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davywavyWhen the she-David and I go on holiday, we have a deal by which I arrange the accommodation and she arranges a car or similar transport so we can get about. The way this works out means that usually we end up staying somewhere jolly nice with a four poster bed, spa bath and complimentary chocolates, and then after no more than several days of fannying about we end up with a car with only three gears that makes noises like Chitty Chitty Bang Bang. I have a theory that she does this in the hope that I'll take over the travel arrangements as well, but I bear the indignity with stoicism and continue to insist she does at least some of the work.
Anyway, whilst spending some time in Cornwall a few weeks ago we drove all over the place* visiting the Eden Project (pretty cool, but you don't need to visit it twice) and a selection of beaches, castles and the like and, one lunchtime, we found ourselves at St Michael's Mount right down towards the very tip of the county. It's a delightful place; a long sandy beach leading to a rocky hill which rears out of the sea just offshore like a giant stone knocker with a castle on top. It has that air of age and quiet contemplation of the sort which people who think their cat is psychic insist makes it magical, although speaking personally whilst I happen to agree with The Levellers saying they like to walk in ancient places I'd much rather do it when there's no hippies about.
Anyway, we spent a few hours wandering over the hill and the castle and the beach and generally having a lovely time, and, as we were getting back into the car to leave, I pointed at a sign. "Gosh", I said. "It's only twelve miles to Lands End. We should go."
Now I have to admit to having been slightly disingenuous. I knew that St Michaels Mount was only twelve miles from Lands End when I suggested we went, but I also knew my chauffeur wouldn't want to go there: however, I did know she would like to visit a lovely castle with a tea room on top of a rocky hill shaped like a knocker. I, on the other hand, whilst being as enamoured of castle-tea room-rocky knocker hills as the next man, also really wanted to go to Lands End.
You see, I remembered from a few years ago reading a story about how a private investor had outbid the National Trust to buy the place, and i was quite keen to see how they were trying to recoup their investment - millions, no less - from a place which is by very definition in the middle of nowhere with nothing to do. I was hoping for lowest common denominator, and boy I wasn't disappointed.
Anyway, after a certain amount of to-ing and fro-ing of the "It's a long way to go" "It's only 12 miles away it'd be a shame not to go now we've come this far" sort off to Land's End we went. We drove down increasingly narrow and windy roads and past increasingly hopeful-sounding 'last ... in England' establishments (the last pub, the last chip shop, the last hairdressers, the last public convenience, that sort of thing) before arriving at a car park stuck on a rocky bluff. I got out and joined a line of angry-looking customers who were queuing for a pay and display machine which, upon inspection, said that parking was about £2 and it didn't give change or take pound coins. I knew right then I was right to come.
Land's End itself is a rather lovely place. It has a bleak majesty of grey stone and tough, windswept grass and as you look out over the last few rocks and dotted islets and think that there's nothing between you and the Americas but endless grey water, a few seagulls and Ritchie Edwards' floating body it inspires a certain introspection. A quietness settles on the spirit, and you can understand why holy men in ages past settled there (they did too). And then, plonked right on the end of Britain and leaving only about thirty feet of actual cliff for you to stand and get all introspective on, is a whopping great hotel and visitor experience centre crammed with shops like Tatland and World of Shoddy. There was a '4d interactive pirate adventure', but my charming lady companion flatly drew the line at going in. I loved it instantly. I was only disappointed there wasn't an amusement arcade. The hotel itself was a masterpiece of early 1980s three-star design, with great dark windows from the bedrooms staring out over the empty wilderness of the sea. If I ever fancy becoming an alcoholic, I reckon taking one of their seaview suites in about late November would just about tip me over the edge.
There were some vague concessions to civilisation; a small nature reserve with animal petting paddocks (but no animals), a small art gallery and shop (closed, but they had a cat) and a few visitor guide boards describing the stone- and iron-age remains which have been found at the site. The rest is delightfully designed to slurp money out of the pockets of people who've just driven for hours to visit a bleak and rocky promontory whose only notable feature is that it's the last bleak and rocky promontory, and who having got there feel they ought to buy something. People like me, in fact. I bought some fudge.
I'd've liked to have stayed longer and revelled in the delight of cheap tourist attractions. On the other hand, the she-David just wanted to say goodbye to the art gallery cat and she was carrying a tyre iron; so after another round of BANG-chkka, this time of her whalloping me round the head for having dragged her all that way to look at a cheap hotel, we went home.
