Saint Ives is pretty much due west of Falmouth. We elected to take a train. After long periods driving on the wrong side of the road (right) driving on the left seems foreign. On the plus side we would get to observe the coast, countryside from a rolling relaxed vantage point.
The first surprise of our trip ? Remember my magnetic powers of the odd? Sharing our journey for the day; a large pod of trainspotters. Being my first real experience of trainspotters I was interested in how they interact and the very real obsession that trainspotting entails. Trainspotters possess seemingly freakish knowledge of trains. Some of our trainspotters may have been less serious than others. One was spotted making a choo choo noise leaving a café. Another seemed to take a mischievous delight in testing the mettle of one of the younger members by asking question after question on the name/specification and atomic structure of railway components.
Trainspotters aside the bank holiday weekend meant we had some other interesting personalities aboard our carriage. For one leg we had some pre teen dubstep enthusiasts behind us whose loud appreciation of dubstep and cuss words beggared my ears to distraction.
Another traveller loudly announced a hatred of university students and desire to bomb the local university. I wish I was kidding.
Thankfully a train change at Saint Erth allowed for a cessation of dark thoughts. The coastal train ride to Saint Ives is a famously beautiful trip well worth 12 minutes of ones life.
Arriving in Saint Ives it became apparent that the balmy weather we had been enjoying was changing. Saint Ives is the quintessential small English fishing village. Its narrow roads and careful development mean it is quite unique. That is not to say it has not been tampered with to encourage consumerism.
The vast array of surf shops, pirate and witchcraft stores drove me to impassioned drink. After a couple of medicinal ciders we were ready to walk the streets again.
I could live quite happily on this road.
A very Celtic memorial to fallen soldiers.
With the day slipping away there was one more startling revelation to be made. By now the day was overcast, there was a bracing breeze and I surmise the temperature was 12 degrees. The beach looked nice enough but you would have to be crazy to sit on it.
Witness the ancient English holiday art of making a wind and sand proof fortification for sitting on.
This beach hibernation made me feel chilled to the bones. It was time to return home. As often is the case with these travel excursions the behaviour of humankind sometimes upstages the scenery.
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