Whilst leaving Frodo overnight at Mr. Lola’s house near Stroud on our way down, we left the fridge running overnight on gas, something we very rarely do. Unfortunately, in the morning Frodo’s fridge was not on – the gas had run out. It wasn’t a disaster, the fridge was not too warm in the morning. We continued to the St. Agnes campsite running on the 12V driving system, followed by mains electricity once we checked in.

Whilst at St. Agnes, thinking of a potential off-grid stop en route home, I decided to change to our second gas cylinder. What I couldn’t do, try as I might, was get a gas-tight seal between the connector and the new gas cylinder. Calor gas connections are archaic and a complete pain-in-the-arse. I phoned a couple of caravan/motorhome engineers and one suggested that I may have a faulty gas cylinder, not something I would have considered. As an experiment, I exchanged my empty cylinder for a new one on site. Sure enough, I just about managed to get a decent seal on the replacement, so my second cylinder did, indeed, look a bit iffy. We could now, at least, stop off grid if we needed to.

All this hassle made us think about a fixed refillable LPG solution. It would certainly make camping off grid in Spain and/or France easier, where you cannot exchange Calor Gas cylinders. I thought I’d like someone’s opinion who had experience of such systems.

I remembered that a fellow dragonfly enthusiast, who I had never actually met, had a motorhome with such a system. I sent an enquiring note explaining that we were currently in Cornwall, had had gas connection difficulties, and seeking his opinion on refillable systems. He was now on his second motorhome, having just bought a new one, with two different but similar refillable systems. He thought both were excellent.

“Where are you?”, he asked.

“At Godrevy at the moment but moving to Marazion in a few days. We were at St. Agnes Beacon last week. We arrived on Sunday 20th.”

“We were at St.Agnes Beacon last week, too. We also arrived on 20th. We’re at Gwithian Farm, now“, he said, “fancy a beer at the Red River Inn this afternoon?”

I couldn’t believe it, we’d been on the same campsite last week and now were a mere 15-minute walk away from each other.

“Great idea”, I said. They were planning to walk a bit of the Cornish coastal path today first so we settled on 17:00 to meet.

“We have a whippet”, he added.

Wait just a goddamn minute. Whilst at St. Agnes Beacon, we had talked to a couple with a relatively large whippet in tow, twice on the campsite and once in the middle of St. Agnes itself. They had told us that the handsome whippet was called Stanley.

“Not as large whippet?”, I asked, “Stanley by any chance?”

“Good God …”, came his response.

Unbelievable! Here was a fellow dragonfly enthusiast who I’d been communicating with electronically for several years but never actually met, and our paths had crossed in Cornwall with neither of us realising. We were both gobsmacked.

Still reeling from the astonishing coincidence, Francine and I decided we’d catch the bus [scary spiders] into Hayle for some entertainment.

One of the attractions in Hayle was the King George V Memorial Walk featuring 2977 handcrafted poppies made of donated scallop shells. These honour every victim of the 9/11 Twin Towers attack. Whilst most of the poppies are painted red, there are 70 blue poppies for police officers, 344 with black/red ribbons for firefighters, 8 with green/yellow ribbons for emergency medical personnel and 1 purple poppy for the port authority K9 police dog, Sirius, who died in the collapse.

It may seem like an unusual location for such a memorial but the connection with Cornwall is Rick Rescorla, born in Hayle, who became the head of security for Morgan Stanley and who saved thousands of lives before losing his own life in the collapse of the South Tower.

It is all very poignant.

When we’d disembarked the bus, we’d spotted the Philps Bakery proclaiming its “famous pasties”. Well, lunch was calling and it would be rude not to try a famous pasty. They were certainly popular; I had to join a queue with half a dozen hungry folks in front of me. We sat at a wooden table outside to demolish ours. These were good, especially the steak in the filling, but we both thought those form the St. Agnes Bakery a little superior, especially the pastry, in my opinion.

We managed a lightning shop in Lidl before catching a return bus to the campsite.

At 16:45 we started our 15-minute walk down to the Red River Inn to meet again my odo-nutter friend, this time knowing who we both were.

I’m still gobsmacked at the coincidence.

