medium in my book, “medium” is quite large, and “large” would probably feed a family of four.**

We sat on a sunny bench to eat our pasties (after standing around for a few minutes glaring at the couple who had dared to sit on the bench before we got to it). Eventually they had to leave. Perhaps they felt uncomfortable being stared at....

The one disadvantage to the cocktail-sized pasty is that there was a plethora of potato in the filling and only a couple bits of steak. Well, nobody ever called Cornish pasties—or English food in general—low carb!

After our snack—er, lunch—I wanted to take my mother down to the Promenade where I had run earlier, to walk along the seaside. On the way, however, we spotted a sign saying “to the gardens.” I had to follow, and it led us to Morrab Gardens, described as a “subtropical garden”—whatever subtropical means. There were palm trees, but also rhododendrons and camellias growing happily. We walked around the outside path and then into the inside path, stopping at least once to sit on a bench in the sun.

We were not the only people flocking to the park on a sunny day. We passed several occupied benches before we found ours, and in the inner garden there were mothers and children playing, and even a few brave souls sitting on the grass—which still had to be a bit cold and damp at this time of day! I did not, however, see anyone wearing shorts.

Leaving the park, we continued onward to the Promenade. Despite the sun, it was not hot out, and in the shade it was rather cool. In the wind it was downright chilly! And there were some decent wind gusts out on the Promenade. Still, we walked the length of the Promenade to the end of town, then turned back. As we turned, we noted that the wind had been at our backs on the way out, and now we were walking right into it on the return. Not great for hairstyles.***


One of the views from the Promenade was back toward the Jubilee Pool, a public saltwater bathing pool in Penzance. I loved its Art Deco gate and the old fashioned name "bathing pool." In this long distance picture, you can also see St. Michael's Mount at the right, a small island now owned by the National Trust, home to a medieval castle and gardens.

Back in Chapel Street I pointed my mother down Abbey Road toward the hotel and continued back into the center of town to shop for our next meal. Yes, soon it would be tea time and treats would be called for. I had noticed in our early shopping that yeast buns were prolific and scones were scarce around Penzance, which seems odd as Cornwall is famous for clotted cream. The bakery we had stopped in earlier had packaged scones, which would have to do. They also had... Battenburg Cake.

I popped into a Co-op Food store to procure clotted cream. It was a beautiful sight, stacks of Rodda clotted cream, in several sizes. It was enough to inspire all kinds of gluttony. But I did, as a cautionary measure, study the nutrition information before I went truly crazy. About 500 calories per 100 grams.**** A generous serving for tea is about 50 grams. You could definitely use less, but I was being realistic. It's definitely not diet food, and a better person than me would shun it by a mile.

(I'm not that person.)

So I brought back the goodies, made a pot of tea, and my mother and I had a homey tea party in our sitting room, while watching Murder She Wrote (my mother's choice) on TV. Just another afternoon in England.

My father was out on the train and didn't make it back for tea. We had expected him early, so this caused a bit of alarm, but he finally appeared at 5:30 and said that he had gone to the loo. No, wait, he had gone to Looe on the train. This required a change of trains so took longer than a simple out and back journey.

Instead of trying to go out to dinner—none of were interested in that—I went back out and up the street to pick up takeaway fish and chips. A mountain of chips topped by a whale of a deep fried fish filet—just what I need. Back into the running shoes....*****

Incidentally, I only realized it was St. Patrick's Day today when I logged into Google and saw their shamrock-strewn logo. Throughout the day, I barely saw another reminder. In contrast, five years ago we happened to be in Penzance on St. Patrick's Day, and although it was hardly a wild scene, we did see people walking around the streets wearing tall Guinness hats that looked like the Cat in the Hat's hat, except Guinness colours. They got them by purchasing a certain number of Guinnesses in the pubs. Drinking the Guinness was not required, but I'm sure most did not throw it away! This year is much more toned down. There is an effort to curb binge-drinking in England, and that probably has put a perhaps much-needed damper on St. Paddy's Day celebrations.

For more of today's pictures, you can click here.

