10 Years on - Looe and Polperro

 

     Looe and Polperro 

Pat and Yvonne left for home early this morning, sending a text to say ‘see you when you get back’. Felt a wee bit strange to tell the truth. However, I still had the rest of the week to enjoy and I was also up early to catch a train to Newton Abbott where I would join the Exeter to Plymouth express, jumping ship at Liskeard. Wasn’t sure what I was expecting but the train was hardly an express, it stopped at every station en route. And it consisted of just two coaches. On board I struggled through the throng of passengers to find a seat in the sardine can and found myself sitting alongside a chump decked out in full Manchester United football gear. Man U grey jogging suit, Man U replica shirt, Man U trainers, even a Man U baseball cap. Looked a right plonker. I guessed he was about 19 or 20 with the mentality of a 13 year old. He sat there alongside who I took to be his mum, a slight looking lady who looked half starved to death, probably due to having to manage on the scraps her oaf of a son left on his plate. These were my thoughts at any rate. To complete the picture of imbecility he sat entranced with the play station on his lap throughout the one and a half hour journey. I’m attracted to dunderheads like these and we were soon joined by another character, a lanky student type with long hair and goatee beard. Edging near to us he suddenly thought it would be a good idea to sit on the floor! Ear plugs in he nodded back and forth as he listened to something undoubtedly avant garde like Frank Zappa, Henry Cow, Quintessence, who knows? He did this while all around were struggling to stand upright on the rattling train. I looked at him with scorn. Christ I can, and have been, a bit of poser during my time on this earth but sometimes you have to hold your hands up, there’s always a bigger plonker somewhere down the line.

The Liskeard to Looe line was a single track. One coach was deemed sufficient by South Western Railways it seemed and as there were only a handful of people on it, maybe they’d got this one right.

Last time I was in Looe was way back in 1964 when I arrived on a bus with my parents and sister Gwyneth. We were on holiday in a caravan park at Sandy Bay, near Exmouth, Devon, with a beach that stank with an odious stench of seaweed that poisoned the air. It was no wonder our parents dragged me and Gwyneth off on a few of trips, if only to get away from the smell. 

My main memory of that holiday though, apart from the stink, was being too ill to enjoy this excursion to Looe and Polperro. As a kid I was hopeless on coach journeys, threw up every time. To get to Looe we travelled over Dartmoor on a lousy miserable wet day and it was sheer murder. I was as sick as a dog. Despite all this, I wanted to go back to have another look at the place. 

First impressions was that Looe hadn’t altered at all that since I last set foot there some fifty years before. I remembered the road bridge over the river which split the village in two but I’d be kidding if I claimed to recall much else from that awful day in 1964.

The weather was kind, lovely sunny day and I wandered around the harbour taking photographs, walked down to the beach, took more photographs and the thought did cross my mind; ‘I’ll bore every bugger to death with these when I get home!’

The temperature was rising with the sun out in all its glory. I was getting hot and hungry so decided it was time for a bite to eat and a coke. I don’t drink alcohol when I’m roaming about on my own during the day. Like to keep a clear head. 

Something I had been looking forward to on this trip was a genuine good old fashioned traditional Cornish Pastie. ‘Can't beat the real thing’ I told myself. I was in for a huge disappointment. The pastie I bought from a cafe by the harbour looked the ‘real thing’ but was basically a tasteless lump of pastry with little filling, or maybe they forgot to put the filling in. Garbage. That may sound like a whinge for the sake of it but no way. The pie was dispatched to the bin. The Coke was ok though.

Looe was lovely, apart from the pasties. High cliffs with houses perched on top offering a panoramic view surrounding the village and harbour. Picturesque. Which I managed to capture on my reliable Lumix camera. With time passing by I decided to walk to Polperro which was, according to my guidebook, only four miles away on a coastal path. It was a wonderful view but one thing soon became worrying. There was no sign or indication I was heading in the right direction. No matter, I ploughed on in the baking sun and came across a footpath leading down to a shelter half way down the cliff. Ideal for a break and some respite from the heat. I headed for it and sat on a bench. 

