It’s our last day in Truro, tomorrow we start the trek East towards France.
The pace has slowed, it’s fair to say. Monday sees the locals back at work, it finds us biding time until errands beckon. The hire car has to be returned and there’s a sigh of relief that we’ve managed to deliver yet another without incident. Squiz in place, it’s time to copilot the motorhome!
There’s the matter of the key too – those who follow my blog will know the key dramas we had last year. Fiat has a new one on standby and we potter about for a while as they program that one to the motorhome, reprogram all the others and charge a blistering price for doing so. According to the Fiat man, we “only just made it” on our recalcitrant key – it was well on the way out. I’ll add key whisperer to my skills list…
We’re still a novelty here, people are fascinated by the fact that were Australian, with a local motorhome.
Chores accomplished, we head out to lap Truro – my favourite shops beckon and try as I might, I feel I’ve missed out on something if we don’t “do” something. Chris is much better at being “on holiday” than I am. After decades of deadlines I’m hardwired to keep asking “what are we doing next”. I’ll work on that. The weather meanwhile is glorious, in the low 30s, offset by coastal breeze.
The usual culprits relive me of my money, The White Company, whose wares I love (store in Australia please) and Waterstones. Once a bookworm, always a bookworm. I never could resist a bookshop and I’ve yet to walk out of one empty handed.
We also stumble on a rare find in the English countryside – a Polish deli with heavenly smallgoods. Thus burdened with pretty things, books that hold hidden promise and the gentle waft of garlic, we trundle home for cocktails and a quiet night in.