*Pronounced with a short “a,” like the crust.
**I may exaggerate just a bit... it's probably growing in my mind by the minute. But definitely big enough for two or three people.
***Hairstyle? I have used that curling iron I bought at Boots exactly one time, and that time was not today.
****Equivalent to a 4.5 mile run. Nice.
*****That was just for effect, as I'm not planning to run tomorrow. I'm hoping to walk the coastal path near St. Ives, if all goes well. Right now the wind is whipping around like a—um—really strong, noisy wind. But the guy in the fish shop said it is supposed to be nice the rest of the week until the weekend. So we shall see.

The long, long road to Penzance

We left Bath early this morning to head south to Penzance. In what most would consider a ridiculous plan, we took the train back to London and then caught the 12:06 to Penzance. The rationale was that it would be easier than taking a train from Bath to Penzance, as all the routes appeared to involve two train changes. With our many bags, we didn't fancy any more train changes than absolutely necessary. With our railpasses, there was no extra cost involved. However, it made for a long day, with an hour and a half on the train from Bath to London, an hour and a half waiting at Paddington Station, then a five-hour trip to Penzance—literally, a full day's travel!

The wait at Paddington wasn't quite as tedious as I expected. With a number of shops, food venues, and even a Starbucks, Paddington Station is a little city unto itself. I amused myself by getting a latte at Starbucks, then picking out sandwiches at the Marks & Spencer food shop to take on the train for our lunch. (Someday I am going to write an entire post on the vast, delicious variety of ready-made sandwiches for sale in England!)

Fortunately, we had made advance seat reservations for the train, as even the first class carriages were fuller than I had seen them. We were able to claim a full four-seat section (three of which were our reserved seats), and my father wandered to the next carriage where he found an unoccupied seat block for himself (we all like to have our space).

The train trip from London to Penzance is quite scenic, through countryside as well as along water. We entertained ourselves by alternating between reading, watching the view, napping, eating our sandwiches, and scoring free diet coke and water from the buffet cart.

Penzance is a seaside town, with a picturesque harbor and steep cobbled streets. Our hotel, the Abbey Hotel, is tucked into one of those streets about the harbor (Abbey Street) and may possibly be a former abbey—at least it has some very churchy-shaped windows! It's now painted a bright Wedgwood blue on the outside and decorated in other vibrant tones. The owner is former '60's model Jean Shrimpton, but her son manages it (so we learned from the chatty assistant manager, Ben).

It's just reopened this month after being closed for renovations. We're staying in “the Suite,” an apartment with an entrance separate from the main hotel building. We have two double bedrooms, a large bathroom, and a very large sitting room with a down-filled sofa and chairs, a big wooden dining table,and a spectacular harbor view. Plus, satellite or cable TV (whatever it takes to get more than four channels). Of course all those channels are hardly a benefit when I have no idea what is on. I've been doing a little channel flipping and have yet to get exceptionally excited—sort of like the channels at home. Hey! I just found Friends! (Also like the channels at home.)

We went to dinner at a rather nice restaurant called the Bakehouse. At first I was very dubious (some might say pissy) because the décor was too nice and the menu seemed too fussy for my taste (my travel taste, which tends to cheap and simple, at least in England). But we stuck it out and I must say the result was a pleasant surprise. They had an early bird menu, from which you can choose either a starter and entree, or entree and pudding (dessert) for a set price of £12. The entree selections were a bit too creamy and carby for my taste, but I settled on smoked mackerel fillets with salad and mustard mash (mashed potatoes, yes, but it's a set menu—what can you do?). And it was really good. Very generous portions, two large pieces of smoky fish and a good-sized scoop of tangy potatoes.

Then we all had dessert as our second course. I am somewhat ashamed to say (considering my criticism of the creamy entrees) that I ordered the ice cream topped with clotted cream. I must add, however, that the meringue with berries and cream that my mother ordered had a much larger dollop of clotted cream on it! (My dad also had the ice cream.) Both puddings were quite delicious.

