Robert Carey, aged eight
Part 2 of a short story series about the young Robert Carey - and in case you don't already have it, you can get part 1 as well, A Pest of a Boy.
Penzance in a grey mizzle – we had a lovely time starting with an Earth meditation at Marazion beach, opposite St Michael\’s Mount, followed by food and cider at a pub, followed by a gawp at the Egyptian House and a leisurely tramp round Penzance (during which I tripped on an escalator top step and just managed to avoid breaking the other arm by head-butting the wall. You had to be there really, but kindly nobody laughed. Yeah, yeah, the wall is fine, thanks.)
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As always I was reminded by the comments of visitors about all the things I take for granted in Cornwall. Not just the beautiful scenery and the sea, but the kindness and friendliness of the Cornish – the way people say hello even to strangers and have time for a chat.
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And nobody had laughed or pointed while we sat and meditated in a circle – though some puzzled French visitors had asked each other if we were a cult.
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No, said one of them, just English.