Bleached Hair at the End of the World

June 1, 2001
Cornwall, England
"Bleached Hair at the End of the World"
"Stay on the Left!" James kept shouting. It was good advice for the guy
behind the wheel of the little British car.

It all started when my friend James flew into Heathrow for a week's vacation. I met him at the Russell Square tube stop, and showed him around the city for a few days. We did the typical tourist London thing, hopping on and off the Tube, checking out sites like the Tower Bridge and Piccadilly Circus. It was a good introduction to the city. We even tried our luck at some of London's tackier attractions, most notably the Clink Prison Museum. This is a 5 minute walk through a few old dusty 17th century jail cells, with maybe one leg-clamp on the floor
. . . We felt cheated, but didn't want to say anything . . . it's hard to voice a desire to see more instruments of torture. . "Can you install some more iron maidens please?"

London is full of noise and traffic, dirty tube stops and millions of people. It has its sparkle as well, but after a few days here, I remembered why I didn't like Los Angeles. It's the city I was trying to escape. I needed to get out. James suggested we fly to Ireland, but I suggested we rent a car and drive out and visit Cornwall, which my parents highly recommended. Renting a car was more in my budget than the puddle jumper to Dublin, so we chose the car. But I didn't really think about the driving thing when the attendant said, "Sorry Lads, we are all out of automatics." The Car: A blue four door compact, A Seat Ibiza. Never heard of it.

It looks like something designed purely to save fuel. A Ford Fiesta or something ridiculous like that. But it didn't matter, the important thing was we had a car and an atlas and we were on the road. Well . . . almost. I know how to drive a stick, but driving a stick on the left side of the road is quite a different thing. You sit in the passenger seat, the gear shift is in your left hand, and the ignition is on the right . . . and lookout, you're in the wrong lane! At least the pedals were the same . . clutch on the left, gas on right, at least I didn't have to re-learn the friction point. We drove out of Heathrow, no problems, staying on the left, surprised that we weren't dead and then . . sooner or later we hit a Roundabout.

Roundabout? The only thing I know about roundabouts is there's one in Old Town Orange. A throwback . . a sentimental thing, but definitely not something engineers use to design modern roads. Not so in Merrie olde Englande.

With James pouring over the atlas, and me trying to keep the car in gear, we must have circled four of five times before finding the right exit. It was straight out of National Lampoon's European Vacation. But like the roads we eventually conquered the roundabouts, the motorways, the dual-carriage ways, and even the tiny one-lane hedgerows. Cornwall was beautiful. Exactly was I wanted to see. We drove past Stonehenge . . . just a tall pile of Stones sticking out of pasture. We snapped a few photos and moved on. The countryside changes as you escape London . The smokestacks are replaced by rolling hills, beautiful farmlands hedged into squares . . . one lane hedgerows so old the trees meet together above the car, creating magical verdant tunnels.

The road is blocked by a tractor, a farmer on his way . . but it doesn't matter. You've left traffic and road-rage behind on the 405 . . . this is the hedgerows and driving slow is okay because you don't want to miss it.

Cornwall stretches out like a finger pointing westwards. We drove the entire length, out to the end, Land's End. At the edge of the land we found a tacky tourist trap "Don't miss the Land's End multi-media show . .only 5£!!) Instead we walked along the green cliffs, until we came
upon Sennen Cove, a white sand cove with a lighthouse and a working harbour. We stuck our toes in the freezing water. The water was very clear . . extremely clean and we could see for miles. On the way back to the car we found bunnies scampering around the cliffs and curious black puffin-type birds and of course, the omnipresent seagulls . . with no significant difference in feature from those hungry beasts in the Newport Back Bay.

After Land's End, we drove to Newquay, the celebrated Surfing capital of England. This was an amazing town, we stayed at Matt's Surf Lodge for 20£ for a double room. The place was full of surfers from Australia and other places in the commonwealth, looking for waves. Newquay is perched above Fistral Bay, a perfect natural bay and we could see the beginnings of swells rising out of the distance. Unfortunately, the surfing is hit-or-miss, and we missed. On Thursday morning the waves were a miserable 1 foot little ankle biters, and no one but a few kids on
bodyboards paddled out. It didn't really matter, because there was much to see in the city. The town is fully dedicated to the surfing scene.

The shops along the main drag sell Quiksilver and Billabong, and boards for about locally shaped boards for 350£. The locals are tattooed blondes, riding skateboards in the streets, or beach cruisers and trading stories of surf trips to Bali, Shark Island, and California. I tried to get some local surf T-shirts, but unfortunately the whole town was devoted to surfing elsewhere . . . the local brands don't mention the U.K. or Newquay at all . . instead they say "Black's Beach, San
Diego" or "Surf Bells" and all are printed in garish 1980s day-glow. But the town was exciting, and James and I felt at home, sort of. The people were our people, sort of. At least we all loved the sea, even though we talked differently. Cornwall itself was a whole monument to "natural" living, with its long association with the sea and also the fertile farmlands. I am happy to report that some livestock have escaped the culling, . . we saw many sheep, horses, cows, pigs, HUGE pigs. James thought they were donkeys from the distance. I mean, they were huge porkers . . . bacon for months. The fear and hysteria over foot and mouth has cost the community. We saw "out of business" signs . . and they looked new.

So now I'm back in London, turned in the car and dropped James off at the airport. I am making my way to Dover now. I will attempt a channel crossing to Calais, and I expect to stay there tonight. I really need to practice my French. I booked a bed at the hostel in Calais, and the French woman on the phone didn't speak any English. So I had dig back into the dusty memory of high school French and pull a phrase together. I was very surprised because I thought everyone in France spoke English. I'm glad I found out now before I stepped on the Francais shoreline. . . but I am excited to try a new challenge, and to see some new culture. I
now say farewell to London and all of Britain.

Bon Voyage!