In the middle of last night the Great British weather let rip with a vengeance; I was awoken by the orchestrated sounds of buffeting wind and lashing rain. Pity the wild animals on a night such as that. By morning, both wind and rain had abated. Though the scenes to which we awoke could not be said to be cheerful, they were at least calm.

Checking today’s forecast did nothing to raise our spirits; from midday onwards our chance of heavy rain varied between 80% and >=95%. Given our track record this year, that equated to a 100% chance of heavy rain. Maybe we’d see something vaguely interesting in the short window of morning remaining after getting everyone ready to leave the cottage.

Top daily agenda item following breakfast has been feeding the farm’s waste disposal machines with last evenings vegetable waste. The waste disposal machines in question are six young Gloucestershire Old Spot pigs who get their diet enriched by the resident tourists’ leftovers. For a few years at home, we’ve been collecting raw vegetable waste for throwing into our compost bin. This may save our filling of the rubbish bin but have we done anything with the compost? No. Here is a much better use for vegetable waste, growing sausages and bacon. Since the good ol’ BSE epidemic caused by feeding animals back to animals several years ago, the pigs aren’t given any meat products but basically everything else they recycle very effectively. Marvellous idea!

Almost as soon as we set out, rain arrived. We popped our noses into a couple of bays north of Bude but to no avail, neither proved suitable for mobility challenged ladies. We surrendered and returned to Crackington Haven where at least the pub would offer a view over the bay and, with luck, another round of crab sandwiches. And so it did, though the sandwiches were less exciting than those from the 16th C. coaching inn at Pendoggett a few days earlier.

The jigsaw puzzle amused les dames for the remainder of our final afternoon. For the second time this year, I will not be sorry to leave and get home. 🙁

Courtesy of the eminent Mr. Rick Stein [all hail!], probably the most widely known town in the whole of Cornwall is Padstow, or Padstein as some wits like to tag it because of the plethora of the great man’s businesses in the town. Another of our lessons from BBC Radio Cornwall was that some typically inventive artist has conceived a controversial plan for a sculpture in Padstow harbour. The Padstow harbour sculpture project is seeking to erect a giant mussel shell, prominently positioned on the harbour wall, atop a support resembling a curved lamppost. The sculpture and support will be ~5 metres (~16 feet) tall. The siting of the sculpture is critical because – and here’s the clever bit – the mussel shell is to be engineered to open and close with the rising and falling tide. Merveilleuse! The controversy is at least partially caused by the thought that the giant bivalve will be very prominently placed and, paraphrasing one local, will not be in keeping with the ambience of the town and will be unavoidably in your face. Whilst I find the idea of the sculpture and particularly its engineering fascinating, I think I’m inclined to agree with my paraphrased local.

After yesterday’s almost incessant rain, we were all a little stir crazy. Since we had an appointment with a valid tasting of a decent Cornish pasty, we headed for Padstow where the Chough bakery (one business that’s nothing to do with the eminent Mr. Stein) supplies some of the best. Padstow suffers in the very same way that Port Isaac now suffers; it was always a popular tourist destination and Mr. Stein’s media presence has made it even more so. After two circuits driving round Padstow’s narrow streets at walking pace, all the while carefully avoiding swarms of inattentive, wandering tourists doing their level best to demonstrate Brownian motion, we finally found a 30-minute parking spot and extracted our mothers with their rollators to sample traditional steak, potato and swede [rutabaga, in Amerispeak] pasties whilst overlooking the harbour. One advantage of rollators is that they come equipped with brakes and a seat for occasions when the fixed civic seats are all occupied; les mères appeared very content.

With the sun continuing its rare appearance, we continued driving into and out of various dead end roads to various Cornish bays before ending up at the National Trust’s Carnewas and Bedruthen Steps. Francine was quick on the draw with her NT membership and, after pausing for a witty natter with a jovial car park attendant, we got les mères to roll/wander into the cafe tea garden where they could slurp a cuppa and sit in the sun while we went to peer over the cliffs and admire the awe-inspiring view.

