"And if I only could, I'd make a deal with God (or Jimmy Case), and I'd get him to swap our places. I'm running up that road, I'm running up that hill, I'm running to that building (Bush pub)"
Kate knew what she was on about didn't she? It had been the most painful, farcical, hilarious and weird holiday in the eight year history of BRAPA. And it wasn't over yet. Surely fate was going to take pity on me as we entered Day 6. Surely?
Waterlogged GBG, crashing wakes, phantom buses, closed roads, train strikes, cancelled trains, sunburn one day, drowned rat the next, mad cap boat trips. Now I look back, it is a wonder I didn't wave the white flag and crawl home to York defeated. But if BRAPA's taught me one thing, it is fortitude.
All aboard the number 12 bus again from Plymouth. Launceston had seemed a decent stretch yesterday, but Bude on the north coast was one helluva long bus ride. I jumped off a bit sooner in a place called Stratton, which had a pre or post emptive pub called the Kings Arms.
|Bonus point for fascinating cistern|
|Note the book of East Cornwall bus times - my new best friend (sorry Col, sorry GBG)|
|What a beer! Makes you wanna scrunch up a bit of random paper and put it in the tub for no reason|
|Bus shelter of some repute|
|And that's how to green Morwenstow! (note the water damaged contrast in colours)|
|Happiest moment of the day|
|Cameo appearance from my trusty re-used battered Oasis bottle|
There's a young lad at the bus stop. "You waiting for the bus?" I ask hopefully, and he is. And he's a regular. This reassures me greatly. He tells me it is a very unreliable service and tells me some recent stories of it not turning up. This doesn't reassure me. It ticks past 5pm. I tell him not to worry. A very brisk middle aged lady appears. "I've heard it is still in Bude and showing no signs of setting off!" she tells us. "Sounds about right" says the lad.