I'm surprisingly tired for a day in which I did little more than sit on a train. Tired, and kind of full of clotted cream. Once again, the wireless signal is not strong enough to receive in our room, so I am sitting on a chair across from the reception desk, in the rather drafty entry hall to the hotel, not having bothered to bring a coat! The sacrifices I make! I am counting the moments till I am back to our cozy sitting room (and, er, the TV....).

I am too tired to post any more pictures here, but you can see some scenery pictures taken from the train, and some pictures of our hotel "suite," by clicking here.

Today was the Bath Half Marathon (in case you hadn't heard)

The entire day today was devoted to the Half Marathon in Bath. Not just my day—though it was, for sure—but everyone, everything, and everywhere in central Bath was somehow occupied with the race from early this morning until about 3:30 in the afternoon.

The run was supposed to start at 11 am, but at about 10:00 there was an announcement in the starting area that there would be a 30 minute delay, as the police were not done clearing the streets, and so in fact the race would now start at 11:30. This was probably a tremendous relief to the people standing in the porta-potty lines. Not so much for those who had already taken their turn and had to wait a half hour more than expected to start running.*

In my trips to and from the two Starbucks, and trying to do a warm-up run around the nearby streets, everywhere I looked I saw people in running clothes and race bibs, sometimes accompanied by friends dressed in street clothes. The few genuine tourists around, some trailing their rolling suitcases behind them, unaffiliated with runners, probably felt rather bewildered by the mobs surrrounding them on an otherwise unspectacular Sunday morning in Bath.

15,000 people had registered for this run, and by 11:15 they were all congregated in the area around the Pulteney Street start line.

In addition to the 15,000 runners, there appeared to be that many and more people lining the streets of Bath to watch and cheer the runners. Much of the way, and particularly in the the in-town portions of the run, spectators were lined several deep, packing the sidewalks. Even in the most remote portions of the run, which would be the outer parts of the loop at about four miles and nine miles, people were scattered along the road clapping and cheering as we ran by.

The route was configured so that we essential ran the whole thing twice. From the start in Pulteney Street, we followed Pulteney Road then veered into the city center just west of the railway station. We ran around Queen Square (three sides) then west along Upper Bristol Road until it joined with Lower Bristol Road, turning and following Lower Bristol Road back toward town there. Shortly past the 10K point we turned back into the city center, then repeated the Queen Square, Upper and Lower Bristol Road portions. Finally, we stayed on Pulteney Road all the way back to the finish line (same as the start).

After crossing the finish line all the runners were herded along toward a rugby field which is below the Parade Gardens on the river (I think this is the location, I just followed the mob). It took more than half an hour from the time I crossed the finish to make my way out to the street, where I had a very quick walk over to the Abbey Courtyard to meet my parents.

I had told them I would meet them at 2:00. I must have been somewhat prescient, because although I got there at 2:30, when you consider the half hour delayed start, I was right on schedule. Even over by the Abbey, at least every other person I saw was a runner, now wearing a finisher's medal around his or her neck!

My parents were waiting, as directed, on a bench outside the Tourist Information Centre, in the shadow of Bath Abbey.** As a post-race treat, I bought us each an ice cream cone.

After that, all we really wanted to do was go back to the hotel. We headed back toward the railway station, because that was the direction of the hotel. Either we could catch a taxi or start walking uphill from there. The roads which had been closed to traffic were open again now, and apparently everyone in Bath was ready to go somewhere in a taxi. Waiting in line did not seem appealing. (Of course, if you ask my mother, walking up the hill was not in the least appealing either.)

Earlier in the morning I had measured the walking distance from the hotel to the railway station and found it was "only" about 1.1 miles. "Only" 1.1 miles is one thing walking downhill, but quite another going uphill! Still, we plugged along up the hill and actually, my legs didn't feel too bad while I was walking. It was just every time I stopped for a while that they got stiff!

I returned to the hotel a bit past 4:00 and, truly, the whole day had revolved around the half marathon. The only thing left to do was take a shower and head back down to the Bear pub (half a mile from the hotel, per this morning's measurements) for dinner.

