Sunday, March 21/2010

Relaxed start and then the tour continues. At Carbis Bay we actually see swimmers in the sea, though the winds are pretty chill. A gig lands with its crew of rowers as well, greeted by enthusiastic dogs obviously belonging to the rowers. The term gig apparently dates to the time when these slim boats took pilots out to incoming ships needing local pilots in the harbour, each competing for the job. Same origins as musical gig?

St. Ives itself is bigger than I expected but every bit as charming. Andy settles himself in the sun at a waterfront pub, the Sloop, established, astonishingly, in 1312. The rest of us split up and explore. The church looks interesting (who was St. Ia?) but says iti's open most weekdays. To prevent interference with worship, one supposes. Anyway it's locked now. Lots of shops, galleries and boutiques open though, but with nothing all that underpriced - compared, say, with Mousehole.

Lots of children on the beach, with spades and buckets and happy dogs. We pick up Cornish pasties (Andy, Jenny and me) - that are streets better than Falmouth's - and Cornish homemade ice cream (Joe and Jenny's mum) and sit on a beam on the edge of the beach eating and watching the man who makes traditional lobster pots out of what looks like willow.

Then a visit with Andy's younger daughter, Olivia, in Penzance. She's seventeen and at a sixth form college, sweet and a little shy. She's not sure about next year's courses but is planning a holiday in Spain in august with her friends. finish up with a drive along the huge Hayle tidal estuary and a view out over the high cliffs to seven miles of unbroken, and almost unpeopled, white sands. So home with visions of rugged cliffs, fine sandy coves, elaborate victorian holiday hotels, and harbour beakwaters in our heads.

Andy makes us dinner - a lovely stirfry with shrimp and a very nice bottle of red wine - whose name I promptly forget. His shelves are lined with fascinating books but it proves impossible to stay awake long enough to read much. I do threaten not to re-emerge from the upstairs loo while reading Steven Pinker's The Stuff of Thought, though.