Drive time from Lostwithiel was a little over an hour, as predicted by our iPad, and on the way I refuelled the Fiat 500L for the first time since pickup, at St Austell, the first fairly large town encountered. First time refuelling of an unfamiliar car in an unfamiliar environment can be stressful, especially when the car has a diesel engine. However I took my time and made doubly sure that I was in fact pumping dieso into the tank and not unleaded.
We're each using an Australia Post Load and Go card preloaded with cash and I used this to pay for the fuel, £33.30, about twice the price as in Australia, as is unleaded fuel. The card not only allows cash to be obtained at any Visa ATM ($2 per usage fee) but also can be used as a debit card, so making electronic payment easy and less painful because you know exactly what you're paying. It's also rechargeable online and there is no charge for currency conversion within the supported currencies.
A good money option for international travellers from Australia, we think. This is our third trip on which we've used these cards.
Back to the filling station. Naturally, after payment, I went looking for the toilet. None immediately obvious inside the building, and none outside, hmmm! Then I spotted a small notice hanging on the wall. This announced that due to vandalism problems this service station no longer offered this important facility, and the notice offered no alternative. That's a sad indictment of the local community, I think.
Today was the day to try our first Cornish pastie and Marazion (pronounced as in Zionist) was a likely place to find one. This small town huddles on the coast directly opposite St Michael's Mount, a British version of Mont St Michel on the opposite, continental coast.
St Michael's Mount. The image is a little hazy as a result of strong easterly winds and the resultant spray in the air. At low tide a causeway allows passage to the Mount on foot or by car from Marazion.
And yes we found a pastie shop. Here's Mary huddling in the shelter of a building while enjoying her lunch.
And then it was on to nearby Penzance, which we could dimly see across the bay, somewhat obscured by seaspray. Neither the weather nor the ambience was considered appropriate so we pushed on along the waterfront through the grimy port area of Penzance toward Mousehole. But that also failed to inspire so we performed a three point turn and headed for St Ives.
St Ives, unfortunately, also disappointed us, even though the weather was somewhat better by now. Car parking was the first issue. We queued to get into the car park, a vast space at the top of the hill above the small harbour (pic later). Remember, this was a Wednesday, outside of the high season. Once inside the car park we were gradually directed further and further away from the entrance to eventually find parking space on the second of two grassy hedge-edged paddocks which presumably formed the last reserve of parking in the area. And yes we had to pay for the privilege. The options were: one hour (totally impractical as by the time the tourist area was reached you'd have to come straight back); two hours (maybe?) and all day (cost £5.70, about $11 Aust). We opted for the two hour shot and then boarded a battered shuttle bus (£1 per adult per journey, dogs free) to reach the actual tourist area.
Again, narrow streets, thronged with gawping visitors (just like us, only we didn't have a huge slobbery dog or two and were more mobile than the majority). Shops of almost every kind occupied the walls (ancient stone) of this rat race. The most interesting things to see from my point of view were the tourists, and I was horrified to recall that I was one of them. We kept going until we broke out into the pale sunlight on the water's edge. This was better.
The pleasant beach and harbour at St Ives. We shudder to think what it would be like at the height of the tourist season.
This reminded me of kayak fishing. I'm sure Noosa Yakkers members would understand. Name board of a waterfront pub at St Ives.
The arrival/departure view at St Ives from the carpark. The hillside and hilltop above the village is covered by these unsightly, all-the-same, houses. Really gives a bad impression from the start.
See what I mean?
Back in our car, within the two hour self-imposed time limit, we decided to head straight back via the alternative route, the northerly one, to quiet, quirky Lostwithiel where parking is easy and free and the locals are the most interesting people. On the way we passed a panoply of quaintly named villages such as Blowing House, North Country, Higher North Country, Wheal Harmony, Indian Queens, Castle-An-Dinas, Maudlin (true!), and Sweetshouse.
Lostwithiel, ah, how we now appreciate you.