An observation on mobility difficulties: were les mères more disabled and in wheelchairs, they’d have been able to enjoy the Bedruthen Steps view whereas the rollators, not being 4WD, can no more negotiate the the gravelly track to the Bedruthen Steps overlook than they were able to negotiate the cobblestones outside the Jamaica Inn. [No, I don’t wish being more disabled upon them, being wheelchair-bound is clearly more limiting in other ways, but I thought this restriction interesting.]

An enjoyable sunny afternoon but, if the weather guesses are anything like accurate, it may be all we get.

Now there’s a title for song, to be written by a suitably skilled  guitar-twanging tourist whilst waiting for a break in the Great British weather.

Borrowing I believe to be a most appropriate phrase from a friend of mine, the UK’s weather guessing service had been guessing at a dismal day of heavy rain for some time. Actually, the weather guessing service was changing its guess about every ten minutes but a consistent message could be discerned: Wednesday was going to be complete and utter pants and not a day for going out sightseeing. In fact, Wednesday wasn’t a day for going out at all so my three lady companions set about what proved to be a fiendishly difficult jigsaw which had been packed for just such an eventuality.

And this is what the jigsaw is supposed to look like.

Today felt a bit like Bunree revisited; bad memories of our recent, meteorologically disastrous, Scottish excursion. Today’s rain in north Cornwall broke every now and then for all of five minutes at a time but not long enough for us to do anything touristically constructive. The day’s highlight for me, as a non-jigsaw person, was a trip to a supermarket to buy the ingredients for a Fish Crumble.

I spotted the beginnings of stir-craziness, even in my mobility challenged mother.

With a gap in the rain, today we took les mères on a bit of a north Cornwall coastal drive. First we plunged down one steep and twisting road into Port Gaverne before we immediately drove up another steep road out of Port Gaverne to cover the mere half mile or so to Port Isaac.

The “main” road into Port Isaac, a.k.a. Port Wenn in the Doc Martin TV series, was being comprehensively blocked by a tag team consisting of a coach disgorging swarms of tourists, and a builders truck attempting to exit. Well done, team! Port Isaac, being extremely picturesque, was always a great tourist destination in it’s own right but now, as Port Wenn in the successful Doc Martin series, this schizophrenic Cornish coastal village is even more popular. Knowing a little of the local road layout, we found a sneaky side road by which to circumnavigate the bouchon [traffic jam]. With a couple of passengers that can neither handle steps nor steepish slopes, stopping in Port Isaac was always going to be pointless so we contented ourselves with an “ooh, ah” drive through.

After another steeply climbing exit, we plunged down another 20% (1 in 5) descent into the diminutive harbour of Port Quinn. There used to be a free National trust car park in Port Quinn; the car park is still there but it is no longer free. Were we able to admire a view of the bay/harbour from the car park, there would have been a point in stopping but, as it was, no view presented itself. This is something of a pattern in Cornwall, there are car parks around but you generally have to walk from them to see anything. Whilst this is no problem, indeed it’s enjoyable, for Francine and I, it is not ideal for our elderly charges armed with non-4WD rollators. Port Quinn to Port Isaac is a stunning British coastal path walk, a favourite of mine.

After climbing another 20% hill to leave Port Quinn, it was on to Polzeath where we finally found a car park atop the cliffs with a panoramic view: Polzeath Bay. We sat in the shelter of the car admiring the panorama, under our now all-too-familiar grey skies, and watching a handful of surfers sitting on their boards for ages before struggling to paddle them out against the breakers to ride a few metres back again. Curious sport.

Next stop was Rock, summer playground of the irritatingly rich, upwardly mobile bright young things and, much more importantly, home of an excellent wet fish shop, Rock Fish, where we purchased a fine 3+ pound Brill large enough to feed four.

