Oy--Car Sickness

We’re on another field trip with the students. Once again we headed south, only this time we are WAYYYY down south in Cornwall. I remember coming here when my family lived in England in 1972, and I remember one of my dad’s colleagues let us stay in their family cottage. The problem is, I have absolutely no recollection where we went--was it Truro? (I hope my sisters will weigh in). At any rate, it is prettier than I remember it, but it still has a kind of wildness to it that I found appealing 40 years ago.

When we go on overnight field trips, the Study in England Programme likes to hire a particular driver—Mark. Mark is a truly gifted coach driver who knows how to maneuver his massive bus around the tightest corners and most ridiculously narrow lanes.

The bulk of our trip was on the M5 motorway, but once we got close to Padstow, we turned on to some of the twistiest roads I’ve ever traveled. I remember getting carsick as a kid, but it’s been decades since I’ve had that horrible headache/nausea combination which the Brits call “travel sick”. Blechhh ! I was not the only one. Three of my colleagues and at least a few of the students also reported feeling less than well. The thing is, there was nothing for it but to plow ahead.

Padstow is a very quiet fishing village, and Mark suggested there wouldn’t be much of interest for those of us who chose not to surf (the major activity of the weekend). The non-surfers in our group included four of us over 50, and three students.

Everyone else in a group put on their wetsuits and headed in to the surf for a lesson and time spent surfing in the eastern Atlantic. Brave souls every one—including our youngest member (only 10).

Personally, my surfing days are over, and I think that’s true for the other three “elders” in our group.

In lieu of surfing (and Padstow), Mark drove the remaining seven of us to Newquay (pronounced Nu-Key), a rather tacky, tourist-trap of a seaside village some nine miles away.

It really didn’t matter much as we didn’t have too much time to wander around before we were once again on the road. Still, it was a welcome change to be able to walk about breathing in the sea air.

Our little group of “elders” indulged my cream tea pursuit and set out to find a tea room overlooking the sea. We didn’t have to travel too far before we found a hotel dining room with a great view and the promise of Cornish Cream Tea. In fact, the signs proclaimed them “Keepers of the Cream” since 1890. It was fine. The tea was restorative, the scones were warm, the clotted cream was delicious, and the strawberry jam was perfectly fine. Mind you, it was NOTHING compared to Luciana’s beautiful scones at the Cathedral Café. So far, she definitely wins the prize for best cream tea in my experience.

The cream tea was the perfect “buckyou-uppo” and we felt we could take a little walk along a cliff road before heading back so Mark could collect us and drive back for our surfing friends.

By and large, the surfers were thrilled with their adventure—many vowing to return as soon as they could. Surprisingly, they all felt the sea was warm, compared to the air temp (aided by a strong west wind). Nevertheless, they were wet, tired and cold after trudging back to the surfing school to return their surfboards and wetsuits.

We’re staying at a youth hostel in Treyarnon Bay. We are RIGHT on the seashore and the views are spectacular. We can hear the surf and enjoy the sea breeze in our bedrooms. I’m bunking alone on this trip and find the room to be perfect for my needs.