I woke up yesterday with the words 'horse sushi' in my head, which seemed to pervade my thoughts throughout the day. After a hilly start towards St Ives it has continued to be hilly. You're going to hear me talking a lot about hills so if you're of a nervous or nauseous disposition look away now.
The day started badly when Matt woke up with a painful neck. Some painkillers, anti-inflammatory cream, and a few hours of recuperation later, he felt OK enough to get back on the bike. We cycled down to St Ives harbour which was bustling with Sunday afternoon visitors soaking in the unseasonable warmth. The ice cream vendors were starting to trade well again and men were out painting their rowing and sailboats (a sure sign that spring is on it's way that people are starting to mend the damage and neglect of winter).
In the harbour we met Richard, a man who hand-makes willow lobster pots the traditional way. He claims to be one of the last people in the country to have this skill, if not the last, and here in the harbour his tough physical work is watched by curious tourists. One or two may buy a pot for decoration but at this time of year he mainly makes money by selling his homegrown daffodils (various breeds, whatever takes your fancy). He told me about visiting the Orkneys and watching the daffodils spring up in early May so it looks like we're pretty much on target on terms I'd following spring (mind you, he was last there in the 1970s...).
He's not the only one. All along the country lanes people are selling daffs by the bucket, even though you could pick a bunch yourself from the plants growing by the side of the road. There's a pride about the Cornish daffodils, which also appear to be the basis of the local economy at this time of the year. People tell me theirs have been out for a few weeks already and that we've missed them at their best: "They're all ageing now." We pass fields of workers picking daffodils, whole swathes left in the ground because their stems are deemed not quite long enough. Those will be ploughed back into the ground ready for next year's crop.
The country lanes we chose to go down yesterday were beautiful in the sunshine but the hills were relentless. No sooner have you got to the top of one than you can see the peak of the next and the steep climb to get up it. Even the simple ecstatic joy of speeding down a hill is tainted with the knowledge that a down will be followed
by another up. Many times we simply had to get out and walk, catching our shins repeatedly on the pedals and bouncing off the panniers. Pushing my bike up one of these hills a babbling brook nearby seemed to be mocking me, giggling to the birds at my inability to perform a basic task. But then, what does a brook know about climbing hills?
At one point I saw what I'm certain was a swift, and earlier today the surprising scent of wild garlic put me off my stroke (isn't it far too early for both these species?)
The evening was spent in a pleasant family-run hostel in Falmouth, in an area where every house is a guest house of some variety. Because the holiday season hasn't started rates are low and we seem to be getting dorm rooms to ourselves.
Today was another difficult day but manageable. Unfortunately one of our planned interviewees, a commercial daffodil farmer, couldn't meet us because he's in the US, but that's the nature of this documentary and our last-minute planning. Instead we made our way across the water on the lovely St Mawes ferry to the Lost Gardens of Heligan, to speak to one of the gardeners about how the place prepares for spring. People were very accommodating and it made for a great interview, once we'd sorted our technical issues such as a low camera battery and spare tapes.
We then carried on toward St Austell and onto the friendly hostel in Golant, a large rambling house like the set of Cluedo accessible only by a mile-long track. After a hearty dinner I now need to make some decisions about our future route, and particularly how far we can realistically go tomorrow without our knees caving in.
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