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| This is the two-lane road in Mousehole |
However, we were driving an Aston Martin, built in Britain for the North American market which meant the steering wheel was on the lefthand side of the car.
Ha! I fooled him. But I prudently didn’t mention that
to the irate man.
I wasn’t oblivious to the problem building up around our car on Wharf Street, in the hamlet of Mousehole. The traffic had been creeping past by alternating one way then the other accompanied by filthy looks from frustrated drivers, but finally a delivery van firmly shoved a cork in the bottleneck. It was unable to pass between our car and the ancient stone wall of the hotel and the entire seaside village came to a standstill.
Mousehole is a tiny gem on the edge of the English Channel, in Cornwall England. In 1991, on an extended road trip through Europe, we had wandered our way southish from Northern Ireland, through the Welsh communities of, Swansea, Cardiff, and on to Bristol England, regrettably bypassing Bath. We continued on to Exeter then Plymouth, until we were on narrow country lanes that were hemmed in by stone walls and overhanging vegetation and littered with sheep traveling to and from their home pastures. As with every discovery on this journey, we had no set plan or route to follow, and were content to go where the road looked interesting. |
| The harbour in Mousehole |
The miniscule harbour was sealed off in the stormy winter months, with at that time, massive timbers that were lowered into metal brackets. We were there in August, of 1991, at what should have been the height of tourist season but because of the recent Gulf War, very few tourists and virtually no Americans were traveling.
In Mousehole, pronounced by locals as Muzzle, or as it sounded to me Mowzel, the roads predate horse and carriage days, barely one vehicle wide and not designed for modern day transportation. Lawrie parked the Aston Martin near The Ship Inn, with two wheels close to the hotel wall and her wide butt hanging into traffic. Ignoring my protests, he hopped out of the car and headed into the hotel. The Ship Inn would normally have had a two-year waiting list for summer visitors. A few minutes later I glimpsed Lawrie and the manager traipsing through the hotel viewing the available rooms.
Just as the British bobby was spraying me with spittle
and anger, Lawrie and the hotel manager crossed through the traffic to the
annex on the other side of the road. The copper lost his cool, screaming at the
hotel manager, who gaily waved and continued on his way. He was more concerned
with snagging the seemingly rich guests for a few nights’ accommodation, than
he was with the tangled mess of local traffic.The Aston Martin (green) on a typical road
Frustrated, the police officer turned his blue-eyed glare
back on me, “I said, move this car lady." His expression said quite
clearly that he would like to bash the shit out of the expansive hood of the
car with his wide hand. The tiny alcove that the car occupied was the only
place that vehicles could squeeze past each other.
Sheepishly, I squashed my holiday-sized body out of the passenger’s door, rounded to the driver’s side and contorted my way back into the car. Climbing across the front seats wasn’t an option with gearshift and handbrake creating poking hazards for my nether regions. I started the Aston and waited for the copper to clear a pathway. Stomping backwards past several cars he angrily indicated they should reverse, then it was my turn to inch back a few feet allowing the delivery van to make a left turn onto a side-street. Another policeman did the same for the vehicles facing me, making everyone move back two car lengths to allow the stupid tourist to get the hell out of the way.
Everyone quietly fumed in their cars. No horn honking. No road rage. Just quiet, seething anger aimed at the idiots with the British Columbia license plate proudly displaying a Canadian flag.
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| Lawrie writing post cards to family |
Seeing my exasperated expression, he started to laugh,
“I knew you would handle it.”
“Thanks, so very much,” I retorted, “you are buying me
a nice dinner this evening.”
We spent two memorable days exploring the lovely side
streets, cafés, and interesting boutique stores occupying the original cottages
that had belonged to the fishermen and their families. At one store we came
across a sweet little children’s book, by Antonia Barber, The Mousehole Cat.
The cat, Mouser, is credited with saving the villagers one stormy winter’s night.
The villagers were starving because they couldn’t get their fishing boats out
through the narrow opening in the harbour, the seas were too rough and the wind
ferocious. The old cat and her elderly owner, Tom Bawcock, set off in their
tiny fishing boat to find fish for the residents knowing them might never
return.
Before we left Mousehole, I purchased a copy of The
Mousehole Cat. The book traveled from Cornwall England through fifteen
countries, before returning to Canada with us later in 1991.
Tonight, I poured a glass of wine to enjoy while I re-read the The Mousehole Cat, and reminisce about an entertaining experience thirty years ago with my adventure partner, Lawrie.
For the full story watch this little video on YouTube:
Mousehole Cat
Link to The Ship Inn: https://shipinnmousehole.co.uk/
Cheers,
Lynda and my new adventure pal, Sparky the Mexican pooch who adopted us in 2013.
