In last week’s story, Part 1- West Sussex to the Jurassic Coast: BMWs, Extreme Tides, Mystical Forests and Pirate Coves, we haphazardly plotted a journey from London to Looe, where we received bad news about my grandfather. We began to question whether we could or should cancel the trip and head home.

Dedicated to my grandparents, Joan, Ernest, Marg and Bruce.

We decide to hightail it the next day deep into Cornwall. We make an early stop in Polperro, another stupidly scenic little fishing village the likes of which are amazingly bountiful in England. We cross the River Fowey on the Boddinick car ferry to Fowey (pronounced “Foy”) before cruising down the Roseland Peninsula to St Mawes. St Mawes is another one of those places that looks amazing- a bountiful harbour fringed by sandy beaches and green headlands- and we wish we could stop. It gets put on the list for future destinations. We cruise along the waterside Castle Road and I jump out of the car at St Mawes Castle– “among the best-preserved of Henry VIII’s coastal artillery fortresses, and the most elaborately decorated of them all.” We then cross the River Fal at the King Harry Ferry.

But after this we hightail it down the Cornwall peninsula all the way to Penzance. Being a big fan of musical theatre, I’m excited to stay in this town of pirates and have a look around, but Dad as always is recommending another destination, St Ives to the north. Again, he is right. We end up in another crazy little hotel, run by an hilariously eccentric Englishman, a photography teacher who insists on teaching me everything there is to know about my new Canon 6D. He even lends me his own remote control timer, and will not take no for an answer. Such above and beyond dedication to our comfort begins to feel almost normal in this part of the world. Meanwhile, we are perched dizzyingly above St Ives’s tidal harbour, the boats as usual laying on bare sand, and the town is laid out tantalizingly before us. We book two nights so we can explore Cornwall properly, and we go (where else?) to the pub for a pint. Dinner is at a nearby pizzeria, where new owners have just set up shop, and despite making a mistake with our pizzas and having to remake (they stuck to the spatula) the end result is as delicious as the owners are apologetic and friendly.

 

Day 6 of our journey dawns and the owner of the hotel is dressed in his breakfast suit and making merry with the guests in the breakfast room. It’s full English with all the trimmings for both of us. Our plan today is to explore the north coast of Cornwall. We’re no longer on the English Channel, facing for the first time the expanse of the Atlantic, and it’s a treat. The beaches are sandy and have some nice surf and I begin to wish for a board (and more time to actually be able to use it). The rest of the coastline is lush and green and breath-taking clifftops fill the landscape. We head up the coast to Newquay with its stunning cliffs and beaches and pretty harbour. We then bear north to Tintagel.

As we dash from one cliff top to the next, we talk about all of my grandparents, and particularly my Dad’s mother who died when I was 7. “She would have been pretty angry about dying,” Dad told me. She was only in her 70s, a poet and a great lover of life. “Both your Gran and Grandfather would have loved all the things you and the other kids got up to with your lives.” Her husband, my other grandfather, died when I was 17 on the night of my very last exam in highschool, Ancient History.

Speaking of ancient history, Tintagel is the climax of the journey, its eye-popping scenery defying superlatives. A stupendous isthmus topped by cliffs and surrounded by ocean far below is the site of castle ruins, said to be the actual birthplace of the legendary King Arthur. Mountain goats plod amongst the ruins, and far below on a tiny beach is a great cave where Merlin the Magician was supposed to have lived. It’s an incredible site to say the least. As we begin the walk up the hill huge hill back into town, our hearts pounding from exertion and adventure, a local bloke with a old Land Rover offers a ride up the hill for 2 pounds. Lazily we agree, sharing the ride with a bunch of pensioners. We’re next in our trusty Beemer making a beeline for Port Isaac, back south, and apparently the setting for some British TV show watched by old people. My Dad of course is well familiar with it, I’ve never heard of it and the name escapes me now. Port Isaac is great though, another perfect little fishing village with the late afternoon light making it all the more memorable. It becomes obvious that England has the design of picturesque fishing villages to an artform. If procuring perfect villages in stunning surrounds were an Olympic sport, I hesitate who might challenge her for the gold medal. Well, maybe Norway, but let’s not go there right now!

Back in St Ives again for one more night and we hit the pub with gusto. Ah England! The England I prejudiciously thought offered me nothing has served up more spectacular scenery and more thought provoking quirky characters to last us a lifetime. That longing for more time in this part of the world is beginning to transform into an urge. But we have to be grateful for all of life’s experiences, at this time more than ever. We’re so lucky, and it’s so good, to be on an adventure!

Our final day dawns and we are ambitious. We’re going first to Land’s End, and then we’re going to put as many miles on the clock as possible to get up north into the Cotswolds. We calculate that it is somewhat onerous but doable and set out early. But we are somewhat disappointed to arrive at Land’s End and find what seems to be a mini-theme park blocking our path. “Welcome to Land’s End!” the parking attendant greets us chirpily. “Entry is five pounds.”
“Really?” I ask from the driver’s seat, disappointed. “All we want to do is visit the coast.”
“Look, it’s no problem. Just park up the road and you can walk down to the coast and stay as long as you like.”
Let this be a lesson to those who might otherwise see the themed attraction and turn around! It turns out that Land’s End, the point at which the British Isles end and tumble into the Atlantic, is no less spectacular once you finally see it than any other point on the Cornish coast. Huge granite boulders are strewn across the landscape and waves crash against the cliff below, as though angry to suddenly find a continent blocking their path. It’s brilliant.

