Disclaimer
This article contains Cornwall, unexpected rain, questionable nutritional decisions, extinct reptiles, seals doing absolutely nothing productive and a piece of technology so ancient that it required explaining to an eight-year-old. No Upper GI emergencies occurred during the production of this holiday, although replacing lunch with cream tea, cake and ice cream probably deserves some form of clinical governance review.
After our German visitors had departed and peace had briefly returned to the Richardt household, you might have assumed that we would spend a few quiet days at home.
Perhaps do some washing.
Maybe tidy the house.
Possibly even sit down.
Obviously not.
My wife had, on relatively short notice, booked us a few days in Cornwall.
Now, under normal circumstances, I am very supportive of spontaneous family holidays. Cornwall is beautiful, it isn’t too far away, and getting away for a few days before returning to the NHS coalface sounded perfectly reasonable.
There was, however, a minor scheduling issue.
The holiday comprehensively screwed up my carefully constructed plan to attend the surgical BBQ at one of my consultants’ houses.
More importantly — at least according to the junior member of the household — it also ruined our son’s plan to attend one of his schoolmates’ birthday parties.
Two social engagements destroyed in a single booking.
Efficient.
Still, these things can’t be helped. The accommodation was booked, Cornwall wasn’t going to move itself closer to Somerset, and on Thursday morning we packed the car and headed south.
The Scenic Route
Our destination was The Lizard.
Well, near The Lizard.
More specifically, about two minutes away from Kynance Cove, which is considerably more useful information when you are actually trying to find your accommodation.
Rather than simply driving there in the most efficient possible manner, we decided to take the scenic route via Falmouth and the King Harry Ferry, crossing the River Fal.
There is something wonderfully old-fashioned about putting your car onto a little ferry rather than simply following Google Maps around another section of the A-road network.
You drive aboard.
The ferry moves across the water.
You drive off again.
It’s essentially public transport for cars.
Our first proper stop was St Mawes Castle, positioned on the eastern side of the Fal estuary.
St Mawes was built during the reign of Henry VIII, largely between 1539 and 1545, as part of the King’s programme of coastal fortifications. England was worried about invasion from Catholic powers in continental Europe, particularly France and Spain, and Henry responded in the traditional governmental manner:
Build things.
Lots of things.
Preferably things containing cannons.
St Mawes worked alongside the much larger Pendennis Castle on the opposite side of the water. Together, the two fortifications guarded the entrance to Carrick Roads and the important anchorage around Falmouth.
Basically, if an unfriendly European fleet fancied sailing up the Fal, Henry VIII wanted somebody on either side of the river capable of making the journey considerably less enjoyable.
The castle itself has an unusual three-lobed design, rather like someone asked Tudor military engineers to combine a fortress with a cloverleaf.
Today, it is looked after by English Heritage.
Which presented us with another minor administrative problem.
We are National Trust members.
Our National Trust membership therefore had precisely the same value at the entrance to St Mawes Castle as my Tesco Clubcard.
English Heritage territory.
Different historical subscription service.
So we paid.
Was St Mawes Castle spectacular?
Not particularly.
It was interesting enough, but once you have seen several British castles, your standards become worryingly high.
“Yes, yes, Henry VIII, cannons, invasion, very nice — where’s the massive tower?”
What St Mawes does have, however, are fantastic views across the River Fal towards Pendennis and the surrounding coastline.
Unfortunately, while admiring those views, something deeply concerning started happening.
It rained.
Actual rain.
Water falling from the sky.
This is something we have not witnessed particularly frequently during this British summer.
After weeks of sunshine, heat and increasingly yellow grass across Britain and large parts of Europe, the clouds finally opened.
Luckily, civilisation survived.
The rain lasted for around two hours.
It also appeared to make absolutely no difference whatsoever to the countryside. The grass absorbed the entire event and remained approximately the colour and texture of Weetabix.
Welcome to the Cowshed
After visiting the castle, we returned across the Fal using the King Harry Ferry again and continued towards The Lizard.
We finally arrived at our accommodation at around 6pm.
We were staying in a converted cow shed.
How did we know it had once been a cow shed?
Was it the architecture?
The exposed stone?
The dimensions of the building?
Some detailed archaeological investigation?
No.
It was called Cowshed Cottage.
The clue was relatively strong.
The cottage was rustic and simple, but perfectly adequate. It had a kitchen, a shower and a television.
It also had something else.
A DVD player.
Our son looked at it.
We looked at him.
Eventually it became apparent that some explanation would be required.
For younger readers — or apparently anyone born after broadband became a basic human right — a DVD was a shiny circular object containing a film. You physically inserted it into a machine attached to the television and then watched whatever was on that particular disc.
There was no streaming.
No Netflix.
No scrolling through 4,000 films for forty minutes before eventually deciding to watch nothing.
You owned the film.
On a disc.
And sometimes it scratched.
Our son was born in 2017, which means he belongs to Generation Alpha, the generation generally considered to follow Generation Z.
Generational boundaries vary depending on who you ask, but broadly speaking the modern family tree looks something like this: Baby Boomers were born after the Second World War, roughly 1946–1964; Generation X followed from around the mid-1960s to 1980; Millennials, or Generation Y, arrived approximately between 1981 and the mid-1990s; Generation Z followed from the late 1990s into the early 2010s; and Generation Alpha covers children born from roughly 2010 onwards.
