At the end of the world

Feeling a sense of responsibility, I alert my new landlord to the chicken outside my window. ‘That’s fine’ says Sean. This is a B & B in Falmouth and not a hotel in Torquay so at least he can’t ask whether I expected to see the Hanging Gardens of Babylon. At breakfast there is no menu so we ask for poached eggs. Tessa is momentarily taken aback but says she’ll have a go even though she’s not used to poaching. The people at the next table have spent the previous day battling through gales which, apparently, is compulsory if you’re a) in Cornwall, b) German and c) on a walking holiday; although not necessarily in that order. As a reward they have been given an interesting and healthy fruit salad with yoghurt and we must applaud their fortitude.

The business with the egg poacher is not a success and the following morning we ask for bacon sandwiches. Some unintended confusion arises when I enquire whether I might decline the Cornish butter in favour of an alternative. Flora perhaps? ‘Do you mean marge?’ Tessa recoils in amazement. She will have to question Sean as to whether he has any to spare. The Germans, meanwhile, have been replaced by a Dutch couple who are asked, with a detectable hint of urgency, whether they’d like a full English. They want pancakes. With lemon and honey. The air is heavy with silence. As Tessa turns to face us, we catch the last of the despair-laden raised eyebrows as the July smile is quickly repainted. She launches herself through the kitchen door and all four of us remain silent as we attempt to discern her subsequent conversation with Sean the chef. A small dog arrives unannounced.

In the teaching room, home to sixteen large windows, none of which appear to allow sufficient light by which to write, and all of which resound with the constant splatter of rain, the atmosphere is one of eager anticipation. We are learning how to include all cortice-inducing experiences and I believe I have just succeeded.

Beverley, intent on making the most of the bracing sea air and a change of scenery, drags me along a cliff-top in a force ten gale with a promise of food at the end. Due to low cloud and sight impairing, rain induced stair-rods, we can see about as much of the bay as we could of Bodmin Moor on the journey down. Nothing. However, there are numerous large ships anchored off-shore which, I presume, are sheltering from impending meteorological doom. Later, I will learn that they are there awaiting orders. Inexplicably, I spot a Roman soldier on the beach. Perhaps he is doing the same. As the fish in the beach café is excellent, we invite several of our new friends to join us there the following evening; when, as is generally the case, there is a new chef on duty and the food is at best mediocre. I spot Tessa huddled on a bench outside and commiserate with her about the pancake incident. Assuming the puzzled look at which she is so well practised, she assures me that there was no problem, her freezer being stocked full of the things courtesy of Tesco. I become immediately suspicious of her home-made jam which accompanies the morning toast.

Rosemary asks us to apply some of our new found knowledge to a favourite book. Unfortunately, our cortices have become so over-loaded that no-one can remember a single story fully enough to comply. Ever adaptive, our lovely leader sets a new task wherein we play consequences and construct a dialogue based on the results. Our team, having also lost the ability to read words written by a colleague who can no longer write, manage to compose a never to be forgotten story about a burning horse.

We make the most of the initial and only opportunity to sit outside in this rain-sodden town. Four days into the course and like gnomes encircling a toadstool, we are gathered around a circular wooden table outside the pub. It’s our first glimpse of Falmouth Harbour and it seems as though half of the town’s inhabitants are also there to celebrate the temporary cessation of the eternal, infernal precipitation. Obligingly, a large seal appears for our entertainment dispatching itself from the water at regular intervals to perform tricks. There are no hoops of fire or bouncy balls but a genuine native of the fisher type engages Sammy with the odd mackerel from time to time. Cameras proliferate. Folk who are currently going about their business in other parts of the world and who will forever remain unknown to us are, as we watch, becoming unwittingly embroiled in this seascape. They are the chosen ones: those who will have to subsequently discern the seal-coloured blob that is Sammy from the equally grey waters in someone else’s holiday snaps.

As it’s our last evening, some of us fall into a vat of wine and decide to eat in the Thai restaurant. I like to think of this as a cultural transition: one step up from several pints of lager and a Chicken Tikka. In this respect I find affinity with Beverley who instigates a search for a florist, insistent that Rosemary’s gift must not originate from the pancake emporium. Finding a florist is futile. Folk whom we ask along the way look at us in much the same way as Tessa might and I wonder whether this apparent incomprehension of anyone devoid of a pasty is a consensual local affliction. The solitary person we find that once remembered seeing a flower shop thought it might be near Tesco. This is not helpful because, as with most English towns there are at least ninety-eight versions of shops carrying this name. We decide to charge Bridget with the task in which she will triumph. Opposite the restaurant is an establishment claiming to be a music shop. The economic climate being as it is there is little in the window apart from a Jim Morrisson anthology and a ukulele against which is propped a sign stating ‘hundreds more inside’. I visualise the next big thing on Britain’s Got Talent: the Falmouth Ukulele Orchestra’s version of Light My Fire. It’s quite late and I ask the taxi driver what happens here after ten o clock. ‘Much the same as before’ he replies. ‘Nothing’.

Our course was delivered with expertise and I learned more than I know what to do with. For me, the most important thing was that I’d managed to let something slip: I’d forgotten how good it feels to laugh so much. Thank-you fellow scribes and most excellent teacher.