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sleepingbagintothepicnicset,leavingnoroomforanythingelse.Wepackedupourthings
andsaidgoodbyetoHarry,CarolineandSurprise.Bythetimewegotgoingitwas10.30am
and our aim to be in St Ives by 10am was already looking rather unrealistic.
Before we left, Caroline retold us the story of the mermaid of Zennor. The story goes
that a lady in a long dress - to hide her fishy bits, presumably - used to attend services at
thechurchofStSenara,inZennor.Shewasenchantedbythesingingvoiceofthechorister,
Mathew Trewhella. One day their eyes met and they fell in love. He followed her down
to the village stream, and then to the beach at Pendour Cove, and Mathew was never seen
again. It is suggested that they disappeared beneath the waves together. Some people still
claim that if you sit at Pendour Cove at sunset in the summer, you can still hear Mathew's
voice in the breeze.
This sounds like a load of old bollocks to me.
What really happened was that some 'out of town' hussy passed through Zennor and
tempted Mathew - a suggestible and naïve village idiot - back to her flat in Penzance.
Mathew then realised that eloping with some girl in the city was a better existence than be-
ingachoirboy,andsonever returned tothe village. Asforhearing hisdulcet tones floating
across the waves on a summers evening - that's just Phil Collins being played at the wed-
ding disco.
By daylight, Zennor was a picture postcard village. The road from Harry Mann's farm
dipped down to the pub where the wedding had been, and the rest of the village sat on the
slopebeyond.UnliketheothervillagesthatwehadpassedsinceLand'sEnd,themainroad
does not pass directly through the Zennor. It had somehow secured its own bypass. The
parish of Zennor also has the honour of being the last, alphabetically, in the whole of Bri-
tain. FACT!
Theweatherhadbrightenedup,buttherewasstillathickbarrageofmistintheairstop-
pingthesunfrombreakingthrough.Ourclotheswerealreadystickywithdampness,sothe
extra moisture made little difference. Caroline had warned us that the terrain between Zen-
nor and St Ives would be as tough as what we had experienced on the previous day.
'Although…' she had said, 'the last two miles are all downhill.' It was this phrase that
kept repeating in our heads as we pushed our bikes up the first of many unreasonable hills.
However exhausting and painful it may be, there is no better way to see the countryside
than on a scooter and a crappy BMX. You travel so slowly that you see absolutely
everything; appreciating every inch of downhill freewheeling, and savouring every incline
slowly and considerately on foot.
After a while, we spotted a turning to a camping and caravan park, and decided to go
and check out their lost property. The caravan park turned out to be a tiresome mile-long
detour from the main road. It was a completely unsuccessful trip as they had no bikes and
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