The Escape
Last weekend's moment under the spotlight in our little corner of the world brought a predictable range of responses from the locals. Some people were delighted at our fifteen minutes of fame. Others were indifferent. Many took pleasure in being very grumpy on the subject. "Why are they coming all the way down here? What sort of example are they setting by flying? Why can't they have a Zoom meeting like everyone else? We haven't got the infrastructure for an event like this." They all appeared to be reasonable points. Meanwhile, local business owners had their drives widened for the new Mercedes they planned to buy after the cash registers had stopped ringing. Climate change protestors marched on St Ives. My brother and sister took part in another climate change demonstration on their paddle boards in Falmouth. In true Cornish fashion, it all passed peacefully. We're not awfully keen on rioting here you see - we'd rather leave that sort of business to the world beyond the banks of the Tamar. To appease the confounded, the Government announced a special development fund for three nearby towns and hoped that everyone had forgotten the promise had been in their election manifesto two years earlier. Cornwall waited in noisy anticipation.
The arrival of the G7 summit to the small seaside resort of Carbis Bay brought sights that we've never seen here before and will very probably never witness again. Carcades of black limousines with darkened windows surrounded by huge numbers of police vehicles were appearing everywhere. On Friday as I drove home from work a convoy of them raced along the other side of the A30 as the rest of us slowed down to stare at the procession and wondered whether we'd just passed within an ace of the president. We probably also wondered how they'd negotiate the notorious and at times terrifying Chiverton Cross roundabout in the rush hour. Nothing wakes you up quite like the prospect of driving towards Chivvy roundabout at 8am on a Monday morning.
Residents of Carbis Bay had to carry two forms of identification if they wanted to get in or out of the village in their cars. One of my colleagues lives there and decided it would be easiest to take Thursday and Friday off. When she returned on Monday she told me she'd had a lovely weekend in the bubble. "It was fine as long as we didn't go anywhere. I saw Joe Biden as well."
At regular intervals helicopters raced above the garden as Ali and I took refuge in our sanctuary for most of the weekend. We're used to seeing helicopters in our maritime environment with a naval airbase not a million miles away, but some of them looked unfamiliar. "Was that the president's helicopter?" Nobody seemed very excited about the prospect of seeing our own Prime Minister - everyone just wanted a glimpse of a smiling Mr Biden, hopefully wearing his aviator sunglasses. "Who were the other ones again?" people would ask each other.
We were fascinated but not wildly keen on the idea of venturing out into the welter of excitement in the world beyond our walls, but it had dawned on me that St Ives Bay, patrolled by the Royal Navy would be a sight worth seeing. On Saturday evening I hatched a plan. We'd get fish and chips and sit at Basset Cove, several miles from the epicentre in a sizeable clifftop car park that is usually host to a couple of campervans and the odd car. Then later on we'd head for Godrevy - by which time it might finally be quiet. It was a bit of a shock to find the place absolutely rammed, cars squeezed along the side of the narrow two hundred yard track leading to the car park. "What on earth are they all doing here?" we asked ourselves. "It's five miles to Godrevy and unless all these people have X-ray vision and can see through two headlands, there's nothing to witness here." With increasing alarm we watched a non stop stream of people arrive as we hid in the car eating our chips. We're not good with crowds.
Fifteen minutes later the reason for the unexpected mass of humanity became clear as it dawned on us that we'd heard the Red Arrows would be making an appearance to entertain the world leaders as they haggled over trade deals and canapes at their beach barbecue a few miles to the west. Fortunately I had the zoom lens, although I've seen plenty of far more impressive images from people who'd paid attention to the weekend programme of events and got closer to the excitement than we had. My photos were ok, as long as you've got a magnifying glass ready. Even at 400mm they appeared as distant specks through the viewfinder.
Meanwhile, one man decided there were better things to do, and escaped the masses via an unknown path to the seemingly inaccessible beach far below us. I have no idea how he got there, or indeed whether he made it back up the cliff later, but escape he did and the reward was a pristine beach entirely to himself where there will never be crowds. I watched him with a mixture of admiration and envy. With the camera in burst mode the opportunity to catch that moment of threat and arrival seemed too perfect to miss.
It's amazing how often the image you end up enjoying most and sharing is the one you'd never bargained for while you were making plans. Maybe that's the joy of photography - you can always record that unexpected moment; that fleeting glimpse into another person's soul. I sense it was a contented soul in those moments on that beach below us.
It's been a very busy few weeks as another academic year reaches its final set of deadlines and I'm finding it difficult to be a good Flickr citizen at the moment. Bear with me if you will, and I return more fully to our shared world soon. I do appreciate the comments and I will reply eventually I promise. In the meantime, here's to a slightly quieter weekend at last.
