|A bit of a downcast Cauli early on - he wanted a pain au chocolat, he got raspberries|
Tuesday morning found me in Truro, the Cornish capital and easily my favourite inland Cornwall place, not that Redruth, Bodmin and Camborne offer massive competition, let's be honest here.
After the farcical scenes of Monday (waterlogged GBG, aborted Scilly, pub opening hour mishaps, trains not behaving as they should), I was hoping for an uneventful, smoother passage to BRAPA success today.
WRONG! At Truro bus station, the electronic and manual bus timetables are all telling me that the 10:43 I'd been banking on doesn't even exist! So why is Bustimes.org and Google Maps (normally so reliable) telling me otherwise? I checked with a man who worked in the office, and he confirms my worst fears.
90 minute wait! Ugh. Still only 10:20am, I quickly reconciled myself to the fact I had a long wait so got engrossed in my phone doing an extremely detailed, drilled down plan of campaign for the day (I usually leave things fairly flexible because I'm so often let down by public transport).
Satisfied with my plan of campaign, I just so happen to glance up (it is 10:44) to see MY bus, the 10:43 which allegedly didn't exist, reversing out of the station and speeding off. I wave frantically, but he's not stopping, the Newquay bound passengers wonder what's wrong with me, and I've a good mind to go back to the ticket office and tell that guard what I think of him. But I'm also furious at my own incompetence for being so unaware and believing.
Modern Technology 1-0 Truro Bus Station
I ring #MummyBRAPA and rant. It gets it out of my system.
It is drizzling with rain for the first time this holiday as the next bus arrives, and it is a bumpy 40 minute ride to the previously unheard of coastal village of Portscatho, on the Roseland Peninsula. More pretty Cadgwith/Calstock-esque views ensue as I make my way down a slope towards the pub ......
Plume of Feathers, Portscatho (2263 / 3826) was one of less convincing pub ticks of the week. I'd followed in some old lady, the Duchess of Portscatho? She's introducing herself to the younger staff she's never met before, and is after some information. Quite what I'm not sure, but a man reaches for a dusty old book and hands it over, and she hovers near the bar looking awkward, before having a gander. She does insist that I should be served quite quickly as 'nothing should stand in the way of beer!' and I have to agree. Having said that, I opt for a Tim Taylor Landlord and it was poor quality. Remember that lovely man from Totnes I mentioned yesterday? Well he said it was my own silly fault for not ordering a local beer. But I've had cracking TTL in Berkshire and London of late, is Cornwall a step too far? And shouldn't a GBG pub keep all beer well? I'm not convinced the Tribute or Proper Job would be any better here. I sit on a comfy bench, but soon realised how 'dining' and 'aloof' the place felt, and like a tourist couple before me, I'd rather brave the benches outside. I was shivering, teeth were chattering, I exchanged a few words about the change in weather with Mr Bluecoat who had instructed Mrs Pinky to find a shop and buy stamps, wine, batteries and salad dressing. Fun evening they have planned! I was delighted when I finally swigged down the remnants of this dross and headed back to the bus stop.
|Complimentary? Prefer bread 'n dripping|
|Uncomfy in ....|
|.... freezing out .... you can almost see the goosebumps on the florets|
Yes, despite the odd smile and nod, Portscatho was one of the more unfriendly, or at least, watchful places I visited in a week of top Cornish friendliness, although ......
|This kinda summed up the local vibe I was getting!|
A gentle elderly local couple were waiting for the (delayed) bus with me. They were off into Truro for a dental check-up and didn't want to be late. He liked the sound of BRAPA and she said something along the lines of "don't you be getting any ideas!" I hate to say it, but he was quite frail and it'd be a race against time if he's to get a GBG fully greened.
When it did arrive, a group of Yorkshire folk (surprise surprise) got off, and thanked the driver for doing so well! "Bit patronising?" I suggest, but she explains it was only her second time doing this route, and the roads were quite waterlogged. Her more experienced mentor steps into the drivers seat, original lady breathes a sigh of relief, and chats to me all the way back to Liskeard, mainly about BRAPA being thwarted by evil buses.