A Perfect Day

In the early summer of 1994, our last exam behind us, Ann and I took off for Cornwall. We stuffed a tent and some bags into the boot of my little car and roared away.

One evening, perhaps a week after leaving London, we were bumping along a narrow lane somewhere between St. Austell and Falmouth. We had passed a pleasant afternoon swimming and walking, but had then recklessly eschewed our intended campsite and pressed on westwards. Now: it was getting dark; a thick sea-mist had rolled in; the car was starting to play up; and we were lost. Worse, we were beginning to become irritable with one another.

We descended slowly into yet another fishing village, white-washed stone buildings looming eerily out of the fog.

"If this is Portloe, there ought to be an hotel here," said Ann, juggling guidebook, map and torch.

Indeed there was. With relief, I nosed the little car off the road and slotted it between two very smart, executive saloons. We looked at one another uncertainly. We had started the holiday with only £250 in cash. In those student days, there were no credit cards, no overdrafts. Once our money was gone, it was gone.

Like children peeking between the banisters when they ought to be in bed, we peered tentatively through the grand double doors at the decor within.

"It looks awfully sodding expensive," Ann whispered. I nodded.

We pushed at the doors and crept quietly, damply, across the plush carpet to the unmanned reception desk. A gentle tinkling and a soft suspiration of refined conversation escaped from the dining room. I picked up a menu and we scanned it together.

"Can I help you?"

We swiveled to see a smartly-dressed woman, her eyebrow raised. I swallowed nervously.

"Err... Do you have a table for two?" There was a lengthy pause.

"Perhaps. Let me see." As she consulted her oversize diary, Ann caught my eye and shook her head. I pressed on.

"Oh, and do you happen to have any rooms available?" Smartly-dressed woman looked up and regarded us suspiciously. Her experienced eye took in my faded jeans, Ann's lack of make-up, our salty hair. A longer pause.

"Yes, we do," she replied eventually. "Just for tonight?" I nodded.

She told us the price. More than we had. Although, to be fair, it included breakfast.

"I'll get our bags," I said.

"I'll give you a hand," said Ann

In the car park, we couldn't stop giggling.

"It's not funny," I managed eventually. "We're going to have to sleep on the beach."

Dejected, we climbed back into the car. The engine burst reluctantly back into life and we started to climb up the hill and out of the village. Suddenly, Ann leaned forward.

"What's that?"

High in the air, visible through a hole in the thick fog, we could see a brightly-lit sign. A picture of a frigate and, beneath it, the words: 'Ship Inn'.

A fire crackled in the hearth of the busy saloon bar and the landlord beamed a welcome. They had a room for the night that we could easily afford.

"You couldn't rustle us up something to eat, could you?" I asked hopefully as I took a sip of my pint and stretched out my feet.

"I should think so," the landlord replied. He nodded in the direction of one of his patrons. "Jim here just landed a load of scallops. Those suit you?"

Ann and I returned to the Ship Inn at Portloe often. However, nothing matched the pleasure of its discovery. That was a perfect day.

The perfect day, like a good life, has to have contrast. No one enjoys a book which describes only triumph; but triumph over adversity...

I have noticed that some of the lovely people who have left comments on this Blog are 'crafty' people. You knit, you sew, you weave and you spin.

But, you see, I can spin too.

Home-spun philosophy anyone?