This time last year, starting our second week in Cornwall we knew we had seen the best of any sun we were going to get, and from here on in it would be rain, rain and more bleeding rain. Just seen the weather forecast. FML. £1200 spent on another week sitting with 3x bored kids in a lodge hoping it doesn't actually wash down the hill into the sea. Also spent the day with a pain in my chest and a growing sense that I'm brewing a summer cold. Hopefully it should have abated enough for me to be able to do the 450 mile drive home on Friday.
An environmental disaster movie outside, tried Googling "Things to do on a rainy day in Cornwall. This listing from a site entitled "101 things to do on a rainy day in Cornwall" under the category "Rainy Day" typifies what's available: "It's likely that the heaviest of downpours would go unnoticed by those hardy souls in pursuit of such countryside activities as are on offer here..." Sigh.
Decided to drive up to Truro for unspecified reasons but probably involving eating. J was of course hugely unenthusiastic about the plan, but Emma didn't want to leave him behind in case anything happened to us while we were out. I asked her if it gave her piece of mind to know that should we meet with an untimely end, he would share our fate. No logical way forward, so I took the easy way out and insisted he came with us.
As often happens, Truro reminded me of work because it is one of the many towns and cities I've visited for a 10:00 to 16:00 appointment in some underventilated asbestos box with downcast Council IT types, bookended by knackering journeys to and from home, and with no opportunity for checking out the environs.
Rather like St. Austell, Truro represents the 'true' Cornwall rather than the chocolate-box tourist confection of places like Portscatho. That is, relatively picturesque though it undoubtedly is, it does have overweight and foul-mouthed chavvy women pushing a buggy with one hand and smoking with the other, yelling at their lanky fast-striding wastrel partner even though he's only two yards away. You know, an ordinary British scene. To be honest it's a welcome break from the uniform bank-managerly yachtfulness of the people around the Roseland peninsula where we're staying: all steel-rimmed glasses, side-parted hair, respectable pilot shirt, Bodum shorts and whiny kids with just a little too much curly hair.
After dining in an authentic Cornish eatery (Pizza Express) came the now obligatory church-viewing session in the Cathedral, but resisted the temptation to ooh and ah in J's presence, especially as the place is only 100 years old, a Victorian neomedieval quasi-gothic Disneyesque repro, and lacking the mystery of proper old churches blah blah blah (see yesterday's post RE growing daddish tendency).
J suffered in silence and was rewarded by an excursion into that other most Cornish of shopping experiences, Sale at the Animal store. As we exited with new hoodie, swimming shorts and earphones, he remarked "Well that was successful!" Too bleeding right it was, to which my slightly more worn out debit card would attest. J had worked out some complicated financial calculation of which Nick Leeson would be proud, involving as-yet uncollected holiday pocket money from third parties, ghost funds in his bank account whose debit card is seen less often than Lord Lucan, virtual promissory notes etc. culminating in me getting the wallet out.
Anyway, Peter Capaldi. Doctor... who?