|Padstow Obby Oss on Mayday|
After yesterday’s myth and prehistory epic, I was ready for more, but Carenza, being more grown-up than me, suggested that we have a more chilled day and recover.
So we planned an amble around Padstow.
After all, there WAS a cultural connection to my name – the Padstow Obby Oss (Hobba = horse/horseman) gave a famous dance round the town each May, possibly for ancient fertility reasons. Or equally ancient beer reasons.
Only snag was, it was time for us to leave Boscastle.
We had to pack the tent away.
In the rain!
“Rain wasn’t forecast!” Even though I know the forecast is often wrong in Cornwall, I still experience 21st Century indignation.
Luckily the 21st Century has also provided a synthetic tent fabric which doesn’t rot if you put it away wet.
However, tetchiness was not completely circumvented.
On our way to Padstow, we rediscovered the sheer traffic-jamminess of a wet high-season Saturday in Cornwall.
After our early set-off we still didn’t get to Padstow until midday. Grumpiness hovered.
But once there, the clouds parted, golden sunshine poured through and suddenly we were getting our chilled day by the sea.
Only thing was, there seemed to be a horrendous crab-fishing marathon at the harbour.
All over the place, kids and parents were letting down crablines with bits of bacon attached.
“Did anybody warn the crabs?”
“Hopefully, they’ll think it’s the Rapture, but for crabs.”
“Yeah. ‘Look – Auntie Shelley’s being taken up to Heaven!’ “
“’Uncle Claus is being taken too.’”
Luckily, at the end of the day, we saw many crabs being returned to the water.
“But imagine the social embarrassment when Auntie Shelley and Uncle Claus reappear – not taken up to Heaven after all.”
“They’re probably so relieved to be put back that they don’t care.”
And actually, that evening, when we get to Mum and Dad’s in Truro, we do miss the amazing views from the campsite, but we’re so relieved to have access to their shower and toilet that we don’t care either.