Optimistically, they thought, “Who doesn’t love a coastal town with the briny wind, the boisterous surf, the confined, winding street lined with touristy merchandise shops?” This was purported to be a magical overnight stay filled with images of pirates and tales of swashbuckling heroics - an idyllic getaway for a hopeful romantic. The lure of these adventure-laden shores had emboldened two wide-eyed American tourists to venture to the southern most tip of England. St. Ives to be exact.
For all intents and purposes, the day started out perfectly despite classic grey April skies and constant rain. These hearty tourists had lived in moist conditions for most of their lives and were emotionally undaunted by a little spitting drizzle.
The rented blue car resembling a used soap bar slipped down the narrow ‘A’ road with ease as the carefree travelers mindlessly hummed along to the only CD they had with them. The jazzy tunes of British artist, Seal, heightened the potential and nearly impending romance of the voyage ahead.
Moment by moment, the scenic English Moors of Dartmoor National Park glided past. Never had the vacationers experienced something as wild and rugged as this. Yes, they had seen the jagged, snow spotted mountains of Glacier and Yellowstone National Parks in America. They had also seen tundra strewn hillsides in remote places of Alaska. These locales feel rough and desolate, but are somehow compelling. They invite one to into the mysterious side of adventure.
However, the English Moors were a beast of a different kind. They were desolate, rugged, rough, and wild to be sure. However, there was another element that permeated the atmosphere. It felt eerily majestic. It was as if the spirits of kings, queens, knights and warriors of the centuries past hovered there like a barren purgatory. Gradually, the loneliness and bleakness of the terrain began to envelope the soap shaped vehicle. Optimism waned.
The quaint and artistic village of St. Ives sits wedged into the crevasse of a rocky outcrop of land. The harsh waves of the Atlantic Ocean beat unceasingly against the seawall. Fishy, salty and grassy smells carried up the side of the hill by a relentless wind draw attention toward the stone houses stacked one on top of the other like one massive terraced garden broken up by occasional bits of jagged, dark rocks poking through.
The map’s address simply read “14 Rose Cottage Way” to the charming bed and breakfast room awaiting. How hard could it be to find in this tiny, yet attractive fishing village? The travelers’ methodical search began by descending the lengthy hill into town.
The view was spectacular even through the rain. The white-capped waves of the open ocean lay before them on the right mirrored by the white house-covered hill on the left.
At the bottom of the hill the road unexpectedly changed into a one-way system of streets that dictated the journeyers’ direction of travel. Circling through the tiny city centre was fun and intriguing the first time through. There were several shops that the tourists wanted to inspect the next day – kite shops, souvenir shops, historical points of interest, the seawall walk and enticing eateries. They noticed a split second too late that they missed the turn to their necessary street. Amused, they finished the loop through the town and began the second round.
Turning onto the desired street proved an adventure in itself. It reminded the pair of a camel going through the eye of a needle. It forced the travelers to creep past parked cars and stone half-walls to avoid damaging the rented car. Tensions mounted as adrenaline surged with the challenge.
At the end of the row of houses, the deceivingly charming street continued to narrow into what looked to be a bicycle path and seemed to wander off down a precarious precipice. Unlike an actual soap bar, this blue car would not slide gently down the obviously uninhabited ravine wall, nor did the travelers want it to.
Somewhere in the last 30 feet, desperation for a respite crept into the minds of the hungry and frustrated couple. Any trace of adventure and romance vanished. Frustration soon gave way to misdirected open hostility. Angry words were exchanged before the driver extricated himself from the vehicle in order to avoid further escalation. However, after a few minutes to catch their breath, the couple reunited, made apologies and changed their plan of attack for the situation.
Gingerly, they picked their way back to the circuitous city route that was gaining annoying familiarity. The return trip did not change the fact that the map provided by their travel agent directed them to a house that was clearly not a “charming bed and breakfast with ample parking”.
With wry and ironic smiles, they noticed that the appeal was fading as they circled through the village centre yet again. They noticed that shops were beginning to close for the evening therefore, they were rapidly losing options for assistance to their goal. Climbing the long hill back out of the town to a petrol station became their only hope.
After gaining the correct directions from the dirt and grease-laden station attendant, the two now weary travelers once again descended into the village. Following these new directions, they were surprised to discover that they were going in a direction opposite to the other attempts to locate their evening target. Insecure glances were exchanged as they asked an elderly, friendly couple walking the white flower dotted sidewalk for more information. Grateful, the assured travelers tentatively continued on, up a hill parallel to the road leading into the village.
Near the pinnacle, like a lighthouse’s beam of hope, they saw the white sign with black letters: “Rose Cottage Way”. Turning left, they were rewarded with a sign further up the street that indicated that they had reached their ‘home’ for the night – #14.
Snuggled under the poofy duvet after a hearty meal and hot showers, the couple reflected on the day’s adventure. Not any time soon, but someday, they decided, they would appreciate the adventure and enjoy the humor of circling St Ives.