*With a constant Bang-chkka BANG-chkka from the car, which was either the engine or the she-David changing gear.
Anyway, whilst spending some time in Cornwall a few weeks ago we drove all over the place* visiting the Eden Project (pretty cool, but you don't need to visit it twice) and a selection of beaches, castles and the like and, one lunchtime, we found ourselves at St Michael's Mount right down towards the very tip of the county. It's a delightful place; a long sandy beach leading to a rocky hill which rears out of the sea just offshore like a giant stone knocker with a castle on top. It has that air of age and quiet contemplation of the sort which people who think their cat is psychic insist makes it magical, although speaking personally whilst I happen to agree with The Levellers saying they like to walk in ancient places I'd much rather do it when there's no hippies about.
Anyway, we spent a few hours wandering over the hill and the castle and the beach and generally having a lovely time, and, as we were getting back into the car to leave, I pointed at a sign. "Gosh", I said. "It's only twelve miles to Lands End. We should go."
Now I have to admit to having been slightly disingenuous. I knew that St Michaels Mount was only twelve miles from Lands End when I suggested we went, but I also knew my chauffeur wouldn't want to go there: however, I did know she would like to visit a lovely castle with a tea room on top of a rocky hill shaped like a knocker. I, on the other hand, whilst being as enamoured of castle-tea room-rocky knocker hills as the next man, also really wanted to go to Lands End.
You see, I remembered from a few years ago reading a story about how a private investor had outbid the National Trust to buy the place, and i was quite keen to see how they were trying to recoup their investment - millions, no less - from a place which is by very definition in the middle of nowhere with nothing to do. I was hoping for lowest common denominator, and boy I wasn't disappointed.
Anyway, after a certain amount of to-ing and fro-ing of the "It's a long way to go" "It's only 12 miles away it'd be a shame not to go now we've come this far" sort off to Land's End we went. We drove down increasingly narrow and windy roads and past increasingly hopeful-sounding 'last ... in England' establishments (the last pub, the last chip shop, the last hairdressers, the last public convenience, that sort of thing) before arriving at a car park stuck on a rocky bluff. I got out and joined a line of angry-looking customers who were queuing for a pay and display machine which, upon inspection, said that parking was about £2 and it didn't give change or take pound coins. I knew right then I was right to come.
Land's End itself is a rather lovely place. It has a bleak majesty of grey stone and tough, windswept grass and as you look out over the last few rocks and dotted islets and think that there's nothing between you and the Americas but endless grey water, a few seagulls and Ritchie Edwards' floating body it inspires a certain introspection. A quietness settles on the spirit, and you can understand why holy men in ages past settled there (they did too). And then, plonked right on the end of Britain and leaving only about thirty feet of actual cliff for you to stand and get all introspective on, is a whopping great hotel and visitor experience centre crammed with shops like Tatland and World of Shoddy. There was a '4d interactive pirate adventure', but my charming lady companion flatly drew the line at going in. I loved it instantly. I was only disappointed there wasn't an amusement arcade. The hotel itself was a masterpiece of early 1980s three-star design, with great dark windows from the bedrooms staring out over the empty wilderness of the sea. If I ever fancy becoming an alcoholic, I reckon taking one of their seaview suites in about late November would just about tip me over the edge.
There were some vague concessions to civilisation; a small nature reserve with animal petting paddocks (but no animals), a small art gallery and shop (closed, but they had a cat) and a few visitor guide boards describing the stone- and iron-age remains which have been found at the site. The rest is delightfully designed to slurp money out of the pockets of people who've just driven for hours to visit a bleak and rocky promontory whose only notable feature is that it's the last bleak and rocky promontory, and who having got there feel they ought to buy something. People like me, in fact. I bought some fudge.
I'd've liked to have stayed longer and revelled in the delight of cheap tourist attractions. On the other hand, the she-David just wanted to say goodbye to the art gallery cat and she was carrying a tyre iron; so after another round of BANG-chkka, this time of her whalloping me round the head for having dragged her all that way to look at a cheap hotel, we went home.
*With a constant Bang-chkka BANG-chkka from the car, which was either the engine or the she-David changing gear.
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I can see it now...
Date: 2011-07-06 02:28 pm (UTC)Re: I can see it now...
Date: 2011-07-06 02:35 pm (UTC)Re: I can see it now...
Date: 2011-07-07 03:52 pm (UTC)