...understanding The Goons and Monty Python

Shane at Wells

G’day Possums,

we’ve been nine days in Rabid-the-Hun’s favoured land, observed travelling rituals and personality traits in a enclosed space aboard the ferry, believe we have discovered the root of Australian driver aggression and shopped, eaten, touristed sites and been well entertained by the Sue’s x2 in Cornwall.

First meal was breakfast at Plymouth’s “Duke of Cornwall’ (Best Western). Two small Bread rolls, packaged (small) Jam, two packaged Muesli’s w/ Milk and 2 Teas for 21 BP had us thinking we were about to diet severely but a day later Cornish Pasty’s sitting in the warming sunshine of St Ives Harbour with a dozen or so Gulls (which make Aussie seabirds look like Budgies) was a tonic.

Plymouth

Sue2 sashayed us into Barbara Hepworth’s studio and garden which was revelatory of the sculptor’s practise and influences with much fun from tots playing artist with plasticine and soapy water which was in a Hepworth sculpture that they could play in but adults were not allowed to touch!

Gardens at Trebah and Glendurgan, dramatic cliffs at Porthcurno and visits to Zennor and St Levan churches and sampling the local Ales were spiritually uplifting.

Trebah, Cornwall

Towednack, Cornwall.

Porthcurno

Then on to points East: another Pasty in Launceston, on to Exeter Cathedral, which was brilliant and then to of Shepton Mallet. ….and Elmo.

Exeter Cathedral

This town featured in a BBC series of re-living the past “High Streets” through various epochs in a hope that it would revitalise the retail strip and community. It was not successful. 

Elmo of Shepton Mallet

Our host said the proletariat called it “Shit and Smell It.” “Chez Puton,” is the title apparently preferred by the bourgeoisie, but it was in nice country and made a good base for the sublime Wells Cathedral and the defiantly 60’s Glastonbury… and yes, we waddled up the bloody Tor , had a 360, observed some woman ritualising and tripped down again wondering… why?

It was here in a coffee shop we over-heard fragments of a West Country older male’s monologue to two similarly aged and one younger woman that could have been written by Thomas Hardy. 

“ ….weeellll she ‘ad a chiold out o’ wedlock…  but ‘e ‘asn’t bin any ‘elp….. never comes to see me in yeearrrs……an’ I would'n be trusting those you don’t know to live wit.. they’ll do yer wrong if it suits ‘em… (to young woman in group who was discussing having to live away from home for uni) naaaa ,…it’ll all go-o wrong.” All said with a self righteous and facially inexpressive impassiveness. 

Glastonbury

One of the dining highlights of Shepton Mallet was a restaurant waitress whom I imagined had been told to look at the John Cleese Service Training videos but instead had taken to heart every episode of “Fawlty Towers.”

We we also less than “whelmed“ by Bath, Bodium and Great Dixter although the conceit at Bath of repeating a very spare and simple design in an arc 120 or so times does have impact. 

Bath

Perhaps the Tourism Lily gets a little too Gilded and perhaps looking deeper might assuage disappointment but this is such an expensive place that I’m beginning to wonder if we Antipodean tourists are paying away the Brits’ role in the GFC that Oz didn’t experience?

Sissinghurst and Lacock Abbey on the other hand, were utterly delightful with Petworth House mind boggling in its extensive art collection and Scotney Castle, very pretty.

Petworth House

Here are two "littlies" exploring Wells Cathedral. Little girl said in answer to my question: Do you think you might get to be 800 years old as is this Bishop? "When I get bigger," she said seriously.

I think there are only three names for British pubs: “The King’s Arms”, "The White Hart” and "The Red Lion,” though we did drink at the “Tinners Arms” in Zennor but it was over 400 years old and Cornish, so it was long before the Brits had learned queueing, conformity and the dull Tory Style Conservatism.

Tomorrow, off to the Big Smoke.

Cheers Petals,

Shane.
PS one last one from St Levan in Cornwall... reminded me of Rabid-the-Hun our pathetic Anglophile Prime Minature.

St Levan, Cornwall, Pew Carving