On travel writing and Padstow, Cornwall

I just signed up for a Lonely Planet account with the views of eventually soliciting road trip companions--although I've received so many warnings of 'You'll be raped!' from well-intentioned friends that now I'm all paranoid-like--but anyway, until I figure out if that's a direction I want to go--soliciting the company of strangers, that is, not rape--I've at least taken the step of joining this huge travel community. And part of the profile set-up process includes a section for blog information. And, you know, I've got one and all, so I typed it in, and then it asked if I want it to be considered by the Lonely Planet team as a possible Blog They Like, and of course I clicked 'yes,' because hey, cool, a Lonely Planet Blog! They may think I'm useful and/or worth pimping out to other travelers! But now, after doing all that, I've come back to my blog and--wait a tick! I don't actually talk much travel! So now I'm all thinking I should do a post on backpacking through Laos and eating steamed dragon balls sold to me by a legless orphan in a busy marketplace, where I also took the opportunity to bathe myself for the first time in two months from the town well using nothing but the dirty rag tied around my neck before recycling the water for drinking purposes, that way when Lonely Planet comes to check me out they'll be all impressed, like, 'HERE'S a real traveler,' and then they'll include me in their blogroll and never look back, at which point I'll be free to resume writing about sitting at the kitchen table all day and they'll never know I'm a total fraud. Or that I'm prone to massive run-ons. It will be the scam of a century. Even hotter than the recent one I heard (thanks to a documentary just aired over here, although after some research, it appears this rumor has been ongoing for a few years now, get WITH it, England) about how America faked Neil Armstrong landing on the moon just to win the Cold War. Though I'm not gonna lie when I say I would probably be just as proud if the latter were true. Because awesome. We could do that.

I should probably post some more Cornwall photos now. Because, you know, I've got a travel blog. It's what I do, Lonely Planet.

These pictures were all taken in Padstow, the foodie mecca of Cornwall thanks to Rick Stein. Apparently he owns about half the town's property, as evidenced by the Stein Bakery, Stein Deli, Stein Patisserie, and the Stein I Can Cook Whatever the Heck I Want and You'll Eat It Because I'm Rick Stein. Word on the street he gets mad when you call Padstow 'Padstein,' but really, can you blame anybody? And also, how cool would it be if a town took on your name because your effect is so huge? Heck, if a town started to call itself Padselby, I'd be SO DOWN WITH THAT. In fact, I'm starting a movement right now: everyone, this is Padselby. Welcome.

on throat coat, cornwall, and cough syrup

Right now the dishwasher is humming and the kettle is whispering and the soup is gurgling. These sounds are my company today, and they're keeping me warm.

The Cornwall pictures are coming along...I'm about a third of the way through, which feels really nice. But then, everything feels nice today. I don't know if it's because I'm doped up on enough cold medicine to tranquilize a horse, or because I've had so much Throat Coat tea that hallucinatory effects are taking place, or if it's just the general sense of well-being that comes from making soup and cookies from scratch and having them both cooking away at the same time, but either way...everything is so...nice right now. Except for that burning smell...hold on while I leave my stupor to check on those cookies...ahhhh. Done. They look so nice.

For some strange, inexplicable reason, I just took some time out to do a photo shoot with my tea box. Because, you know, I don't have loads of other stuff I could be working on. But it beckoned, and I think it wanted the glory of being the single item that's soothing my throat right now:

But I'm not gonna lie: it tastes like *ss. (Mom, I put that asterisk in there for you. Because really, it tastes like ASS, but I didn't want to offend you. I love you.) I don't what the heck this slippery elm talk is all about, but I can tell you, the flavor doesn't seem far from licking a tree. But man...my throat is coated and feels so much better than it did this morning. It's so nice.

I was going to put a couple of Cornwall pics in here, but my blog seems to have taken a different direction ever since the tea got demanding. In fact, I'm not really sure where I'm at right now.

Ah. Cornwall pics. That's right. Here are just a few of the zillion I'm working through (and by 'working,' I mean, 'zoning'):

Can you imagine how it would feel to live in that tiny little hamlet across from the water? One word comes to mind.

Yeah, I KNOW.

Every night, a sunset to knock your socks off. It didn't matter how foggy and cool the morning was--by noon, the sun was bright and crisp, and by dusk, everything glowed.

This fisherman reminded me of Elton John the second I saw him. I couldn't begin to tell you why. The hair? The glasses? The coveralls? The fact that he had a piano in the back of his boat? Perhaps we'll never know.

Alright, I gotta go. This tea is trying to kill me now. I can't wait to see you tomorrow.

Cornwall: it really IS another country.

‘Can you tell me how to access the wifi?’

‘The what?’

‘The wifi. Wireless internet?’

(merry chortling) ‘Oh, we ain’t got that kind of fancery up here.’

No mobile signal and no internet for five days: I haven’t just entered a coastal village in Cornwall--I’ve entered the Dark Ages.

I initially thought the 'quaint and charming' holiday cottage came with wifi. I don’t know why I thought this. Delusion, maybe, or the fancying notion that it’s almost 2010, doesn’t EVERY accommodation come with wifi? After arriving late Sunday night, however, it quickly became apparent that 'quaint and charming' not only meant no wifi, it meant no phone signal, poor plumbing, no toilet paper or bath towels, and an electrical box that you feed with pound coins to avoid getting plunged into darkness. It's pretty hilarious, actually, though that can only be said because the price to stay there for a week is an absolute steal, and the location--the coastal village of Crackington Haven--is so beautiful it takes your breath away.

A trip 'into town'--not Crackington Haven, which seems to consist of a pub and a post office--but the nearby metropolis of Bude (consisting of a pub, a post office, and a surf shop), has yielded one lone internet cafe, which is where I am posting from right now. I feel drunk with power having a connection at last and am loath to leave it, but with the beach right outside the window and the loads of weight to be gained on the fabulous local seafood, well...sacrifices have to be made.

I really can't wait to tell you about Cornwall, though, when I'm at a computer that doesn't charge by the minute. It's a stunner--not just in terms of the coastline (which strangely resembles a lot of northern California), but in terms of the villages that dot it. They are sweet and cobbled and tiny and full of fishermen and fresh seafood--and oh, the seafood! I can see now why Cornwall is known as the British foodie mecca--it's absolutely overflowing with gorgeous cuisine, all locally and organically sourced and impeccably prepared. It's the land of Rick Stein and Jamie Oliver, and the bar these chefs have raised reveals itself nearly every place you stop, from the fish and chippies to the pasty bakeries and farm shops. You really can't go wrong.

Now if you'll excuse me, I've got a coastline to hit and a waistline to pad...life is GOOD.