We arrived in the United Kingdom on a cool Monday morning, and it was lovely to feel the temperature drop after a long, hot summer in France.
We had a couple of hours to wait for the bus, so we went looking for coffee. The airport offered exactly one option: Starbucks. And let’s face it, Starbucks isn’t really coffee. Flavoured water, perhaps—but coffee? We gave it a miss.
Instead, we sat and watched the crowds hurry past, all racing for buses and planes. There were a lot of leggings and track pants on display. Now, I’m sure they’re comfortable. But public-leggings confidence is a mystery to me: no one looks good in leggings. No one. And track pants in public? Surely there are limits. Yet there we were, on a grey Monday morning in Bristol, surrounded by people dressed as if the airport had announced a surprise sleepover.
Eventually, we climbed aboard the FlixBus to Plymouth and travelled through green countryside and pretty villages. Plymouth, a town I’d always imagined to be rather lovely, turned out to be a little grubby in the parts we saw. Luckily, my lovely friend Sarah was waiting to collect us—a friend I hadn’t seen in 20 years, which is far, far too long.
We headed south to Mevagissey, a tiny Cornish fishing village where we were meeting our other friends, Scott and Paul, along with Sarah’s husband, Roy. We’d rented an apartment right on the harbour, with wonderful views over both the inner and outer harbours: working fishing boats coming and going, and people getting on with their everyday business.
We had four days together. Our friendship goes back 30 years, to when Sarah, Scott and I worked together at Suzanne Grae. Thirty years is a long time. Somehow, it also feels like no time at all.
Mevagissey is a wonderful little village, with a centuries-old pub, the Ship Inn, which we visited several times. I sat there imagining pirates and hidden treasure. We also found an excellent wine bar and drank local sparkling wine. I was pleasantly surprised by the quality of the produce and wine available in Cornwall. I had expected good scenery. The food and drink were a very welcome bonus.
We went on a few outings. One day we visited Charlestown, where several television series have been filmed, and drank spritz in the sunshine overlooking the harbour. Another day we went to St Michael’s Mount, the little sister to Mont-Saint-Michel across the Channel. It’s a tidal island, crowned with a castle and chapel, with a long history as a place of pilgrimage and a former priory linked to Mont-Saint-Michel. We had a delicious high tea, complete with scones, jam, cream, other treats and a glass of bubbles. A very civilised way to explore history—and considerably easier on the feet than a medieval pilgrimage.
One day we popped into St Austell to pick up a few things. It must once have been a bustling town, but the high street has seen better days, lined with discount shops and charity shops. Sarah pointed out all the empty space above the shops. It seemed such a waste. With a bit of government foresight and planning, some of those old buildings could become homes—giving people somewhere to live and helping breathe life back into the town centre. A rare case where the answer to a housing problem might be sitting directly above a shop selling phone chargers.
One evening, Paul cooked a feast for all of us, plus Sarah and Roy’s three boys and their partners. We gathered around the apartment’s giant table for a lovely family dinner. There was plenty of food, plenty of conversation, and that happy feeling of being among old friends.
On our last day, we set off across Bodmin Moor in search of wild ponies. After a rather circuitous route, we found them grazing peacefully beside the road, as if they’d been expecting us all along. Afterwards, we stopped at an old hotel for tea and cake, then said au revoir to Scott and Paul, who were heading north.
The four of us carried on to a restaurant in the forest for burgers, followed by a walk through the woods beside a trickling stream. It was quite beautiful—the sort of walk that makes you slow down and stop talking for a moment. Or at least stop talking about where to get the next meal.
AP and I spent our last two nights in a tiny apartment a few doors up from Sarah and Roy’s house. We ate at their very local pub, which was fabulous. On our last night, we had drinks at a nearby pub and met some of the colourful locals before picking up fish and chips and eating around Sarah and Roy’s dining room table.
It was a lovely week spent with dear friends. The sort of week that makes you wonder why you ever let 20 years go by between visits.
Then it was time to leave. We packed our bags and Sarah drove us to the station, sending us off with a bag of sandwiches she’d made for the journey. We were catching the train to Gatwick, changing at Reading. The train was half an hour late—and then became even later as we went along. It was packed, apparently because fewer trains were running on the route. Nothing says “relaxing end to a holiday” quite like standing shoulder to shoulder with your luggage while the timetable quietly gives up.
The change at Reading turned into a comedy show. They changed platforms twice, which meant rushing from one side of a rather large station to the other, up and down stairs, luggage in tow. Eventually we made it onto the right train and arrived at Gatwick two hours later than planned. Luckily, we’d allowed an enormous amount of time for the journey. For once, my instinct to plan for every possible disaster had paid off.
I’ve long believed Paris CDG to be the worst airport in the world. Gatwick is now giving it a run for its money: old, grubby, understaffed—the list goes on. The main difference is that at least the Brits are friendly. A warm smile does soften the experience of being lost in a building that looks as if it has been waiting for a renovation since the last century.
So, 12 hours after leaving a tiny Cornish village, we finally boarded the Air China flight, bound for Chengdu.