You left me on the edge of Falmouth, somehow missing out on calamari in ‘front.
I dropped Sis off near Helston and headed up the Cornish Coast, with a plan to tip a couple of warm halves in plant pots on the way to a home for my campervan in a GBG filled town.
First stop, just west of Redruth, is Porthtowan Bay.
Quiet in winter,
but a suburb of Prosecco’ed London in summer, as the surf families take over.
There’s no pub here, just a monstrosity called the Unicorn that I dare you to visit.
Still, great views on the National Trust coastline, eh?
I guess falling off that cliff would make good blogging for whoever bought the rights to retiredmartin.com.
A lady in Raybans and pashmina asked me if it was worth visiting the mines, situated 10 yards away.
“You’re looking at it” I said. I think she was hoping for a gin bar.
The tick at Towan Cross was worth the scratches from the ferns.
Sort of. A Proper Pub, bar the personal escorts to a table I wouldn’t have chosen myself, and from which I could only see the lone Tribute.
Which was a shame, as the five blokes named Joe round the pool table were drinking the hidden Skinners, and my Tribute was a bit foamy and indistinct (2.5/3).
“Suzy Suzy Suzy” said Joe 3.
“Call my name” said Suzy 1.
This is as exciting as it’s going to get, thought I, and left.