Therefore our son is firmly Generation Alpha.
In technological terms, this means DVDs are essentially historical artefacts.
I suspect explaining VHS tapes would require a PowerPoint presentation.
A Surprisingly Lazy Day
The following morning we drove the enormous distance of approximately two minutes to Kynance Cove.
If you have never been, Kynance Cove is one of those places that looks slightly too picturesque to be real.
Clear turquoise water.
Rock formations.
Cliffs.
Small beaches tucked between them.
Essentially Cornwall showing off.
Normally, when we visit somewhere, we operate a relatively efficient tourism model.
Arrive.
See attraction.
Take photos.
Consume food.
Move on.
We are not particularly good at spending an entire day doing very little.
Yet at Kynance Cove that is essentially what happened.
Our son loved it.
He played around the beach, explored the rocks and generally demonstrated that perhaps holidays do not always require an itinerary containing six attractions and a timed parking ticket.
So we stayed for most of the day.
A proper beach day.
This may not sound revolutionary to most families, but for us it practically constituted an experimental lifestyle intervention.
And it was lovely.
If you are ever visiting Cornwall, Kynance Cove is absolutely worth seeing.
Preferably when the tide permits access to a reasonable amount of beach.
And preferably without attempting to complete three other attractions before dinner.
£13? For Transport? In Britain?
The following day we drove to St Erth.
We have passed through St Erth multiple times on previous trips to Cornwall but had never had any particular reason to stop there.
This time my wife had done some research and discovered that you can leave the car at St Erth and take the train into St Ives.
This turned out to be one of her better logistical discoveries.
Parking plus return train tickets for the three of us came to just over £13.
£13.
For parking.
And trains.
For three people.
In Britain.
I briefly considered informing the authorities because clearly somebody had made an accounting error.
For comparison, Musgrove Park Hospital charges around £17 once you’ve parked for more than four hours.
Admittedly, Musgrove does offer additional attractions for your money.
CT scanners.
Operating theatres.
Occasional pigeons.
Still, £13 to park and take the train into St Ives felt almost suspiciously reasonable.
Seal Watching
Once in St Ives, we had arranged a boat trip out towards the nearby lighthouse and the rocks where seals regularly haul themselves out of the sea.
The boat trip was excellent.
Our guide was extremely knowledgeable and, importantly, actually worked with one of the local conservation organisations.
This meant the commentary contained rather more substance than:
“There’s another seal.”
We learned about the local marine environment, conservation work and the animals living around that part of the Cornish coast.
The seals themselves appeared completely unconcerned by our presence.
Most were lying on rocks.
Sleeping.
Resting.
Occasionally opening an eye.
Essentially doing exactly what I had originally hoped to do during my annual leave.
After returning to St Ives, we required lunch.
Unfortunately, we were also operating under time constraints and didn’t particularly want to spend an hour sitting in a restaurant.
And, to be fair, the traditional Cornish fish-and-chips routine was becoming slightly repetitive.
So we improvised.
Lunch consisted of various combinations of cake, cream tea and ice cream.
Nutritionally questionable?
Certainly.
Enjoyable?
Absolutely.
And technically there was fruit involved somewhere.
Probably in the jam.
From a gastrointestinal perspective, this meal cannot be formally recommended.
From a holiday perspective, however, it worked perfectly.
Dinosaurs Before Reality
By Sunday morning, the holiday was already coming to an end.
I had to be back at work on Monday, and our son had a Grade 3 tennis tournament waiting for him in Taunton.
Because obviously returning home and resting would have been far too straightforward.
Instead, we stopped at the Eden Project on the way back.
We have been to Eden before, but there is always something new happening and this time they were running a dinosaur trail alongside a dinosaur show.
Naturally, this meant two things.
The dinosaur show had to be watched.
And the entire trail had to be completed.
There was no possibility whatsoever that we could walk past a dinosaur-related activity while travelling with an eight-year-old.
So we spent most of Sunday at Eden, wandering around the biomes, searching for dinosaurs and temporarily pretending that Monday morning did not exist.
Eventually, however, reality began making increasingly threatening noises.
We drove back to Taunton and arrived home at around 6.30pm.
Waiting for us was Whisker, who had been extremely well looked after by our neighbours while we were away.
Their two children adore him, so I suspect Whisker viewed our holiday less as abandonment and more as an opportunity to temporarily move into accommodation with superior levels of attention.
He appeared pleased to see us.
Although, being a cat, he carefully ensured that this enthusiasm remained sufficiently ambiguous.
And that was it.
Our short Cornish adventure was over.
In just a few days we had managed a Tudor castle, two ferry crossings, unexpected British rain, a converted cowshed, Kynance Cove, St Ives, seals, cream tea masquerading as lunch, dinosaurs and a practical demonstration of twentieth-century optical-disc technology.
Then Monday arrived.
The holiday disappeared.
The hospital returned.
Normality resumed.
Well.
Normality in our household is perhaps stretching the definition slightly.
Because while I was returning to the daily routine at Musgrove, my wife had another challenge to deal with.
Our son’s Grade 3 tennis tournament in Taunton.
And judging by the information I subsequently received, “challenge” might be the polite description.
More about that in the next entry.
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