Thursday. Weather pleasant again. In fact so pleasant that I broke out my one and only pair of shorts and ventured out with my Aussie winter legs and sandals (sans socks, which, incidentally, appears to be now the normal way for Brit men to wear sandals). Mind you, even though I had my winter legs on they were beautifully tanned compared with many of the legs now exposed as a result of the unexpected sunshine and warmth. On Thursdays, the folk of Lostwithiel offer a guided tour, on foot, of the village, complete with knowledgeable local guide. A young-ish couple from California and we were the only takers for the tour this day. Our guide, John, turned out to have served a term as Mayor of this fair village and showed us his picture among those of his forebears arrayed on the wall of the Guild Hall (although only about the last 200 years had pictures, the earlier ones, back to the eleventh century, were known by name only).
Anyway, it was a fascinating tour, as these small village tours frequently can be. Afterward Mary and I headed to the The Fisherman's Arms for lunch overlooking the River Fowey in Golant, then meandered past a couple of local villages by car stopping wherever we felt like it.
View of the estuary at Golant, as seen from our lunch table. Yes, that's a dog with red scarf on in the inflatable.
Exquisitely carved and overgrown memorial stone in a village churchyard.
Next stop: Restormel Castle, only about 2km from Lostwithiel but worth driving rather than walking to, as Mary said, because it's at the top of a formidable hill. Fair enough, and what better place to situate a castle?
First erected in the tenth century to dominate a crossing of the Fowey River, which it still does. But unfortunately for the builder, the bridge over the river at Lostwithiel, built relatively soon afterward, made the castle less useful as a place to keep an eye on passing traffic. This is an English Heritage property, so thanks Jane and Dick (have you visited it?).
Nearby 500 year old Restormel Manor, owned by the estate (Duchy) of the Duke of Cornwall who presently is Prince Charles. Frequented by various members of the RF but available as a holiday rental to mere mortals. Those challenged on the pecuniary scale may rent one bedroom self catering apartments there from £450 a week.
The brilliantly green and grassed river flats directly in front of the manor.
Pheasants taking advantage of newly mown field within a shotgun blast of the manor.
Restormel Castle from the river crossing which it was designed to dominate.
Dinner at the Earl of Chatham.
The Earl of Chatham is a pub largely ignored by tourists, being a five minute walk from the Lostwithiel bridge, slightly uphill, past the pig-gnome house and away from the main tourist attractions. Accordingly it relies largely on local patronage to survive. We'd eaten there one other night and liked the feel of it so decided, after a glass or two of the best Co-Op red on our sunny riverside deck, to go there again last night. Mary somewhat reluctantly agreed to initially sit at the bar with the promise that easy conversational engagement with the locals might ensue. Which it did. As you'd expect. Graeme, the man adjacent to her on her right, had never been to Australia but was a regular (every night, in fact) at the Earl of Chatham. He'd had a few whiskies, I'd say, but was polite and just a little bit pissed. He agreed eventually that it was shameful that he'd never been to Australia. The barmaid chimed in that she couldn't possibly go to Australia as it involved more than four hours in an aircraft, her self-imposed absolute limit of airborne tolerance time. As the conversation meandered downhill I was struck with how pleasant this scene was.
The bar scene.
The "real ales" available, starting with Dartmoor on the left and finishing with Tribute, my favourite, on the right.
If you want lager, cider, or stout, (which are not "ales") there are several selections, including a cider called Cornish Rattler which is "cornilly" touted as having a deadly bite.
After her friend Graeme left to head home to his wife Mary and I adjourned to the dining room where we enjoyed another excellent meal before returning to our little Lostwithiel home, passing the pigs and crossing the river by the 1000 year old, single lane, unlit bridge on the way.
This (Friday) is our last full day in Lostwithiel and we'll be heading for new digs, at St Tudy, on the northern part of the peninsula, tomorrow.
Thanks for reading
Kev Long
Author iPad Traveller for iPad and Mac.
The technical stuff:
Our iPad is connecting to the Internet mainly through a cellular connection provided (prepaid) by the "3" network. On high ground and in town environments around Cornwall this connection is quite good but many places, especially in valleys and in small coastal localities lack coverage so no or poor connection. There are quite a few WiFi options available although not always advertised. Just ask if you're unsure if available. WiFi is of course the preferred method of transferring large amounts of data but I have been posting these blogs and their images using only a cellular connection from inside our apartment.
The cellular connection gives us both in car and on foot navigation capabilities which are essential around Cornwall, where mere printed maps struggle to provide sufficient detail at a manageable size.
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