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.