Time Off. What a phrase. What an undiscovered phrase.
I am currently sat in my AirBnB – booked yesterday – in the desperate need to not be there. To escape from where I was. To just be somewhere totally different.
It is a bit cold and gloomy outside but I couldn’t care less. I sat outside with a local Cornish beer yesterday. It was sunny and fresh. The locals were singing old navy songs in their own section of the pub. It was surreal and magical and so not what I was imagining.
The town of St. Ives is tiny. I accomplished it in 45 minutes. It is your typical Cornish fishing town with traditional fish and chips every fifth shop, fudge shops, old boats, the pub locals, tourists with their endless dogs, kids on the cold beaches. It is charming. It is refreshing.
The cobbled streets still exist. The narrow lanes make you breathe in as you drive through them. Everyone smiles. Everyone is happy to see you.
No one is in the sea. There are two surfers out today. I try and persuade myself it would be a good day for a swim. Another thought for another day. Instead I find a coffee spot and drink it on a stroll down the beach. The houses are licked with rust and copper stains.
The local pub has local beers and gins. Everything is well thought of. Everything is precious. Everything matters.
I feel comfortable and comforted. I feel relaxed. I have slept 16 hours since my arrival. I now remember what it feels like to totally switch off.
I may even go back to bed now.
And no, I don’t feel guilty in the slightest.
As I was going to St. Ives,
I met a man with seven wives,
Each wife had seven sacks,
Each sack had seven cats,
Each cat had seven kits:
Kits, cats, sacks, and wives,
How many were there going to St. Ives?