On our homeward bound route, in Pendoggett Francine spotted the Cornish Arms, a 16th C. coaching Inn with a car park and an entrance that looked accessible to our matched pair of non-4WD rollators. I did a deft U-turn and we returned. We parked, mounted the rollators and entered. Bingo! The barman wisely sold Cornish Rattler and the menu boasted yet another Cornish gastronomic classic: fresh crab sandwiches. Les deux mères had been salivating over such a find. Francine and vielle mère #1 decided to share one so, after Mr. Barkeep checked availability, we ordered three. I swear this was the finest fresh crab I have ever tasted, and I did not hesitate to tell mein host so. It’s too easy to complain when things are substandard without praising when they are very good.

Now it was just up to me to transform our magnificent Brill into a substitute version of one of the eminent Mr. Stein’s early classics, Ragoût of Turbot and Scallops, but sans the scallops – that would have been too much for a couple of aging, delicate digestive systems.

I confess that Francine and I hardly ever listen to the radio. I am usually particularly critical of local radio announcing that, once again, the fire brigade was called out to rescue Mrs. Smith’s cat, Tiddles, who was yet again stuck up a tree. However, several years ago during a trip with Guillaume, we surprised ourselves by becoming hooked on a BBC Radio Cornwall breakfast programme hosted by James Churchfield and Pam Spriggs. We even tried to get a sticker for the car. Weirdly out of character! So, now we’ve returned to Cornwall and have Wi-Fi access, we wanted to listen in again, largely for weather forecasts but also for the entertainment value. The programme immediately proved educational.

Back to one of Cornwall’s favourite gourmet delights, the Cornish pasty. It seems that today, Monday 1st October, sees the beginning of what I can only describe as one of our dearly beloathed government’s more governmental ideas: Pasty Tax. ¿Que? Yes, Pasty Tax. Here’s what I THINK the idea is though, as usual with governmental implementations, the precise rules seem to have those concerned in some confusion. A business can cook food on the premises and sell it fresh, hot, straight from the oven whereupon 20% VAT would notapply. If, however, Mr. Purveyor cooks his product and then keeps it hot in a warming cabinet, 20% VAT would apply. How are most Cornish pasties sold? Quite right, from a warming cabinet, hence the local vernacular tag of Pasty Tax for this latest barking mad government money-grabbing scheme which applies to hot foods in general. The unpalatable choice we have been forced into making is between a 20% price increase or pasties varying, in an unpredictable way depending upon how long ago it was cooked, between hot, warm, tepid and stone cold, with all degrees in between. Who wants a cold pasty? Indeed, who wants an unpredictable pasty? Rule Britannia!

Following our educational breakfast, we packed the mothers and their rollators in the car and shot off inland to Bodmin Moor. Francine and I have visited Cornwall several times before but, other than driving across part of it on the main road, have never before visited the moor. Our first target, thinking that les dames night be interested, was Jamaica Inn, made famous for smuggling connections by novelist Daphne du Maurier. As well as a museum, there is the more interesting Smugglers Bar selling another of Cornwall’s gastronomic delights, Cornish Rattler cider. It seems that rollators cannot quite handle cobble stones, many of which led a considerable distance to the bar’s front entrance. My already salivating taste buds envisioned their pint of Rattler drifting off tantalizingly into the distance. Damn! (I wonder if there are any 4WD rollators available?) Saving my sanity was a back entrance with two separate single steps which the rollators could apparently manage, given the correct driving skills. Finally settling down to my Rattler with considerable relief, our English accents were greatly outnumbered by American accents quizzing the barman about beer/ale/bitter.

The rain began soon after that first port of call and intermittently followed us around our moorland tour. Our weather luck is running true to this year’s established form.

I had discovered an award-winning business not two miles from our rental cottage and decided to call on our way home hoping hoping to find something to appeal to les meres for dinner. Tregida smokehouse produces a wide variety of hot and cold smoked goods, mainly fish but also duck, chicken and cheese. Having rattled my car load of females and mobility equipment down several mud-covered, single track lanes, we came across a most unlikely looking business premises. “All visitors please call at the office”, a sign said. The office turned out to be a ramshackle old static caravan up on blocks with it’s bent and buckled door hanging off its hinges. I parked and approached the office. A lady somehow managed to open the office door to come out and meet me.