We awoke to another decent morning. With another trip into St. Agnes on the cards, we decided to take a different route, this time heading up St. Agnes Beacon itself. Francine had done this little ascent on the afternoon of our arrival but it was new to me. In truth the ascent, especially the last stage to the top, is gentle though, as unused to ascents as I am, the slightly steeper lower section made me take a few breathers. The view from the top is impressive.

From the summit of the beacon, we headed down an unknown (to us) path into the town. Our new path took us into St. Agnes at the eastern end of town where there is a very good little coffee shop called Rooted. Here, we sat outside topping up our caffeine levels. The double espresso was just about the strongest espresso I have yet tasted; it definitely hit the spot.

Opposite the coffee shop I noticed the “Bearded Brewery”. I thought I should snap it to send on to my cousin, being an artisan beer fan. This place seemed to make more of its cider, though. There’s a bit of a biker connection with the proprietors, one of their ciders being called Tank Slapper at 8% ABV. I assume you’d slap the tank as you fell off your bike. More staggering though was a “small batch” cider called Super Cyder, weighing in at a mind-numbing 12.7% ABV. Strewth! Maybe luckily, the establishment didn’t open until 16:30 so I was safe.

We have had a couple of indifferent lunches out during our stay, first the largely tasteless calamari – apart from the salt & pepper coating – at the St. Agnes Hotel and then the rather oily whitebait with indifferent chips at the Driftwood Spars in Trevaunance Cove. We would both have preferred to sit on a bench munching a Cornish pastie. Today, that’s exactly what we did and very excellent pasties they were, too, from the St. Agnes bakery – good, crisp pastry filled with a handsome amount of decent steak.

Following our al fresco lunch, we did repair to the St. Agnes Hotel with its sunny outside tables and chairs to wash our food down with some more Rattler cider. It’s a grand place to watch the St. Agnes world go by. With me being largely reticent to attempt to drive a modest motorhome through St. Agnes, I watched in awe as a double decker bus made its way through. Some of the obstacles to be negotiated include cars parked on double yellows at the bend opposite the St. Agnes Hotel. I think double yellows mean “no parking unless you’re visiting the St. Agnes Bakery”, which is also nearby.

Back chez Frodo, our evening meal featured the interesting joint of meat we had purchased from the excellent Gloucester Services on our way down: the venison backstrap. This had us most intrigued because the only places we’ve come across the backstrap term regarding meat is in Australia and New Zealand. It is not a butchery term that, I think, many Brits are familiar with. We began to wonder if the farm shop had an antipodean butcher. Knowing no better, I treated this like a thick cut steak and did it for five minutes on each side in our universal skillet. It turned out a little rarer than I thought it might but it was succulent and excellent. A chicory salad went very well with it.

I have lost count of the number of times we have arrived at a campsite in brilliant weather only to have it collapse on subsequent days. Such was the case here at St. Agnes Beacon campsite – our first afternoon was fabulous and the next two mornings dawned with fog/thick mist. The first of these murky days was predicted not to brighten up but it did, happily. The second day was predicted to brighten up but it failed to do so. Such is the miracle of British weather forecasting.

This morning, however, was a breath of fresh air and something of a relief. We were treated to blue skies with scattered clouds and a good amount of sunshine. We just had to go and see Wheal Coates again, this time in favourable morning light. Visibility was such that we could see the buildings of St. Ives in the background.

For lunch, Chapel Porth beckoned. Once finished with our relatively early morning photography, we set off back over the intervening road heading for Wheal Coates once again, this time missing it to the left and heading down the rock-strewn paths into Chapel Porth. This time, to help (particularly me) back up the cliff paths, we were armed with our trekking poles.

Reaching the surfing beach’s car park, Francine went to the café to order lunch sandwiches. Francine fancied a crab sarnie but sadly there is an ongoing problem with the crab supply this year so she had to settle for prawns – very messy prawns, I might add. The crab supply issue is said to be due to octopus moving north and invading the crab pots. My porky sausage sandwich was a bit easier to deal with but I still got messy. [No change there, then.]

We sat surrounded by half the world’s dogs. Eventually a couple arrived with what appeared to be long-haired racehorses on leads. I thought they must be Irish Wolfhounds but I was wrong; they were apparently Scottish Deer Hounds, which are said to be more slender. They were still damn big, though.