The Escape
Last weekend's moment under the spotlight in our little corner of the world brought a predictable range of responses from the locals. Some people were delighted at our fifteen minutes of fame. Others were indifferent. Many took pleasure in being very grumpy on the subject. "Why are they coming all the way down here? What sort of example are they setting by flying? Why can't they have a Zoom meeting like everyone else? We haven't got the infrastructure for an event like this." They all appeared to be reasonable points. Meanwhile, local business owners had their drives widened for the new Mercedes they planned to buy after the cash registers had stopped ringing. Climate change protestors marched on St Ives. My brother and sister took part in another climate change demonstration on their paddle boards in Falmouth. In true Cornish fashion, it all passed peacefully. We're not awfully keen on rioting here you see - we'd rather leave that sort of business to the world beyond the banks of the Tamar. To appease the confounded, the Government announced a special development fund for three nearby towns and hoped that everyone had forgotten the promise had been in their election manifesto two years earlier. Cornwall waited in noisy anticipation.
The arrival of the G7 summit to the small seaside resort of Carbis Bay brought sights that we've never seen here before and will very probably never witness again. Carcades of black limousines with darkened windows surrounded by huge numbers of police vehicles were appearing everywhere. On Friday as I drove home from work a convoy of them raced along the other side of the A30 as the rest of us slowed down to stare at the procession and wondered whether we'd just passed within an ace of the president. We probably also wondered how they'd negotiate the notorious and at times terrifying Chiverton Cross roundabout in the rush hour. Nothing wakes you up quite like the prospect of driving towards Chivvy roundabout at 8am on a Monday morning.
Residents of Carbis Bay had to carry two forms of identification if they wanted to get in or out of the village in their cars. One of my colleagues lives there and decided it would be easiest to take Thursday and Friday off. When she returned on Monday she told me she'd had a lovely weekend in the bubble. "It was fine as long as we didn't go anywhere. I saw Joe Biden as well."
At regular intervals helicopters raced above the garden as Ali and I took refuge in our sanctuary for most of the weekend. We're used to seeing helicopters in our maritime environment with a naval airbase not a million miles away, but some of them looked unfamiliar. "Was that the president's helicopter?" Nobody seemed very excited about the prospect of seeing our own Prime Minister - everyone just wanted a glimpse of a smiling Mr Biden, hopefully wearing his aviator sunglasses. "Who were the other ones again?" people would ask each other.
We were fascinated but not wildly keen on the idea of venturing out into the welter of excitement in the world beyond our walls, but it had dawned on me that St Ives Bay, patrolled by the Royal Navy would be a sight worth seeing. On Saturday evening I hatched a plan. We'd get fish and chips and sit at Basset Cove, several miles from the epicentre in a sizeable clifftop car park that is usually host to a couple of campervans and the odd car. Then later on we'd head for Godrevy - by which time it might finally be quiet. It was a bit of a shock to find the place absolutely rammed, cars squeezed along the side of the narrow two hundred yard track leading to the car park. "What on earth are they all doing here?" we asked ourselves. "It's five miles to Godrevy and unless all these people have X-ray vision and can see through two headlands, there's nothing to witness here." With increasing alarm we watched a non stop stream of people arrive as we hid in the car eating our chips. We're not good with crowds.
Fifteen minutes later the reason for the unexpected mass of humanity became clear as it dawned on us that we'd heard the Red Arrows would be making an appearance to entertain the world leaders as they haggled over trade deals and canapes at their beach barbecue a few miles to the west. Fortunately I had the zoom lens, although I've seen plenty of far more impressive images from people who'd paid attention to the weekend programme of events and got closer to the excitement than we had. My photos were ok, as long as you've got a magnifying glass ready. Even at 400mm they appeared as distant specks through the viewfinder.
Meanwhile, one man decided there were better things to do, and escaped the masses via an unknown path to the seemingly inaccessible beach far below us. I have no idea how he got there, or indeed whether he made it back up the cliff later, but escape he did and the reward was a pristine beach entirely to himself where there will never be crowds. I watched him with a mixture of admiration and envy. With the camera in burst mode the opportunity to catch that moment of threat and arrival seemed too perfect to miss.
It's amazing how often the image you end up enjoying most and sharing is the one you'd never bargained for while you were making plans. Maybe that's the joy of photography - you can always record that unexpected moment; that fleeting glimpse into another person's soul. I sense it was a contented soul in those moments on that beach below us.
It's been a very busy few weeks as another academic year reaches its final set of deadlines and I'm finding it difficult to be a good Flickr citizen at the moment. Bear with me if you will, and I return more fully to our shared world soon. I do appreciate the comments and I will reply eventually I promise. In the meantime, here's to a slightly quieter weekend at last.