“I come in search of smoked goods”, I announced brightly.

Although the Tregida website seems to make no mention of it, there is another Tregida business in Launceston with facilities to sell to the public. These premises were really just one of two smoking operations and not intended as a retail outlet. Actually, the business really concentrates on wholesale. Nonetheless, they were very accommodating, let us in and sold us three packs of oak-roasted trout fillets from their meagre store room. (Most goods are at the other business in Launceston.) We even won a sizeable discount “to make pricing easier” (a round £10). What pleasant, helpful people.

Oddly, some sun began to appear so, having dumped les mères unceremoniously back at the cottage, we went out again to Crackington Haven, our closest coastal point, for Francine to chance her arm at some evening light photography. The wind was strong, blowing straight into the opening of the now inappropriately named haven and piling rollers into the shore. The wind was also blowing salt spray all over Francine, Francine’s tripod, camera and expensive set of Lee filters.

In such conditions and with light rapidly disappearing, we returned to feed our charges on Smoked Trout and Leek Risotto. It went down a storm.

Last year at about this time of year, we took our two getting-on-in-years mothers to south Devon for a week. One being 90 and the other 94, neither is particularly mobile and both have their own little foibles [don’t we all?]:

• “I like a single bed”;
• “I like a double bed”;
• the settees must be high so they can get back up again (modern ones aren’t, of course);
• neither can handle steps well (just like Daleks), nor a steep slope, come to that (unlike Daleks);
• bedside lights must be bright otherwise they can’t read (most energy-saving bulbs are too dim);

the list goes on.

Challenge #1, which Francine indefatigably rises to, is finding suitable accommodation. That’s not easy since most places are geared up to families.

Challenge#2, a puzzle I must solve, is getting all the required travelling paraphernalia – two rollators, set of crutches, walking stick, toilet booster seat etc. – into the car such that we can also cram in four pieces of luggage. Somehow, I managed it.

This year, we decided to go for a repeat performance, this time in Cornwall. It’s a few years since we’ve been to Cornwall. Francine once again gamely sets about finding suitable accommodation and, after about a week of effort, finds a candidate. “Has it got a sea view?” Arghhhh!

Finally, the day of departure is upon us and we’ve gathered a mountain of stuff to stuff into the car. If only I could remember how I solved the puzzle last year! Actually, this year I have two additional little items to cram in: Francine’s camera rucksack and tripod bag, as if there weren’t enough to carry already. After a couple of false starts, it’s in and we’re off.

I was in one of those cruise-along at-lorry/truck-speed moods – it makes the driving less stressful and, I like to think, more comfortable for my aging passengers (the mothers, not Francine). Cruising into Cornwall takes about five hours so naturally a natural break is needed. We pulled into our favourite M5 southbound service area.

Challenge #3. Getting our mothers to the toilets requires the rollators. The rollators are necessarily behind everything else so before they can be extracted from the car, I first have to unload four pieces of luggage, one camera rucksack, a tripod bag, crutches, walking sticks and a toilet booster seat. Off roll the mothers. Four pieces of luggage, one camera rucksack, a tripod bag, crutches, walking sticks and a toilet booster seat must then be returned to the car before everything can be left securely. Finally, I get to join the rush for the toilets.

Much relieved and with two hours still to drive, we settle down to our first Cornish pasties for lunch. We even found a table outside in a peculiar commodity called sunshine.

Now repeat challenge #3 in reverse: unload four pieces of luggage, one camera rucksack, tripod bag, crutches, walking sticks and a toilet booster to make way for the rollators; reload four pieces of luggage, one camera rucksack, tripod bag, crutches, walking sticks and a toilet booster seat – if, of course, you can remember how they went in.

We arrived in Cornwall at Fentrigan Manor Farm, our chosen accommodation for the week, with that ephemeral sun of ours still shining. If our year runs true to form, that will be the last we see of it.