Taking my jumper off a young couple suddenly appeared, caught me by surprise too, but I took advantage; “Afternoon” I said. “would you take a photo of me with my back to the view?” 

I must have walked around two miles before coming across a coastguard station and a road sign stating I was on my way to Hennaphore. 

‘Where the hell is that?’ 

’Where's Polperro?’ Then a bus came along, coming from the Hennaphore direction, with Polperro on its destination board! 

‘Bollocks!” I was on the wrong road!’ 

I sat on another bench to enjoy a few more rays and to contemplate what to do next. It was too hot for rambling. Even the seagulls were sweating.

Returning to Looe I made my way to a bus shelter and waited for a bus to Polperro. No sooner had I perched myself on a seat when a couple of old codgers joined me and began twittering on about the weather, the bus timetables, the price of meat… 

“Yes, terrible isn't it” I offered. Didn’t have a clue really as to what they were on about. The gent attempted to indulge me in conversation but I was having none of it. Boring. I couldn't give a monkeys about the school bus…the price of a pork chop.. I was tempted to say “Cornish pasties aren’t what they used to be” but felt he might be insulted. Bit like going to Dublin and complaining about the Guinness. 

The bus eventually arrived and I left the old couple to talk to themselves.

Polperro was tiny. Small typical fishing village but I didn’t remember anything about it from my previous visit, which was 50 years ago I reminded myself. The trip seemed like a waste of time. Nice enough but I was beginning to think; ‘seen one Cornish fishing village, you’ve seen them all!’ 

What was I expecting? Pirates and Long John Silver supping a pint of grog outside the Admiral Benbow? 

‘Ah, my hearty!’ Think that’s what they said in Treasure Island. Long time since I read that book.

*

Back in Teignmouth after an interesting if slightly disappointing trip there was still no sign of an inebriated landlady at The Bay Hotel. I figured she was probably in rehab. Changed and refreshed I headed off to a pub called the Jolly Sailor for some dinner. I just made it. The barman was clearly reluctant to serve me a meal, asking the chef if he was still cooking, looking at his watch again, before he grudgingly gave me a menu. Well this guy wasn’t the Jolly Sailor I mused. Miserable prick. I ordered cod and chips, thinking it would be simple enough for the chef to knock up. I mean I didn’t want to put him out by asking for a Thai Curry or a Vietnamese Nhúng dấm (Fire pot with a combination of sliced rare beef and seafood cooked in sour broth, served with thin rice vermicelli noodles, fresh vegetables, rice spring roll wrapper, and dipping sauce.) Alright, I checked that one out but you get my drift. 

Cod and Gammon Steak was the best the Jolly Sailor could offer. As long as you gave the chef and barman plenty of notice apparently.

I took a seat near a window and relaxed with a pint of Cornish Tribute Ale. On the next table to me was a sour looking couple sitting opposite each other, eating a meal and in the middle of having a spat. Bickering at each other while they nibbled away, their squabble was abruptly interrupted when the ringtone on my mobile went off, Dylan’s ‘Subterranean Homesick Blues’ once more drowning a debate.

At times like this it can be a tad embarrassing and worse when you can’t find the button to turn the damn thing off or turn the volume down. Half the pub turned round as I fumbled with the phone. Happy-Go-Lucky sitting next to me glared, chip poised in mid air, half way to his mouth. These things happen. I wasn’t going to apologise, I looked at him, smiled and tried to make a joke out of it.“Wake the dead this thing!”                                                                                                  I said. 

“Yeah” he grunted with a face like a smacked arse.

I eventually managed to turn Dylan off and they continued their tiff. ‘Happy bloody pair’ I thought to myself. Next minute, their row erupted, the woman stood up and shouted “suit your fucking self!” before storming off. ‘Happy’ gobbled his last chip and followed her. Well, that was a bit of cabaret I didn’t expect…

I imagined ‘Happy’ was going to batter her but thought hopefully he wasn’t that kind of bloke. ‘Jolly’ they called this place?
Another pint and I headed back to the deserted hotel, tired and looking forward to my next adventure the following day. Wondering what delights Exmouth and Sandy Bay would bring. Wondering if the place still stank..