The Chauffeur and the Chocolate
I think what I enjoyed most of all was the look on my new friend’s face when he gazed down towards the scene below us for the very first time. Well it was either that or the amount of Swedish chocolate he’d brought with him. Enough to feed half of West Cornwall in fact, but to my everlasting pleasure it was all for me. If this is how it was going to be, then I was quite content to chauffeur him in all manner of directions across the county, very possibly towing a reasonably sized trailer full of Nordic confectionery along behind us. All I need to do now is stay away from the bathroom scales and make excuses if anyone tries to take a cholesterol reading. Of course, it is in keeping with a long held European tradition that one of the chocolate bars has an amusing and faintly rude sounding name. Bearing in mind that half the population of Europe probably speak better English than half the population of England, I can only assume that these things are done for comic effect.
It’s the second time that Flickr has been solely responsible for introducing me to one of you, and curious that on each occasion the visitor to my home county has made Botallack their location of choice. Maybe not so curious. It’s a place that’s rapidly climbed the charts among my own favourites, and one that can still draw a sharp intake of breath on arrival - even though I can be here in well under an hour from my front door. While we’d picked the day that suited us both some weeks earlier, I left it to Steve to choose the subject, which is the proper thing to do, sharing images from a number of other suggested options, including at least three more within a few miles of this one.
Our early arrival took us to the local pub, a brand new experience for me too, and here we shared snippets of our lives, the ladies we share them with, our respective children, my grandchildren, and other important matters such as exactly how the name of that Swedish flatpack furniture giant should be pronounced. If you’re British or Irish, you’re probably pronouncing it incorrectly by the way. Just saying. Don’t shoot the messenger. I stopped short of asking him if he had an address for the subject of the world’s longest ever schoolboy crush. Maybe it was time I accepted that Agnetha Faltskog, who mesmerised my nine year old self and then haunted my teenage years to distraction, needed to be set free at last. Or maybe he just didn’t know where she lived. I guess in a country with ten and a half million people you can’t be on personal terms with everyone can you?
Before arriving, and despite having chosen the location, Steve was good enough to let me know that he wasn’t overly enthusiastic about sheer vertical drops, leaving us both with some misgivings about whether he’d tackle the fabled Ledge of Doom, the narrow crossing on the other side of which offers what are arguably the most dramatic images from Botallack. Maybe some of my tales have been a bit melodramatic, but put it this way - I’m surprised the National Trust’s Health and Safety brigade haven’t yet dynamited it during a noisy winter’s night, blamed the aftermath on coastal erosion and given us all a fait accomplit. They probably will one day. Hope they don’t read this. It’s the only place where you can get down to the same level as the engine houses themselves. Unless you have a drone and a very understanding insurance underwriter that is. You don’t need to cross the Ledge of Doom to get an agreeable photograph here, but you’ll be glad that you did. At least until you remember you have to cross back over again after you’ve taken your shots unless you have a tent and a lifetime’s supply of food.
But Steve displayed the courage of some much earlier battle helmet wearing Scandinavian visitors to these shores, and followed me across and back. Twice, no less. On the second escapade I headed lower down still, onto my favourite rock and settled there, safe in the knowledge that I could still see him clacking contentedly away above me, his tripod pointing in the direction of the engine houses. After a while I noticed he’d vanished, and worried that I might be held responsible for any unfortunate incidents and find myself indefinitely excluded from Petra’s Christmas card list, I headed back up to make sure he hadn’t taken an unexpected bath. In fact he was sitting on the clifftop on the other side of the perilous passage, chatting away to a young Polish photographer who was touring the area and sleeping in his car. A successful meeting, and one of many more to come I hope. I was happy with the shots I’d taken, and rather more importantly, Steve seemed to be too. Even though he thought his best picture of the evening might be of a different subject entirely. We’ll all have to watch and wait on that score. He's still touring the south of England somewhere as I write.
