Tap tap tap. “Good morning. I’ll leave the breakfast outside your door shall I? We’ll be arriving in St Erth station in half an hour.”
I pull the blind up to see dawn breaking over Cornish heathland and the silhouetted ruins of old tin mine steeples up on the hills.
Feeling like I’ve had the best sleep in years, I have my British Rail bacon sandwich and tea, watching a freshly first-light splashed Cornwall roll past the window as I ease into my trousers and the train eases into St Erth.
Disembarking from the huge, snorting, sleeper we pick up a tiny two coacher that is patiently waiting for us on the adjacent smaller platform and head out on what must be one of the most beautiful rural train routes in Britain.
Running round the curve of St Ives Bay: first with the boggy, paludal mudflats of Lelant and then the clean, wide beaches of Carbis Bay to our right. High grassy bluffs are on our left. Fleeing rabbit arses running up the slopes from our chuntering train.
St Ives appears round the bend and we look down on the lolling town with its roofs and church chapels and its ‘Island’ – not really an island, but a grassy promontory – splitting the town in two, pushing out into the sea with its Cornish-austere chapel, sat alone, on top. And a special light framing it all. It’s a special view.
The town is silent this early, aside from a few dog walkers on the town’s five beaches as we pace about in brilliant morning sun to find and try to hire a chalet.
We pass the perfect semi-circle harbour with its stone pier and pretty coloured boats leaning up on the sand with the tide out – the boats looking like those old-fashioned, coquettishly posed, photographed models, with legs flicked up and their chin resting on their palms.
Later, having dumped out stuff and walked the St Ives streets as they woke up around us, we set off out of the town to tackle the long coastal walk from St Ives to Zenor.
The jagged path is pushed fast against the dramatic dropping cliffs, with waves – crashing over dark rocks below – rearing up powerfully high.
The weather has turned climatic and theatrical. I have brought our radio, we sit alone on the cliffs and eat cheese and pickle sandwiches (the Greek winces). And listen to some crackly, seemingly appropriate, broadcast of Elgar and stare out at the Atlantic.
With Cornwall rolling behind us, bare and sad and formidable.
A heavy sky hangs over the fields running from the cliff edges, with the grass such a deep green colour it seems almost black. The walk is long and lonely and rocky. The strong winds make it exhilarating, and it feels a world away from the sun-soaked ups and downs of our previous walk on the Dorset coastal edge.
There’s a never-ending procession of fraying cliffs of sea continually rising and breaking far out beyond.
We keep walking over the path and then, suddenly, we come across an elderly man. Sat on a bench made from piled rocks and a plank of wood.
He’s in neat beige slacks. A yellow shirt, yellow tank-top and yellow tie under a red anorak. His moustache is neat and trimmed. His face desperately sad.
“Hello,” I say.
He looks up. Looks me over. “Now then,” he nods back.
“What you doing out here?” I ask. “Bit blowy isn’t it?”
“I like looking at the sea,” he says.
We both turn to look at the unhappy, storm-tossed water for a while. I wonder what it is about the sea that old people like looking at. Is it some reflection on life, some reflection on mortality?
“My wife died a year ago.”
This was unexpected. The man’s statement just lies there on the blustery air. And I can’t think of what to say back to this clipped, rather military-looking man.
“I miss her very much.” He carries on staring out to sea.
“You know I still wake up every morning and make two cups of tea. It’s stupid isn’t it?” He laughs and then stops.
“It always feels so sad when I have to pour the other one away.”
Passepartout and I leave to carry on our coast walk. I feel total melancholia.
It seems in good keeping with these end-of-Cornwall’s surroundings, I suppose.
At the other end of the coastal path, having, of course, missed the last rural bus service in the tiny village, we taxi back to St Ives. Finding the town, incredibly, just as we had left it: bathed in late sunlight.
The stone cottages of the town tumble over each other down to the sea – like a knot of drunken sailors holding themselves upright together
Amongst the less cut-price, more smug holidaying crowd than the other seaside towns we’ve passed through so far, I explain a Cornish pasty to Passepartout.
I tell her that this was once a full meal for tin miners in Cornwall and once upon a time at one end of the pasty there would have been some sort of pudding with sponge and jam mixed in with the meat and potatoes – thinking I’ve heard this said somewhere, but not really knowing for sure if any of this is true or not.
An aerial bombardment from the colossal seagulls of St Ives means that the pasty is soon being carried out towards Seaton’s old stone lighthouse anyway.
The seagulls here are absolute bastards. Mean, searching rodent eyes. The size of Alsatians dogs. Screeching voiced. Ravenous and angry. It comes as no surprise to learn that Daphne Du Maurier, author of Hitchcock’s The Birds, once lived in St Ives.
As we watch the seaside pterodactyls attack an old woman’s hat and then a small child for his ice creams, the wings beating on his face, we admit defeat and take a dark table at the ancient Sloop Inn for the evening.
I fruitlessly attempting to coax my Greek drinking companion into a liking of thick Cornish ales, as we sit between the loud, conspicuous, local artists; the second homers; the pleased-with-themselves holiday makers. And the faintly sad-looking, lined, old fishing folk, pushed to the side.
A solid dark night has fallen over the sea outside.