Yes, clickbait. There is NO Sam Smiths in Cornwall, even on the west coast beloved by tourists from Rochdale and Bradford.
But that’s the mirror that greeted me in the bathroom at the busy looking Hilltop Cafe near Tintagel, which I only mention because they served me a lovely breakfast on the Wednesday morning.
My campervan had been comprehensively stocked by Mrs RM before I left, mainly with packets of Ainsley’s soup. If Ainsley wishes to sponsor me I’ll gladly ditch Piper’s crisps.
The Hilltop Cafe was a joy. Lovely staff dealing with (mainly) lovely (but hot) customers, bar a young couple who pointedly said,
“Shall I tip ?”
“No, wasn’t that good was it ?” as they passed me. Try not tipping in the States, Karen.
It was good, though.
I bet you can’t guess what those little balls are.
I tipped, though not as much as Rishi’s discount gave me back.
Fortified, I headed down the lanes to Trebarwith Strand, where the Mill House promised 11am opening
and special gold plated beer tipping facilities.
My, what a lot of signs. With my dodgy eyesight I get scared by one-way systems and tables blocking the bar and an absence of any staff.
The Landlord was eating his breakfast, it looked as good as mine, and I felt obliged to apologise for entering the open door.
“Half the weakest” please my usual order.
He was friendly, if functional, and rightly determined I should follow the one way system out via the loos.
I’ll be honest now; pubbing in the South-West was often a tense affair, with the sense you were carrying the London plague into their pubs and shops. That’s no comment on the publicans, who were a friendly lot, just a sense of foreboding that their tiny NHS could be overwhelmed at any moment.
I felt more comfortable outside in the sun, underneath an Tarquin’s umbrella.
A lovely pub in a glorious setting, and that Tintagel was a cool 3.5. But I wished I was there a year earlier (or possibly a year later).