And finally, today’s top tip. When learning to speak enough of the lingo to find your way around Gothenburg without inadvertently ending up in Malmo, if you’re unsure on your vocab, say the English word in a Swedish accent. Straight from the horse’s mouth. Now then, I fancy a couple of squares of strawberry flavoured Plopp. Where did I hide that chocolate? Now let's see, second field beyond the gate, third tree, fourteen paces west, twelve paces south……
The Chauffeur and the Chocolate
I think what I enjoyed most of all was the look on my new friend’s face when he gazed down towards the scene below us for the very first time. Well it was either that or the amount of Swedish chocolate he’d brought with him. Enough to feed half of West Cornwall in fact, but to my everlasting pleasure it was all for me. If this is how it was going to be, then I was quite content to chauffeur him in all manner of directions across the county, very possibly towing a reasonably sized trailer full of Nordic confectionery along behind us. All I need to do now is stay away from the bathroom scales and make excuses if anyone tries to take a cholesterol reading. Of course, it is in keeping with a long held European tradition that one of the chocolate bars has an amusing and faintly rude sounding name. Bearing in mind that half the population of Europe probably speak better English than half the population of England, I can only assume that these things are done for comic effect.
It’s the second time that Flickr has been solely responsible for introducing me to one of you, and curious that on each occasion the visitor to my home county has made Botallack their location of choice. Maybe not so curious. It’s a place that’s rapidly climbed the charts among my own favourites, and one that can still draw a sharp intake of breath on arrival - even though I can be here in well under an hour from my front door. While we’d picked the day that suited us both some weeks earlier, I left it to Steve to choose the subject, which is the proper thing to do, sharing images from a number of other suggested options, including at least three more within a few miles of this one.
Our early arrival took us to the local pub, a brand new experience for me too, and here we shared snippets of our lives, the ladies we share them with, our respective children, my grandchildren, and other important matters such as exactly how the name of that Swedish flatpack furniture giant should be pronounced. If you’re British or Irish, you’re probably pronouncing it incorrectly by the way. Just saying. Don’t shoot the messenger. I stopped short of asking him if he had an address for the subject of the world’s longest ever schoolboy crush. Maybe it was time I accepted that Agnetha Faltskog, who mesmerised my nine year old self and then haunted my teenage years to distraction, needed to be set free at last. Or maybe he just didn’t know where she lived. I guess in a country with ten and a half million people you can’t be on personal terms with everyone can you?
Before arriving, and despite having chosen the location, Steve was good enough to let me know that he wasn’t overly enthusiastic about sheer vertical drops, leaving us both with some misgivings about whether he’d tackle the fabled Ledge of Doom, the narrow crossing on the other side of which offers what are arguably the most dramatic images from Botallack. Maybe some of my tales have been a bit melodramatic, but put it this way - I’m surprised the National Trust’s Health and Safety brigade haven’t yet dynamited it during a noisy winter’s night, blamed the aftermath on coastal erosion and given us all a fait accomplit. They probably will one day. Hope they don’t read this. It’s the only place where you can get down to the same level as the engine houses themselves. Unless you have a drone and a very understanding insurance underwriter that is. You don’t need to cross the Ledge of Doom to get an agreeable photograph here, but you’ll be glad that you did. At least until you remember you have to cross back over again after you’ve taken your shots unless you have a tent and a lifetime’s supply of food.
But Steve displayed the courage of some much earlier battle helmet wearing Scandinavian visitors to these shores, and followed me across and back. Twice, no less. On the second escapade I headed lower down still, onto my favourite rock and settled there, safe in the knowledge that I could still see him clacking contentedly away above me, his tripod pointing in the direction of the engine houses. After a while I noticed he’d vanished, and worried that I might be held responsible for any unfortunate incidents and find myself indefinitely excluded from Petra’s Christmas card list, I headed back up to make sure he hadn’t taken an unexpected bath. In fact he was sitting on the clifftop on the other side of the perilous passage, chatting away to a young Polish photographer who was touring the area and sleeping in his car. A successful meeting, and one of many more to come I hope. I was happy with the shots I’d taken, and rather more importantly, Steve seemed to be too. Even though he thought his best picture of the evening might be of a different subject entirely. We’ll all have to watch and wait on that score. He's still touring the south of England somewhere as I write.
And finally, today’s top tip. When learning to speak enough of the lingo to find your way around Gothenburg without inadvertently ending up in Malmo, if you’re unsure on your vocab, say the English word in a Swedish accent. Straight from the horse’s mouth. Now then, I fancy a couple of squares of strawberry flavoured Plopp. Where did I hide that chocolate? Now let's see, second field beyond the gate, third tree, fourteen paces west, twelve paces south……