But this is no time to be fart-arsing about, and after taking in the views (and the rampaging elements) we hotfoot it back to our car and up the A30. We pay one last visit to Penzance and say goodbye to the pirate coastline with a view over St Michael’s Mount, a tidal island off the coast.

The rest of the day is spent driving at freeway speed towards London. Around 4 pm we arrive in what feels like another world, the Cotswolds. It’s all still very English, but it’s the upper-crust part of England, quiet and peaceful and quite a contrast to Cornwall. We pass through several villages all constructed consistently from the local golden stone. The buildings are so breathtakingly beautiful, and we arrive in Bibury, a strong contender for the most beautiful village I’ve ever seen. It’s almost too perfect, and the setting sun casts it’s perfect honey light over the honey-coloured houses.

We stop at Bibury Court, a grand old house on a large and beautiful acreage. We ask for a room and are promptly told by the curt receptionist that the hotel is full. He seems a little too dismissive of us and we are left wondering whether our appearance may have let us down. We are not in coats and trousers like the local Cotswold gentry, and we have been driving all day, but even so we don’t look terrible- we even arrived in our BMW for Christ’s sake! Nonetheless, this man, who is clearly not British but perhaps French or Polish, is the first unfriendly person we’ve met all week. Though my mind screams “conspiracy”, it is undeniable as we head back through town past the glorious old houses of Arlington Row that there are a lot of tourists in this small village. At The Swan, a lovely pub, I am given the same rejection (though more apologetic this time) despite polishing up my appearance before entering. After our third rejection at the Catherine Wheel, the only other obvious accommodation in town, my paranoia reduces and my irrepressible self-esteem returns, but disappointment is rising as it looks like for the first time all trip we won’t find a bed in our choice of environs.

But the gents drinking at the bar of the Catherine Wheel in their tweed coats come to our rescue. “I think Mrs Maple might have a vacancy,” declares one, and goes off to call her. “She didn’t ahnswer,” he says, returning a short time later.

“How long are you here for?” asks another elegant chap, taking a break from his pint to take an interest in us.

“Just one night,” we reply.

“And what is your budget?” he asks. “Would say, a hundred pounds suit you?” We reply that that sounded fine. “I see,” he responds. Some seconds pass before he ventures, “I’ll have to check with my wife, but we run some holiday cottages we normally rent out for longer periods. However it just so happens that one is vacant for tonight. Perhaps my wife might be amenable to your staying, should it suit you.”

We reply that it should suit us very much, and to our surprise the man puts down his beer and farewells the other drinkers. We’re amazed by the generosity and friendliness of the English and happy that even in an upmarket place like the Cotswolds, people are still willing to go out of our way to help us, wiry colonials and all! He leads us across the road and to a series of little cottages, and it looks like we’ve found our spot. He even alleges that the standard of the Bibury Court has dropped in recent years. I laugh secretly in the knowledge that despite this, they still kicked us out. However, then it comes to payment, and we have no cash on hand and ask if he can take cards. As it is only a small family business, he regretfully informs us that he cannot. The man seems quite worried by this turn of events. “I must admit I simply can’t see a way around this,” he deplores.
“What about if we head back out to the highway and find an ATM?” we ask hopefully.
“I see. I see. Yes, that should work. But I must warn you, we have friends coming for a drink at a quarter past seven. You’ll have to return no later than seven.”
“We can manage that. But first do you want to ask your wife if it’s ok we stay? We don’t want to get you in trouble.”
“Oh my wife? No don’t worry,” he says, “I’m sure it shall be fine.”

For dinner, we nip back across to the Catherine Wheel dressed in jackets and trousers. But the elegant gents are gone and the place is full of foul-mouthed rowdy revellers in push up bras and t-shirts. The presence of the same bartender of earlier presents the only continuity of the night. We eat our dinner, which is just as tasty as every other pub we’ve ever been to in Britain, and leave feeling somewhat confused.

The stay in the cottage is comfortable but I wake up in the wee hours with surprisingly shocking asthma. Some hours later, my mother calls from Italy to tell me my grandfather has died.

Somewhat despondent, and with the morning air full of uncertainty, we take our last sunrise photos around the beautiful, sombre Bibury before leaving to have cream teas for breakfast at the equally lovely Burford. “Excuse me, are you Australian?” asks the only other man having breakfast from the other side of the room, before engaging us in friendly banter.

We end our bittersweet stay in the Cotswolds and our bittersweet drive around southern England, and cruise towards London, arriving at King’s Cross around 11. To our pleasure, the drive in is as simple as one could hope for. The directions from Sixt are excellent and we find the drop off station in no time (I chuckle to find that I’ve actually been there before on another adventure a year earlier). The drop off is a breeze and this ease of service, combined with our stellar upgrade, and lack of hidden charges which so badly mar the other “big names” of car hire, fills me with admiration for Sixt. I can whole-heartedly recommend them, but book well ahead for the best rates.

Not more than five minutes after arriving in London, we’re hauling our suitcases down the road towards the sublime St Pancras station, and an hour later we’re on a train to Paris for what might or might not be our next adventure. I drift restlessly in and out of sleep, not knowing whether I am in England or France, dreaming piece-meal about the peculiarities of Life. But that’s another story for another time altogether.

I hope you enjoyed my piece about a pleasant drive in South-West England. Don’t forget to check out the video of this trip. If you’ve done a similar trip and have tips, or if you live in this fair part of the world, I’d love to hear from you in the comments.