Notes from the diary of an Indian in England
It is always interesting to read the comments visitors leave at tourist destinations. They offer a window into the soul of the place, I believe—well, at least into the souls of those who visit. The visitor’s book at Black Head, an unmanned concrete structure the National Trust has built on a cliff-edge not too far […]
Thinking of Jesus, I climbed into the ferry at Fowey Town Quay, paid £2.50 to the captain, and set sail for the distant shores of Polruan which loomed out of green waters some 365 metres away.
If you are a 72-kilo man hiking 14 or so miles a day with a daypack, you need at least 3,600 calories in your system. How do you get that in if you are also on a 20-hour fast?
Jesus is retired now. But for his fans, when the time is right, he is willing to return.
So I walked on, the sun in my eyes and the sea on my side, along red cliffs bitten away by landfalls old and new. In places the path veered very close to the edge and you could see cracks in the dry earth.
I know no easy way to break this news gently to my English friends, so I am going to come out and just say it: you are more indebted to the Americans than you are aware of.
Walking is the second favourite pastime in England (the first is queuing, of course). Only here have I seen people go trudging across muddy fields on the most miserable day and coming back exclaiming, “Ooh! That was lovely!” It is astonishing.
England is full of good-natured nutters who do amazing things for their community in their own quirky ways. I got to know one such by the name of Robert Stephen Hawker when I walked into Cornwall from Devon.
I went to Tyneham because of its history. I wanted to see a village ‘frozen in time’ with my own eyes.
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