I blog when I go abroad, and occasionally when I do stuff in the UK too. There's a nicer interface over here.

Tuesday, March 10, 2009

In the bleak mid, err, spring

Well, come on, what else were they going to feed us?

My pasty was cheese and onion. I could instead have chosen steak, but cheese is the cheese. I was over the moon at having been fed the perfect "welcome to Cornwall" nosh. In fact, I figure eating a pasty counts as tourism. But I guess the main part of our tourism for the weekend started after the two girls got back from their Saturday jobs. Time for the beach!

I love English beaches, but not so much in hot and sunny weather. Yes, I'm a bit odd, but I find something really intriguing and attractive about a bleak and miserable seaside town with few souls out. An unseasonably shitty day in the middle of the school holidays doesn't count because there are still loads of people about, hiding from the weather and taking up all the space in the boozers/arcades/etc. That's bollocks. I've been on holiday to the Isle of Wight in November -- I like towns where it's hard to find accomodation because most of the B&Bs aren't operating, when the locals are in the majority and the wind and clouds give the sea a foreboding look.

Last Saturday was just like that. The weather was bloody awful. It was blowing a gale and freezing cold. Nonetheless the 8 of us headed to the beach, even taking a football, and walked up to the sea. We were at Perranporth, on the North Cornish coast, and it has a huge expansive beach -- especially so with the tide out. It also has a seawater swimming pool, similar to those I've seen in the beach suburbs of Sydney, only annexed to a big fuck off rock with the Cornish flag flying from it rather than a bit of a cliff as in Oz.

Christ it was windy. And cold. I could barely feel my hands as I was taking photos. Perhaps I should have been a bit more active, taken a few kicks of the ball, though that was soon given over to a couple of dogs anyway. While we were at the rock Jack had kicked the ball into the path of the mutts, who decided it was their favourite toy ever. Delivering it to their owner (rather than the ball's), they dropped it and waited for a hoof, purely so they could peg after it, play, and run back to start it again. Much like this.

Dogs are great like that. Every day's their favourite day ever and every game's the best game they've ever played. These two fucking loved that ball, so much so that the owner eventually bought the ball from Jack for whatever change he had in his pocket. Win!

Game over, and with the weather starting to piss me off let alone the teenagers, we all repaired to the pub. It's called The Watering Hole, and is directly on the beach. Not opening out to the beach but with a road behind or aside it, but entirely and fully on the beach. The only way to get to it is over the sand. Again, win. We picked our seats (there was a lot of choice, even for an 8-strong party) and got some drinks in. I had an Erdinger, my first alcohol since the stomach incident. By 'eck it were lovely -- so much so that I had a second while we ate. Kate and Simon treated us to dinner which was awesome of them. I picked fish and chips -- pollock, because they're concerned about cod stocks, apparently.

Actually, I'll dwell on this for a tiny bit. Can most people really tell the difference in taste between types of fish? I'm not going to include scampi or anchovy in this, but yer other common types: cod, haddock, plaice, pollock. They all taste pretty much the same to me. Am I strange?

Fish, chips, and beer over, we headed back across the by now dark beach and to the car. The journey back to Bodmin was filled with a cheerful conversation about Nazi race theories and eugenics. The young 'uns didn't join in too much with that one.

Back at the house and out came Scattergories. What a game that is! And how distressingly difficult I found it :-(

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