Captain Midnight here from the heart of Cornwall.
We’re spending a few days in the land where Himself and Herself were born, twenty miles and a few years apart. As you can see, they forgot to bring an alarm clock so naturally I help out in the mornings.
They seem to be on some kind of religious quest, stopping every five minutes to ooh and aah at old buildings and bits of stone. I’d understand their enthusiasm if we were up north where I come from, but you can’t even get a decent pint of stout down here.
What’s more, the people talk funny.
Don’t get me wrong, they’re friendly enough but they all seem to think my name is Ansum. “Look at ‘im,” they say. “He’s Ansum,” or else they get over-familiar and take liberties: “Alright, my Luvver?”
The beaches are good though and I’m training Herself to manage the two-ball trick (throw one, catch one, bring one back, drop one, throw the other one). It’s pretty advanced stuff but she’s quite bright and I’m optimistic that she’ll have cracked it in a month or two.
I’m also told that the pasties are excellent. I only have it on hearsay because (as those of you familiar with this blog will have anticipated) not a morsel came my way. They sat there last night, stuffing their faces with huge lumps of steak and pastry (from Warren’s Bakery in St Just: The Oldest Cornish Pasty Maker in the World) but nothing for me except dog biscuit and a scrap of tasty topper.
Got to stop now because Himself says we’re going out dreckly.
I’m think he means quite soon but you can’t be certain.