Thursday, July 13, 2023

I could have sworn that check-out time was 11, but when I look again at 9:55, it says that it’s 10. We start packing in a frenzy, washing the dishes still in the sink, getting everything straightened out, checking to make sure that we didn’t leave anything behind. Turns out that we can move pretty fast when there’s an urgent time crunch. We’re ready to go within fifteen minutes. At least we’re early for our train!

We get to Paddington with nearly two hours to spare until our train to Penzance leaves. I’ve just finished the last book I brought with me, which means I am entirely justified in buying a new one. And by one, I mean two: The Unlikely Pilgrimage of Harold Fry by Rachel Joyce and The Essex Serpent by Sarah Perry. Both of them are set in England. I like getting books set in the place I’m in while traveling. I feel like it gives me context or something.

We go on a bit of a Paddington Bear quest after that. Did you know there’s a whole store with nothing but Paddington gear at the station? Now you do. There’s also a Paddington statue in the station. Mom and I take photos with it. We love Paddington Bear. I think this whole country does. He’s wholesome and adorable and part of the fabric of English society. 

We board our train when the platform is announced, and I am immediately sweltering. The carriage is totally full, and several people ask the attendants if there’s air. I guess they’re having some kind of issue with it, and other carriages’ AC is working, but not this one? Naturally. The one time I have reserved seats. I’m also wearing my mushroom dungarees, which are decidedly not hot weather clothes. It gets a little better when the train starts moving, but there’s also a kid a couple of rows back who will not shut up. He’s just babbling, trying to get his mom’s attention, talking about the game he’s playing. Look, kid, I’m happy you’re happy and engaged and not just staring at your mom’s phone, but can you be engaged quietly? 

I eat my silly little wrap I got from Pret (naturally) and drink my silly little Coke Zero and try to calm down. I try to write, fail. Try to listen to music, fail. Nap time it is. I sleep for a bit, then wake up and take in the scenery as we get farther and farther out of London and into the countryside. It’s like a breath of fresh air (ah, fresh air, remember what that feels like?) to escape the urban sprawl. I think I just have to accept that I will never be a city person. They’re fun to visit, but I don’t think I could do it all the time. Just seeing green outside the windows of this train makes me feel like I’m heading in the right direction.

While I’m suffering, Mom is just placidly reading her book. “How are you not hot?” I ask. She just looks at me. “I’m perfectly comfortable.” She’s always been like that, though. My father and I can’t stand the heat, but my mother loves it. She could sit outside in the sun all day with a book and be totally content. Meanwhile, I’m dripping sweat down my back and rolling up the cuffs of my dungarees as far as they will go. It doesn’t help. Five hours of this! England, I’m glad you have a train network and it’s so much easier to get around here than at home, but please, for the love of all things holy, can you maybe let functional AC into your heart? 

We pass through Devon, rolling green and seaside towns. Then we cross over the enormous bridge over the River Tamar. A sign reads “Welcome to Cornwall,” and then its equivalent in Cornish. As far as I understand, not many people speak Cornish as a first language anymore, but there’s been a revival since the beginning of the 20th century, and it’s being taught as a second language in some places. I’ve loved seeing all the signs in regional languages on this trip – Irish in Ireland (but not in Northern Ireland, for obvious reasons), Scottish Gaelic in Scotland (related to Irish Gaelic but not the same), and now Cornish here.

The carriage empties out progressively as we get closer to Penzance and people exit at their respective stations. Then we’re right on the coast again, and through the tall beach grasses we can see the castle atop St. Michael’s Mount in the bay near Penzance. We’ve made it! The train finally pulls into the station and I leap off the train into the salty wind-whipped air of coastal Cornwall. Land. Air! I’ve missed you.

The train’s a little late in arriving, so we miss the 5:30 bus to Mousehole (pronounced “Mowzle”), where we’re staying for the next four nights. We take a little walk along one of the main streets in Penzance and then go back to catch the bus. It’s a short trip, working its way first through the town center of Penzance, then the large adjacent town of Newlyn, and finally down the narrow, winding coastal road towards Mousehole. The driver lets us out right at the harbor, and suddenly, there it is: what I’ve been looking at for months in photos. The Mousehole Harbour. It’s a kind of semicircle with a sandy beach punctuated by tethered boats, stranded in the sand at low tide. The town clings to the hills behind the harbor, little gray-bricked and slate-shingled homes in a tangle. It’s adorable. I’m in love. 

We make our way towards our airbnb, which is called Dormouse, because all the little cottages here have names rather than street numbers. It’s so small that you don’t even really need the street numbers if you know the name. It’s a bit of a challenge to find it, though, because there’s no cell service here so Google maps is useless. I switch off my internet-dependent brain and read through the instructions from our host that I’ve saved as a screenshot, and it works. We go up a tiny little alley and arrive at our cozy little nook for the next four days.

We open the door and immediately gasp. It’s a small but thoughtfully designed space, with steps leading down to the cottage and up into each room, and it is the tiniest, coziest little place you can imagine. All the walls are painted white, which makes it seem bigger than it is, and a huge wall of windows in the living room opens out toa beautiful, colorful garden. Our host, Steve, his wife (I’m assuming), Tanya, and their son Charlie are out there. They wave, and then he opens our living room window further and we talk through it. He welcomes us, tells us a bit about the space, and lets us know that if we need anything they’re just next door. 

Along with that, they’ve left a personalized note on a chalkboard, a card, and a plate of freshly baked scones with jam and Cornish cream in the fridge. Devon and Cornwall are a bit at odds with how to eat scones with jam and cream. In Devon the cream goes first, but in Cornwall, the jam goes first. Obviously, since we’re in Cornwall, I eat mine jam-first. It’s delicious.

We take a minute to settle in and then head out in search of dinner before everything closes at 9. There’s more here than I thought there would be, to be honest, and we wind up at the Mousehole Restaurant and Deli. Upstairs is the restaurant, and downstairs is the deli. Up at the restaurant, we order some delicious seafood: mom gets lobster, and I get an appetizer with fried shellfish and a Cornish rose petal cider. 

After dinner we walk along the harbor towards the rock pool. It’s a popular spot during the day, but in the evening, there’s no one around. There’s seaweed and snails and all sorts of little shellfish creatures clung to the walls of the pool. The waves crash to the rocks just beyond, and seagulls cry constantly ahead. I look for a seal in the waves but, finding none, I just stare out into the water. 

I take deep lungfuls of the salty air and feel as though I might either float away or disappear, dissolved into rock and water. I’m reminded of how Mash described the Outer Hebrides, where he’s now hiking in Scotland, as “thin.” It both feels like you are there and like you are not, like you’re imagining it at the same time you’re living it. This place is a little more populated than those islands, but I suddenly find that I can understand the sentiment. Close your eyes, and all you can hear is waves and gulls. Breathe, and there’s only salt, pungent. No wonder so many people come to Cornwall. I could let this place consume me, if I wanted. I feel a weird ability to let everything go. For a moment, I want nothing. I cease to exist. 

And then it’s late, and I’m tired, and I am, frustratingly, in a body that has needs. Dormouse is cozy when we return, and the cup of tea tastes divine, and I pretend that I live here in this cottage by the sea.