Despondent

I am sitting in the rain in the Memorial Gardens which have been erected in the place where nineteen people were killed by a bomb in WW2. Why did they bomb Penryn? On the other hand, why not? And why not make a proper job of it? Penryn is shut today but the lady in the pharmacy says it’s generally quiet. Apparently, everyone’s gone to a cow fair some two miles hence which is the annual away-day. There’s nothing to eat in this town. Not a solitary pasty.

I feel I could be out of my depth and too old for this accommodation-seeking business. I may have been lead into a false sense of security by my foray into the south of France a couple of years ago. There, I hadn’t seen any of the accommodation I subsequently inhabited before I arrived but even the least desirable of those temporary homes failed to match what’s on offer in Cornwall. Rosie has a waterside apartment. Its defining feature is that it’s waterside which is pretty meaningless if you live on the edge of Poole Harbour. The euphemistically named apartment, which is not inexpensive, contains not so much as a cup. No cutlery, no crockery and two little hot plates on which to cook. There is no washing line as washing is, in these environs, unsightly.

Meanwhile, Barry is laughing. I’d laugh if I lived in his house which is stunning. His selling point is the garden which is green and lush and has old roses clambering over the back wall. I know I’m on a loser when he asks if I want peppermint tea or roobosh. I don’t know what roobosh is or how to spell it. With regard to my suitability interview, there are two questions: firstly, do I play a musical instrument? I ask whether this is compulsory. Apparently, he’s looking for someone to jam with. The other enquiry was am I a non-smoker? I have failed on both counts. As a default question, clearly an afterthought, I am asked whether I could bring any cups with me. Given the previous experience, I surmise that a) everything hinges on the outdoors and b) there is no crockery in Penryn. Barry thinks he might sail across the Pacific for something to do. I think I might go and buy a glass of wine for something to do.

Later, I’m sat outside the pub in Falmouth overlooking the bay. A man with a giant blue plastic dolphin rubbish bin walks across the rain-sodden beach. Last year, it was a Roman centurion. Holiday-makers, dressed for a journey in the footsteps of Ernest Shackleton, drag themselves to the evening seashore and look out gloomily wondering when they can go home. They may be gone for some time.

When I visit my son in Swansea, I always have a feeling of regained security once I get this side of the Bridge. On my return from Cornwall, I feel much the same having passed Exeter. It doesn’t bode too well.

On my way

Off to the peninsular on Monday to look at some potential accommodation. I have chosen a mixed bag: a couple of lodgings and a waterfront appartment which will probably be way out of my budget but the Irish landlady sounds lovely. My favourite, thus far, is a house share with a lecturer. His selling point is the garden which, apparently, is home to slow worms, owls and wild roses. He doesn't possess a television....good news...but does own a projector for his regular film nights. Hmmmm. He also has a washing machine and wifi internet, these two being top of my list of priorities. I have fingers crossed which makes typing tricky.

How difficult will it be to live with other unknown folk after so long? Discussing this with friends at the writers' circle the other evening, I was a) taken aback by someone asking why I wasn't looking for alternative employment in such economically straightened times and b) much relieved by the interruption of another saying 'but, it's an adventure'. Carpe Diem and all that jazz

Developments

Two entries in one day......this can't continue. Falmouth, it appears, is full of very nice people who don't really want to rent out their properties. Carolyn has written to offer me B & B for £840 a month which is at an allegedly reduced rate. There is a possibility of a 'proper' breakfast for another £35 a week. So, that's a non-starter. Alec, who is extremely personable, apart from the fact that he keeps calling me 'kid' and lives in Nottingham, wanted me to stay in his house but only for eleven months. Easter is not, apparently, financially viable. He recommended Vicky from down the road. Vicky claimed not to have heard from Alec for six years and said, enigmatically, that things had changed. I think she was sulking about Alec. Vicky might phone me at the weekend if she decides whether to rent out her spare room. Then there is Rosalee. Rosalee owns what sounds like the ideal self-contained appartment over-looking the estuary. It's more than I'd anticipated paying but sounds and looks wonderful and all bills are included. However, because it is so wonderful, Rosalee isn't sure that she wants people living in it. Poor people: they obviously need an income but wish they didn't. They don't want children, DSS, undergraduates, smokers or anyone that might foul the sheets. In fact, they want you to bring your own sheets. I have made some enquiries about caravans.

In the beginning

I've just parted with money! The deposit for my Masters has been paid today so there's no turning back. All I have to do now is find somewhere to live in the depths of Cornwall. I've joined a Facebook group full of others all desperately seeking something. Sadly, they are, as one would expect, about three hundred years younger than me. I doubt many have spent the last three years living alone in the Twilight Zone. I doubt any want to avoid the party scene either. I've written to all sorts of people who want to let all sorts of rooms but have only received one reply. This new blog will form the record of how my new life progresses. Fingers crossed.