The Cornwall Report

No travelogue this time. Believe it or not, it becomes tiresome taking notes while on holiday, so I left my pad behind and proposed to simply enjoy myself. Just as well; the holiday was peaceful and relaxing and practically devoid of the sorts of foul-ups and disasters that make for fun reading. In short, it was too boring to write about (except for the seagull incident in St. Ives).

Cornwall, however, is a lovely place; you must go there. It might be wise to visit in the off-season, as we did, because during the summer months, everyone else is there. The picturesque little sea-side villages have the narrowest streets I have ever seen (occasionally, while walking on what we believed to be a foot path, we found ourselves squeezing into doorways to allow traffic to pass) and plunking several thousand tourists into them during the hot days of August cannot do a lot to enhance their charm.

We did a bit of walking, a lot of sightseeing and had more than a few cream teas (Cornwall is famous for its clotted cream so you can't swing a cat without hitting a cream tea). We visited a few castles, gardens, the Eden Project and, of course, Land's End (no, not the clothing outlet).

The weather was kind throughout the week, perhaps too kind; I took nearly 300 photos. The dozen or so that were any good are posted in the album pages. Enjoy.

The End of The End

Land's End is, as its name suggests, the end of the land. It is the most westerly point on the main island of Britain and is the sort of place you go to for no other reason than it's there. It used to be little more than an interesting waypoint along the Southwest Coast Path and the destination or starting point of ambitious hikers/cyclists traversing the entire island.

My wife went years ago, when it was merely a barren point way out in the middle of nowhere. There was a Post Box, a public house (both proudly proclaiming to be the 'First and Last' in Britain) and the famous signpost (you know, 3000 miles to New York, 500 odd miles to John O'Groats. My wife, as every tourist must, had her photo taken standing next to that sign. Other than that, there wasn't a lot to do out there except enjoy the view.

These days, it is still out in the middle of nowhere, but it is no longer a barren point. There is a theme park, shopping village and enough parking for several hundred cars. We arrived relatively early and had to go to the overflow lot. The coach park was filling up as well. Swarms of people queued up for amusements and paraded through the shops. The 'first and last' postbox was closed and we had to use the one at the visitor's centre in the amusement park. Most disturbing (aside from the fact that you have to pay £3 for parking) is the fate of the famous signpost. You can still have your photo taken standing next to it, but you have to pay. The post is surrounded by a fence, and in the kiosk guarding the entrance sits a professional photographer who will take a souvenir photo for you.

It's all so horribly wrong. I snapped a picture of the post from a distance; maybe I'll superimpose my image next to it.

Ode to a Knight

What does a trip to Cornwall and the 65th anniversary of the Battle of Britain have in common?

Cornwall is the traditional local of Camelot, King Arthur and the Knights of the Round Table. Arthur was reputedly born in Cornwall and the legendary Camelot located in nearby Devon. The knights, according to legend, are not dead, but merely sleeping, waiting for the time when Britain is in danger and they will awaken to defend her.

It has been observed that they slept through two world wars, both of which were opportune times for them to stir out of their slumber, but they did not. I don't agree.

First of all, England itself was under no threat during the First World War. It was a horrible, costly conflict that drained their resources and killed their young men, but the island itself remained secure.

During World War Two, I contend, they did wake up.

In August and September of 1940, after rolling through Europe, Hitler turned his attention toward England. There was little to stop him from crossing the Channel to take the island. If that happened, the war would have been lost, as no other country, at that time, was standing against the Nazis. America, even if it entered the war, would find no convenient place from which to launch an attack on fortress Europe. The world, as we know it, would be a much different place.

But as the luftwaffe attacked Britain, the knights awoke, in the guise of fighter pilots*.  Outnumbered and facing a heretofore an unstoppable advance, they took to the skies in their Spitfires and Hurricanes, holding off the German juggernaut and, eventually, turning the tide.  By the end of September, having failed to gain air superiority, Hitler abandoned his plans to invade Britain.
 
Even if these young men were not literal reincarnations of Arthur's Knights, it cannot be denied that they were imbued with the spirit of Camelot.  They fought, defended their kingdom and defeated the enemy.  Thanks to them, Britain remained safe.

The knights are asleep once more; let us hope, this time, they can rest in peace.
 
* It needs to be said that not all of the pilots were British.  Among their ranks were Poles, Czechs, Australians, Canadians and a number or other nationalities