The Windy City Comes to Cornwall

Walking my Coast Path to St Ives

The South West Coast Path in Cornwall is my highway to heaven. St Ives, the once small fishing village and once global arts centre, is my usual destination. Once there I can choose from a variety of refreshment stops and who knows who else will turn up?

One of the best things about walking into St Ives from my flat in Carbis Bay, is that it takes only about 25 minutes. If you do not know West Cornwall, have you not got a television? From my flat there is the view across the bay to Godrevy Lighthouse. On a clear day, I can see Trevose Lighthouse 28 miles away across the sea. It is a view to rival any in the world. It is equal to that of the Hanging Gardens of Babylon, the Pyramids at Giza and the middle aisle at Lidl. But that 25 minutes, I always find, is just enough to work up a thirst for a beer.

I can enjoy the quiet beauty of St Ives Bay. This is because I also know what you can find on the other side the River Tamar which is Cornwall’s shared border with the rest of England. Some enlightened and knowledgeable folk know that land across the water as Mordor. I don’t mean Devon. Devon has its misty mountains. On any weekend you can see gangs of foul-mouthed, grim teethed and ugly-souled orcs prowling the streets of Salcombe. They are looking for a piss up, a fight and a curry. By Mordor, I mean all land beyond the Tamar including Peterborough and beyond.

Broadening the Mind?

I’ve traveled a bit, so I have seen things. I have seen Mountains, Lakes, Icebergs and a rattlesnake curled up asleep in the midday sun at Yosemite National Park. I have seen the beauty of a sunset on Ibiza and Santorini. I have followed in the footsteps of Caesar, Napoleon and the Pilgrim Fathers. My first foreign trip was at the age of 16. I stepped ashore in Gibraltar as a fresh-faced and as yet, pox-free young sailor. An ancient grey vessel called HMS Hermes had been my home at sea. That ship was so old and leaky that Noah would have turned his nose up at it. In Gibraltar, despite my painful youth and inexperience in everything, I suffered no harm and the locals were charming.

My later travels include Canada and the United States. The locals in the former are polite and cheery beyond belief. Their southern neighbours could not have been more hospitable. Even in New York. Despite my early anthropological observations of North America, I have come to view current Americans with a bit of suspicion. Therefore, I let them approach me with care. I think anyone who believes that the Bible is a reliable and literal source of information on birth control, gun violence and rainbows, is quite mad.

Armed and Mad.

People watching with a beer

St Ives is a faraway bubble of sanity in an otherwise confusing, crowded and increasingly belligerent global humanity. I can hear the howls of protest that St Ives is very crowded in summer. To which I retort “Yes, it is and no it is not”. It all depends on where in St Ives you are. Even in the summer, you can find a quiet spot to watch the madding, poorly dressed, barely continent, dog-infested crowds. You can do this while sipping a decent beer. I often sit and watch the flow of humanity drifting slowly along the narrow and cobbled Fore Street. The sight of the great unwashed, the aesthetically enhanced and the Gregg’s botherers, beautifully illustrates what has gone wrong with public health over the past 40 years. Our approach seems to have been that of emphasising ‘personal responsibility for health’. We do this while doing nothing to change the profit structures and the market for things that kill us. This policy of doing very little to prevent ill health has resulted in the release of the current ill-health bombs waddling down the cobbles. Demographic change is here for all to see. Looking at people with chronic illness, inactivity, fags and booze produces in my head a melange of images. Picasso would have been inspired to paint them. I can watch all of this in the cool space of the ‘Art of Brewing‘ – a haven of solace that serves a very wide range of very decent beers.

But it is a secret, so don’t go there.

My Kind of Town

I was sitting on my favourite spot in the window, minding my own business and a pint of Hazy IPA, when I was joined by a couple. It soon became obvious that they were not from Bodmin – a small town in the middle of Cornwall. It is said by many that Bodmin is a place where life goes to wilt. They also say that culture in Bodmin is to be found only in the bottom of an empty yoghurt pot which has been left out in the heat of the day for a week. I think the commentary is harsh on Bodmin. The truth remains that it is not usually found in glossy travel agent magazines selling lifestyle tips.

The couple I met in St Ives were well dressed, newly retired and looked as healthy as butcher’s dog fed on organic grass fed beef and vitamin pills. They glowed with vitality and energy. They had both been in the health care business. But let me be very clear, this last fact does not automatically lead to great health and well being. The phrase ‘physician heal thyself’ often is a reality check for many a doctor whose skill might have saved someone’s else’s life, but whose stress and drinking has eased many a Doctor into an early grave. They had not visited Bodmin.

I gleaned this information from both of them because I dared to engage them in polite conversation. The husband had been a Doctor, and his wife in a related profession in hospitals…in Chicago. Mordor!

St Ives is quite often a cosmopolitan little town and an American accent is often heard. However, I was still taken by surprise to bump into folks newly blown in from the ‘Windy City’ – Chicago. Luckily for me they were not the bible bashing, flag shagging, gun slinging, pussy grabbing, neo-fascist, Trump types. Otherwise I would have been forced to commit murder most foul by grabbing a ring pull from a can to use as a makeshift dagger.

Instead, we were able to share a very pleasant hour drinking beer, talking political sanity and the merits of living in a place like Chicago. I also learned that it was called the ‘windy city’ not because of its weather but rather because of its bloviating politicians. They have their Boris Johnson’s in Chicago as well! This brief encounter returned some hope for humanity within my tortured soul.

There is a little bit of the shire in Mordor after all?

At peace with the world

I will continue to stroll along the coast path to St Ives, and consider that my fortune keeps Mordor away in foreign lands. I shall also continue to see occasional glimpses of hope that all is not lost on the world. The beer helps.