It’s a bit strange to wake in England this morning. After a quick adjustment to driving on the left, we commence the trek to Cornwall.
It’s a very different England to our usual summer foray. It’s pleasing to see the late summer scorch has been replaced with lusciously green pasture.
Bare trees reign. Through their branches, we see deeper into the countryside than we usually do, albeit through mist. Washed clean snowy sheep dot the countryside, as do thatched stone cottages.
In between showers, bursts of light bring the countryside to life. It’s all very picturesque.
Despite the drizzle and cold, it would be very easy to settle and nest in this weather. A roaring fire, cozy clothing, the pleasure of Christmas dinner in the climate it was designed for.
I’m really enjoying watching Christmas come to life in the villages we pass. Lights are strung across streets and store fronts sparkle. We even cross paths with three brown deer, white rumps flashing, grazing reindeer style, on a green embankment. It could have only been more Christmassy had tinsel been strewn from their antlers.
There are a couple of hairy moments, we see a recent accident, the car on its roof after taking a turn too fast. Later there’s another, also a victim of cornering too fast.
The drive to Truro takes until mid afternoon. We arrive in a rare dry spell so Chris shoots out to wash the motorhome – rain is forecast for a while, so it’s a lucky break. I start on the inside, theorising that I’ll work until I get tired.
Nine hours later, well past midnight, the back of it is broken. I’m really pleased with my efforts, but it’s a weary but buzzing head on the pillow tonight. At least it’s brought some respite over the next few days. Good Dobby. I see a sock in your future.