With lunch still digesting, we began mounting the cliff paths back up towards Wheal Coates, aided by the trekking poles. Having puffed and panted my way back up from Trevaunance Cove yesterday, this time my ascent felt considerably less trouble, so much so that we continued beyond Wheal Coates, eventually doubling back on a higher path.

I’ve never been a great fan of either walking uphill or cycling uphill. I was very glad that this afternoon’s effort felt a bit better.

When we were in Moffat, Scotland, we stayed there largely to visit Francine’s niece. Now it was Franco’s turn. My cousin lives near Fowey on the south coast of Cornwall and we had arranged to meet. Being in a solo car, my cousin’s travel was much more flexible so we chose a pub in Trevaunance Cove within walking distance for us. With an iffy forecast, Francine had managed to book a table inside for 13:00.

Before that we had another misty/foggy morning – the gloom was quite dense. Later in the morning it began to drizzle, which had been forecast but we’d been hoping. The drizzle did abate in time for our 35-minute walk to Trevaunance Cove and the Driftwood Spars pub. Given the lack of visibility, we avoided the coastal path as being pointless and took the more direct route along the road.

When we arrived, well before time, the barman told us that he had “accidentally given our table away”. Very curious – how exactly do you accidentally give away a booked table? The oversight was irritating rather than a great problem since other tables were available though they were in a family friendly room which was a little noisier. We waited at the table with glasses of Rattler and eventually Cuz appeared complete with dog, which actually sat and remained calm.

We ordered food and some more Rattler, though I discovered that the ABV has been reduced to 5.5% from 6%. It still tastes good, though. Cuz was also happy ‘cos the pub brews its own beer. Our companions declared their fish ‘n’ chips excellent but we thought our whitebait was a bit below par – a tad greasy. The chips weren’t as good as those served with the fish, either. So, all in all, with “accidentally” giving away a booked table before time and with questionable whitebait, we weren’t over-impressed.

We bade farewell to my relies having declined a lift back to the campsite. The walk back was 90% uphill, the initial ascent out of Trevaunance Cove being v. steep and a complete pain in the lungs. I thought the uphill incline was never going to finish. Strangely, I didn’t remember the outbound journey being 90% downhill, though I certainly remembered the fierce knee-twinging descent down into Trevaunance Cove.

Why did I decline the lift? I know, I need the exercise.

The British weather strikes again. Yesterday, the forecast for our week ahead was fair with plenty of sunshine. We certainly finished yesterday with glorious sunshine, albeit with a cloud bank on the western horizon putting paid to sunset photos of Wheal Coates. Despite having had a startlingly wonderful summer, this morning we awoke shrouded in thick mist with the day’s forecast now suggesting mist/fog for most of the day. “Bother”, said Pooh, crossly. At least it wasn’t raining.

There are a few reasons for me to come to Cornwall, two of them being Cornish pasties and Rattler cider. We’d had one pasty at Sedgemoor services on our journey down but now I was keen to get my first pint of Rattler. We decided to walk through the mist across the lower part of the beacon into St. Agnes itself. ‘T was a little cool in the mist so I put on something more than a T-shirt.

Francine had been advertised at on Farcebook and was keen to find a clothing shop called Finisterre headquartered in St. Agnes. We began crossing the beacon in search of our goals. I soon realised that my change of clothing had been a mistake – I was over dressed and wished I’d kept my T-shirt option.

Entering St. Agnes, Francine began navigating using Google to find Finisterre. It wasn’t so much in St. Agnes as out the other side, up a fairly steep incline, down a few country lanes at another wheal, Wheal Kitty. I was uncomfortably warm and thought Finisterre may be able to supply me with a more comfortable T-shirt.

I am not one for over decorated T-shirts but happily most of those supplied by Finisterre were largely plain, with just a logo on the left breast. Less happily, they were all around the £40 mark, something of a mark-up from my usual £8. Still, needs must; Francine chose one of an unusual colour for me.

Meanwhile Francine had been eyeing up a thinly padded jacket with a hood but was baulking at the price, closer to £200 than £100. She switched her attention to a jumper which was a mere £120.

“Look, if you’re in love with it, get the jacket”. Having had her arm twisted, she succumbed … and got both the jacket and the jumper. At least Francine got a 10% discount for signing up to the  Finisterre newsletter.

