Penzance 10 Years On

 

Penzance

I was midway through the week and now ready to go further south, to Penzance, the last stop on the British Railways Southern Region map. The train journey from Teignmouth took three hours; it seemed longer. Stopping at every station. I left earlier than originally planned in the hope I would get to my hotel in plenty of time to catch the Liverpool v Newcastle game in a pub. A game now rendered an anticlimax after the Reds’ surprise defeat at Crystal Palace a few days before which saw their championship hopes disappear down the pan, but never mind, it was still something to look forward to.

1969 was the last time I was in Penzance. When on holiday with my then girlfriend Sue and my family at Newquay. I have a couple of photographs of the town from back then which I wanted to compare to how it looks 45 years on. Virtually the same! Which was a surprise but then again, maybe not.

Arriving at the furthest point south of the British Rail network at around 1.30pm and aware that I couldn’t get into my hotel until 4pm I headed for the pub right opposite the station, The Longboat. They were serving Sunday roasts so that was handy and I slumped into a comfy chair and relaxed with a pint before having a meal. Wonderful. The bar staff were really nice and helpful too. I felt optimistic I was going to enjoy myself down here.

With time getting ever closer to kick off I set off to find my hotel, the Con Amore, located, I guessed, about a mile and a half away. The proprietors had informed me I wouldn’t be able to get in until after 4pm but I thought it was worth a go. Dragging my hold-all along was getting on my tits now, the silly little wheels going all over the place at every bump in the pavement. 

I found the Con Amore up a side street, knocked the door, rang the bell, no answer, and realised the owners were sticking to their rules and had no intention of letting me in until the designated time. I sighed. ’Typical of this country..’ I thought. 

Disappointed and more than weary I sat on a patio chair by the wall in the front garden to watch the world go by, hoping the owners might have just gone to the shops or something. I might have looked like a vagrant to passers by, eyes were cast my way, but I couldn’t give a toss. 

I was sitting there, grumbling to myself about the lack of hospitality in this part of the world; ‘They don’t want you on their premises any longer than necessary do they? You’re not allowed in till as late as they can get away with, you’re kicked out on day of departure at the earliest possible time. They take your money and it’s thank you, bugger off! That’s how it seems to me!’ 

Unlike in Wales where they sing ‘There’ll be a welcome in the hillsides.’ There was little of that down here in Cornwall. Though I do recall our Aunt Nellie greeting us off the bus in Treorchy when we were kids after a long day’s travelling and the first thing she used to say was “When you going back?” 

That used to crack me up. And my Dad; ‘Jesus Christ!’ he’d say to his sister Nellie ‘give us a chance to get off the bloody bus!’     

Nellie

Nellie was funny as hell. Diminutive, never had her teeth in, always laughing. Thinking about her cheered me up as I sat there getting more fed up by the minute.Eventually I gave up and trudged back to the Longboat to watch the Liverpool game. 

By this time the pub was full of Liverpool supporters, all bedecked in red and replica shirts. I thought there must be a Supporters Branch down here in deepest Cornwall, maybe exiled Liverpudlians, but there wasn’t a Scouse accent to be heard. Didn’t surprise me to be honest.

Settling down with a pint and finding a seat just in time for the kick off, I listened to the Reds supporters talking excitedly amongst themselves. It soon became apparent that they had no idea of the club at all, the history, anything, other than they had a vague idea that Liverpool was somewhere up in the North West. I heard them discuss this. Unbelievable.

As it was, the game was dire; Newcastle scored and went in at half time leading 1-0 which meant that the mathematical chance of becoming champions was slowly going down the pan. 

I traipsed back to the Con Amore after the game and thankfully the owners were in. Simon was pleasant enough but I couldn’t help think that along with his wife they had been hiding out the back until the clock had struck four. At the designated hour he let me in, shuffled through the formalities, name, address, booking number etc and showed me to my room, a converted attic. Nothing wrong with that apart from there being no window, only a skylight that I had to stretch and crane my neck to try and look outside which was impossible. The lock on my door didn't work either but Simon promised he’d get it fixed. Nice of him. With my expectations getting lower by the minute Simon then informed me that the bathroom, which was in the corridor, also had a lock on the door which wasn’t working!

I looked at him; “So when I want the toilet or a shower I’ll have to take my luggage along to jam against the door?” I asked with a hint of sarcasm. Simon did look a bit sheepish and apologised, promising me he’d fix that too, before leaving with a parting shot as he headed down the stairs; ‘Breakfast is served between half seven and half eight because my wife has to take the kids to school and it’s a lot of hassle trying to organise breakfast around getting the kids ready.’

I felt like apologising for putting them out. 

I didn’t make breakfast but pilfered a few biscuits out of the dining room before taking a walk along the Penzance seafront to suss things out. The lay of the land, beach, harbour, where to get a bus to Lands End which was where I was heading tomorrow. It was a little strange. Nobody around. The sea didn’t look that inviting, not that I was thinking of having a dip, it was chilly. There was an outdoor lido which was closed because of storm damage, a familiar scene along this coast I was discovering. Fencing surrounded the lido, ‘For Health and Safety’ reasons. Made it look quite sad. It truly did look battered. Before I realised it, I was walking into Newlyn, a small fishing community on the periphery of Penzance with some interesting looking pubs and characters around. The smell of the sea and fish was prominent, lovely if you like that sort of thing. I do. Looking at the fishing boats tied up and the few hardy souls going about their business left me feeling in awe of these people. Big red bearded blokes they looked like real hard men. What they do for a living, fishing the Atlantic waters  in all kinds of weather, well, made me realise what an easy life I’d had working in pubs, and driving for the Royal Mail.

It transpired that if I’d carried on walking a few miles I would have come to Mousehole, another fishing village. I mentioned this to the barmaid in the Bath Inn. She corrected me; ‘it’s Mousel’. Which sounded a tad Scottish to me, like when the Jocks say ‘mysel' instead of myself. 

Ok, to the layman, Mousehole reads the way it’s spelt and to me it was Mousehole. Had the impression they were a little embarrassed about the name, as if they thought it sounded naff. Sounded good to me, different. That aside one thing I was discovering on my travels in Devon and Cornwall was that the beer is superb. Cornish Ales, Skinners Ales. One with an unlikely name of Betty Stogs was my favourite. Doombar was ever present as was Tribute. All quality. The Bath Inn was situated right near to my abode at Con Amore and became my relaxing point at the end of a day whilst I was in Penzance.

I retired early, went back to my cell at the Con and read some more of a great autobiography of Swedish footballer Zlatan Ibrohimivic. I slept like a log. 

Oh and Liverpool won 2-1. Didn’t make any difference whatsoever though. Man City were the champions.