In the kernow

To quote Spike Milligan;

The Spring has sprung, the sap is riz.
I wonder where the boidies is?
They say the boid is on the wing.
But that's absoid.
The wing is on the boid.

There's a soupçon of sunlight flickering its sedentary way through the atmosphere here in my bit of Eng-er-land, and it reminds me that it's March. Always feels like the year is well underway by now, and that Summer is not far off and camping and hiking are distinct possibilities.

We went for a yomp down to Land's End last year (or was it the year before? Answers on a postcard please to the usual address: The Gravel Farm, c/o The Internet).

Cornwall is a deceptively long way away for British people, who generally think they ought to consider a B&B if travelling over a hundred miles away. By the time you get to Bristol, you think you're nearly there, but you're not. It's still a good few hours on, so it really is a good idea to consider a hotel, or take a tent. It also explains the infuriatingly high numbers of caravans on the road, as humans decide they'd better make like snails and slowly carry their homes around with them at a pace more familiar to geologists studying plate tectonics. One must do battle with these road-blocking creatures, avoiding eye-contact lest they offer you some Camp Coffee or proudly show you their toilet with all blue water in it. Eventually you'll make it.

And it's completely worth it. I'm not going to show you photographs of the stunning vistas and seascapes that Cornwall is famous for, as you can see them on postcards or internet tourist sites, but I will share with you a couple of things that caught my interest. For instance, a really nice rock formation:


A geologically minded friend did explain (in hideously great detail) the processes of sedimentation and layering involved, and the time-scales needed for the subsequent buckling of those layers into the formation we see here, which was all very interesting but doesn't take away from the fact that I took this photo because the cave bore a passing resemblance to a giant anus.

I never claimed to be high-brow.

Also on the walk, near Sennen Cove which is pretty in its own right, I came across the wreck of the RMS Mulheim, which ran aground in 2003 and then broke apart:


I expect the locals were very excited as visions of Whisky Galore galloped unbidden through their looting-addled brains, before they learned the Mulheim was carrying a cargo of scrap plastic. You wouldn't have been more disappointed if it was carrying bags of old dressings from the local impetigo colony. Still, at least it makes for an interesting tourist attraction:

I wonder if the Captain got done for littering?

So, after a long hike taking pictures of giant bottom-holes and scrapped scrap-vessels, we made our way into a local cafe for a refreshing cup of beverage, which is the acceptable thing to be done not only by tourists, but also some locals as well:


This seagull walked past the open door a few times, obviously casing the joint, then casually sauntered in as though just perusing the wall-mounted menu, before grabbing a bag of crisps and legging it out, closely followed by the irate owner of the shop shouting "Bloody fevverred baaaarstid!" in tones of unnappreciation.

Amusingly, it flew off, only to return moments later when the owner had resumed his position behind the counter, to eat the bag of crisps right outside the front of the cafe.

I think it's probably an ongoing feud that stretches back through generations of their respective families. Not the sort of thing you can get involved in, because it will take a lot of mediation to sort out. A lot of give and take on both sides.