Some other pictures from the half-marathon—mostly of other people running, as my parents never managed to spot me—can be viewed here.


*Ninety minutes? That would definitely call for at least one additional potty stop before the start. I personally went four times between 10 and 11 a.m. (it's a running thing, not a bladder infection), each time at Starbucks, with a wait of no more than four persons ahead of me each time. No porta-potties for me! (I noted that every time I passed the large banks of porta-potties, they had very, very long lines.)

**That is a figurative expression. The sun was still out and there was no shadow in our direction.

I really don't like other people

I know that sounds bad. If that were completely true, I would be a misanthrope. (I wanted to throw that word out there because I spent some effort finding it.)

There are a lot of people I do like—my friends, family (most of the time), the people I work with and see at work—that makes dozens, maybe hundred(s) of people who don't drive me crazy (or who I am willing to tolerate even when they do). I am willing to consider that there are people out there who I don't know, but might meet in future, that I will also like. So no, I do not hate all humankind.

However, I do hate people en masse. In crowds. In airplanes and train carriages and department stores with sales. And most of all, in my pictures!*

My entire objective in travel photography is to take pictures of sights populated with absolutely no extraneous people. No crowds massing around a fountain or heads bobbing in front of a cathedral or, worst of all, bystanders in a garden scene.** I know it's unnatural, but I prefer my pictures to look like postcards.

I think I wouldn't mind having people in my photos if people weren't generally so unattractive. Really, there are some amazing ugly people walking around in the world. Especially in foreign countries. Especially in tourist locations.*** Or in London, generally.

Let me fine tune this a little more. I have forced myself to tolerate people, even crowds, in the background of my photos. I really have no control over that, although I have minimized it by traveling when others choose not to, e.g. during the foot and mouth scare in England (early summer 2001), right after 9/11 (autumn 2001), at the peak of the unfavorable pound/dollar exchange rate (2006 & 2007) and during a major recession when nobody can afford to travel despite a vastly improved exchange rate (right now).

Sometimes, dare I say, a few people in the distant background even add to the ambience of a picture. I am thinking fondly of a favorite picture from Barnsley House and Garden in 2001, when the garden was still owned by the Rosemary Verey family and was open to the public, where the other visitors strolling about gave the impression of a garden party.

No, it's the odd person or pair who walks right into the middle of your carefully composed shot just at the moment everyone else has cleared away, who makes me want to tear out my hair by the roots. At Piccadilly Circus the other day, a man was just standing idly in front of my mother while she was clearly pointing the camera in my direction. Today, while I was taking a picture at Sally Lunn's (and clearing that space was a task, everyone wanted to go in to eat), a bald man persisted in standing in front of the otherwise deserted shop window, studying the menu, if you can imagine that! The absolute nerve of him!

You can, if you would like, have a look at my pictures from Bath today. There aren't too many, not so much because of the people around, but because I have been to Bath so many times I have less of a compulsion to take pictures here.

While I am confessing my anti-social tendencies, I will also admit that I like riding in first class on the train because, in addition to the nicer seats and free refreshments, there are very few people and no children in the first class carriages. Much calmer and quieter! And, although I enjoyed sitting with my laptop in the pub this afternoon, I was happy to leave in the evening when it became crowded and noisy, and retreat to our peaceful B&B. I am, I confess, an unapologetic introvert!****


To read today's running post, click here.


*Excluding people who I choose to put in my pictures.

**My temper tantrum while trying to photograph the Queen's Rose Garden at Sudeley Castle in 2001 is legendary. Well, I remember it well. But I was patient and eventually I got some beautiful shots sans people!

***I know I'm not one to talk. On this trip I have been devoting all of 20 minutes to getting ready in the morning, have basically abandoned my hair altogether (although I did buy a curling iron at Boots today), and spend all my time in either an LL Bean Gortex or Polartec jacket, depending on the temperature. I'm sure no one's exactly excited to see me wandering through their view finders!

****I might add, I talk to tons of people every day at work. That probably also contributes to my joy in solitude.