The skies had largely cleared and we exited the shop in pleasant sunshine. The accommodating sales assistant removed my T-shirt labels so I could change into it and wear it home. It reminded me of buying a new pair of shoes as a child.

We walked more comfortably back down the hill before climbing another hill back into St. Agnes. Calling in to the St. Agnes Hotel, I was happy to see a Rattler pump on the bar. Even Francine fancied one – well, a half. We ordered two portions of their calamari and a second round of drinks. The calamari was okay but not the greatest.

My first taste of Rattler on this trip had cost a tad over £300.

Having recently spent nearly two weeks in Northumberland, after a week back at home base to collect ourselves, we are now heading to the opposite end of the country for 2½ weeks in Cornwall.

We took the opportunity to break what would have been a 300-mile journey with an overnight at our friend’s house near Stroud; that would break the journey into one third and two thirds and we’d catch up after far too long with the erstwhile owner of Scamp, the dog we’d to looked after in Spain for several years, though he’s no longer with us.

10 minutes before our overnight destination is Gloucester Services on the M5 with an excellent Farm Shop. It’s associated with the other wonderful motorway service area, Tebay, on the M6. To me, this looked better. I could easily have spent a fortune on meat and cheese but with limited cooking facilities in Frodo, I contented myself with two hunks of cheese, a curiously named “Wyfe of Bath” and some Montgomery Cheddar, together with an irresistible piece of “venison backstrap”, a cut we have not heard of since being in New Zealand.

Mr. Scamp now has a new little cutie called Lola, so he’s going to have to become Mr. Lola.  Lola is a difficult-to-imagine cross between a Jack Russel [not my favourite dogs] and a Chihuahua. (The mental image that mating conjures up doesn’t bear thinking about). Happily, Lola seems to have inherited more Chihuahua traits than Jack Russel traits; she’s quite delightful.

After our overnight stop on Saturday, we set off at about 10:00 on Sunday to head into Cornwall, pausing at Sedgemoor Services to get a Cornish pastie for brunch.

The forecast for the week ahead was excellent. Last time Frodo visited Cornwall he was just a baby. We were staying at St. Agnes Beacon when Frodo sprung a distressing leak during some very heavy rain that Cornwall chose to throw at us. We had to high-tail it home. We are due some better luck so the forecast was very welcome.

Once again we were beginning our Cornwall visit at St. Agnes Beacon. The Caravan Club campsite there offers great access to the coastal path and to the iconic Wheal Coates, an old tin mine overlooking the sea.

Like good folks, we began our approach run shortly after 14:00. You are not allowed to arrive before 13:00. The idea behind this restriction is largely to ensure that you don’t meet other departing camper units travelling in the opposite direction on challengingly narrow lanes, and the road approaching the St. Agnes Beacon site is, in places, very challenging.

As planned, we didn’t meet any departing camper units heading outbound. Unfortunately the Caravan Club rules about arrival and departure cannot legislate for Joe Public. In one of the narrowest stretches of lane we did meet a Transit coming towards us. The Transit was being closely followed by three other cars. I gulped, cursed, and began trying to reverse Frodo to find some form of passing place. Clashing slightly with the surrounding hedges once or twice, happily not seriously, we finally found a spot where the other cars could squeeze by. Breathe in everybody.

We continued, rounded a corner and soon bumped into [NOT literally] another stream of four more cars. The road here was a little more forgiving though. We’ve been to St. Agnes Breacon on at least four occasions and never met that much traffic. I suspect that Sunday afternoon, surfers and tide times were at least partly to blame.

With jangling nerves, we finally checked in and got Frodo settled.

One thing we have never done on all our visits here is to walk up to the top of St. Agnes beacon itself. At 17:00 or so in brilliant sunshine, Francine decided to go for it. With my difficulties of exercise late in the day, I chose to remain with another nerve-settling drink while Francine enjoyed the view from the top.

What we have done on numerous occasions is try to capture The majesty of Wheal Coates. Given the favourable forecast I was hoping I might be able to capture the setting sun behind the mine ruins. Sadly today, British weather being what it usually is, after a brilliantly sunny afternoon, a cloud bank positioned itself on the western horizon behind the mine. There was a hint of sunset colour, which Francine managed to capture on her mobile phone camera but a setting sun through a window aperture was not going to happen.

Fingers crossed for another day.