Sunday was my day of reckoning for all the cake in my system. In the morning we drove into St Ives, Wendy parked in the car park and we rode the shuttle bus into the heart of town. The car park/shuttle is really the only solution for these villages with narrow streets never meant for cars, much less cars going two ways. The bus itself nearly scraped the buildings on both sides of the road. Parking was free but it cost a pound to ride the bus. “Ta. Cheers. Thanks very much. Cheers.” The bus driver scrutinized the pound coins and dropped them in his till.

We walked down the hill and had a wander on the main street, which I presume was the High but there weren’t the usual signs. It was more a matter of, “it’s near the church on the corner.”

Wendy homed in on the Yummy Scrummy Cafe. Wendy is the undisputed champion of finding the best cafes. This one had a gluten-free courgette and carrot cake with thick buttercream frosting, which was damn good. Did I mention it was still morning?

We poked in the shops: Poppy Treffry, White Stuff, Whistlefish, Fat Face.

Sue and Wendy

Wendy and I paddled (that’s English for waded) on one of the five beaches St. Ives is built around. We had lunch at one of Wendy and Sue’s favorites: Pizza Express. It’s reliably good; I just wish it didn’t have such an American-sounding name. Pierces my illusions of Miss Marple.

We were in St Ives during a two week arts festival. Evidence was around every corner, like the Kernow Samba drummers (who were mostly middle-aged women and very good with the intricate rhythms) on a stage where the High St emptied onto the beach. At the Rock Balancing Park a pirate-y looking bloke balanced a huge lump of a rock onto a pointy one, then sat back and kicked his heels against the wall and looked insolent. He waxed eloquent about his carefree life: “This is it. The air, the sea. Life is free.” Blah Blah.

Rock balancing Park

As we trudged up the hill Sue muttered, “He obviously doesn’t have a mortgage.”

At the top of the hill, we went back into town, then started up an even steeper hill to the Coast Guard watch station and St Nicholas Seamen’s Chapel, a dear little place that was unfortunately locked.

Seamen’s Chapel of St Nicholas, St Ives

But we met Frankie, a spaniel/retriever who had found an outlet for his talents. He charged up the grassy hill with a red ball in his mouth, dropped it and watched with great anticipation as it began to slowly roll down the hill again. When it picked up speed, Frankie charged after it and brought it back. His owners said he had already been at it 20 minutes when we walked by. Sisyphus should be so happy.

At the Co-op across the street from the bus stop we brought provisions against the day we would not see another shop, which we did daily. By the time we had gotten off the bus at the car park, the mist was rolling in from the sea. On the drive home we couldn’t see three yards in front of us when out of the mist were suddenly cows on the road. Wendy is a careful driver and no cows were harmed in the course of our journey. Sue and I photographed some hind ends and I moo-ed at them.

Trebeigh cottage was cold and damp when we arrived home. I went across to tell Alec we were getting nothing but cold air out of the radiators. He came back with me smelling like he had been enjoying his Speyside single malt.

“Well, the heat’s not on,” he told us. “The radiators aren’t on.”

Not knowing how to respond to this, we looked at him.

“I drained one radiator but the heat hasn’t come on,” Wendy said.

“Why’d you do that?”

Wendy and I looked at each other.

Finally it was discovered that the thermostat batteries had died. Alec went out to his magical holiday cottage shop to get new ones.

We got the heat going. I took a hot bath and had a mini bottle of Bowmore I had brought with me from Scotland. Every inch of me either ached or downright hurt and I could still feel the cake from this morning in my stomach like a dead weight. Or maybe it was in my conscience. Or already on my hips. I asked Sue and Wendy if they thought we had done a lot of walking today.

“Not especially.”

Oh god, I thought. If I don’t do something differently I won’t survive a week with these two.

I embarked on a new pattern the next morning, one that got me through the holiday: stretches every morning and no sugar. When we went to a cafés for morning tea and cake, I had tea and oatcakes or dried fruit and nuts. Within 24 hours, I felt better and by the end of the week I felt marvelous. I also felt like I had been at Fat Camp. Rigorous hikes every day and no sugar.

Also by the end of the week I felt like a seven year old with her parents. I truly did not have to know anything or think about anything. I just had to do what I was told. “Elena, you’ll need your long pants today because of the stinging nettles.” “Elena, do you have enough yoghurt for the morning?”

Sue and Wendy have traveling down to a fine art and they are so used to each other, they talk in shorthand. I had to move fast if I was going to contribute anything like the washing up (that’s English for washing the dishes) or pegging out the washing (that’s English for hanging up the laundry.) In the end, I felt loved and welcome and relaxed in body and mind like I hadn’t been in a long time.

But the end is still a week away.

St Ives

Green Grocer, St Ives