I'm in Zennor for a few days, a small village near St Ives in Cornwall. With a mountain of leave to use and a reluctance to spend all of it bumming around London, I've come somewhere I've wanted to visit for about 30 years. I don't think my significant other is terribly happy that I've taken myself off (given where I'll be going in a few weeks and for how long) but there's that whole empty spaces, clear mind thing going on. And the pub next door to the hostel is absolutely perfect.
I've also discovered that I can actually walk. As in, walking for pleasure, not just to get from A to B. I never really got into that side of things when I was growing up (and with the Lake District in my backyard, it was kind of expected), but tramping along the coastal path has been a revelation. I clambered over Gurnard's Head (fanboys and girls: it's a bit like being in The Sontaran Experiment), watched marines training on a cliff face (complete with real helicopter rescue for an injured soldier) and got wet feet.
Here's something odd: having not seen anyone for hours, I glanced behind to see a spritely senior on my tail. Every time I looked back, he was closing the gap between us and I was nervous about what would happen when he caught up. I've read too many M R James stories not to be unnerved (I came over all Peter Vaughan in A Warning To The Curious), being persued by an unknown entity in the wilderness. But he just said hello and pointed out how muddy his trousers were. Which was something of a letdown.
