Today (three days ago) I went to Cornwall. Cornwall is a place that is so far away that the people there think that it is foreign.
It took me over twenty five years to get to Cornwall and when I got there I spent four and a half hours faffing about in this field.
After over twenty five years and four and a half hours it was getting pretty late and so I rushed down to Lands End before it got dark. On the radio it was the inquest into Nigel’s death, David Archer sounded well guilty about encouraging Nigel to go onto the roof. Nigel couldn’t undo double-knots and so now he’s dead.
It was a very good thing that the clocks went forward last weekend, otherwise I wouldn’t have been able to see Lands End.
Lands End is like a theme park where the theme is about how there isn’t any ground anymore. The same theme can be found at any other part of the seaside, as well as beside a big lake. However, when you got past the amusements the view was an okay thing.
In the long queue out of the car park there were signs advertising other bits of Cornwall. One of the signs said “Why Not Visit the First and Last Inn in England?” I had been disappointed that there had been no pub at the theme park and so I said “Why Not Indeed!”
Inside it was a bit crummy and sounded like Jack Johnson and so I took my local booze outside, which was nice.
Driving after that I saw this sign:
And I said “I Have No Idea What That Is” but as we were in the spirit of “Why Not Indeed!” we (me) went there anyway. It was down one of the wiggly roads that you’re not sure if you’re supposed to be on and the car park was basically someone’s back garden. This is where I was:
I had to film myself walking through the fogou (tunnel) because I was scared and the extra degree of separation provided by the screen made it less scary:
It was a very wonderful place and as I was leaning on the gate imagining campfires in the village my phone rang and I pondered on the contrast between the intimacy of the huddled stone ruins and the void between me and whoever was on the other end of the phone. It was my dad talking about european breakdown insurance cover.
As I drove away the radio was all talk about how our brains can trick us and our memory is radomly selective and unreliable.
See. (probably don’t want to watch that^)
This is a photo of Price-Drop TV:
It is the only channel available in Premier Inns. The broken human presenter is a new one and he wasn’t very good at ceaselessly describing tat. My favourite one came along later on and shouted an impressive medley of adjectives towards the bedding he was lolling about on. And, as the numbers on the product total counter rapidly approached zero, I slipped into an apoplectic stupor. I had a long dream about a sociable but drug addled village.