The Dawn Treader had been lurching through pendulous seas for weeks. Bacon and home made ice cream were reaching dangerously low levels. Morale was slipping and visibility with it. Where was Britannia and salvation?

Salvation it turns out was not far away. The English channel is a lumpy horrible place at the best of times. The ragged coastline of Cornwall was a welcome sight. The deep waters of Falmouth Harbour were as good a place to make home without taking the boat to New Zealand.

First impressions of Cornwall were made long before we tied up the boat. A delightful mess up had left us without a berth. Our Captain sounded positively tyrannous as he barked down the phone at numerous slack jawed oafs(my words but he probably would have said them if he was not swearing so much) Duty and customs officers were just as amiss. They were not interested we were coming to town. They finally turned up today a week later. This was long after I have shipped off my imaginary exotic spices, sugar and special tobacco from the Spanish main to the black market. My opinion of Falmouth was reinforced with my first trip into Hogwarts (Falmouth town) The shops are not interested in being open after 5:14pm and they close on a Wednesday afternoon for high tea or something equally English.  

England remains a wonderfully strangely familiar place. Everything seems so lush after the Caribbean. Even the abundance of paved roads seems decadent. We had a great walk around Falmouth on our very first morning.

Ah green and blue bliss and a bit of pink (unsure what lies behinds those gates)

On Friday night we ate out for our chef. The restaurant was superb as was its name Hunky Dory. We went to a cocktail bar afterward to drink some espresso Martinis. Our Chef’s name is Martini.

I am truly sorry if this next paragraph is overly acerbic but it is not all Cornish pasties and clotted cream in Falmouth.

Being a magnet for the Supernatural, odd and mentally disenfranchised somehow a very odd person attached himself to our party and therefore me. His name was Roy and he (in his on words) was a failed husband, father and exotic spice salesman amongst other things. For some reason he saw fit to share large unhealthy tracts of his life with us all. Especially me for some reason. I guess the aftershocks of this chance meeting gave me impetus to write something so thank you Universe. I think?

With that purged from my system I can turn my efforts to writing about much more healthier parts of Falmouth and Cornwall.

Tune in tomorrow Cornwall time for more.

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