The Power of Hope – Isles of Scilly: At A Distance (Cornwall Chronicles #27)

The future does not exist without hope. Hope is what keeps us going. It is invaluable to the point of priceless. Give a person hope and they have a chance. Hope opens the heart and mind to future possibilities. Anyone reading this should ask themselves what they hope to accomplish. The answer will act as a source of motivation.

           A Powerful Desire – Isles of Scilly

Sound Advice – The Need To Go
I do not have much useful advice for people on how to live their lives. Like most extremely independent people I despise being told what to do. The upshot is that I feel awkward telling others what to do because I imagine that they might react the same stubborn way that I do. This involves giving a perfunctory nod and pretending to listen while doing the exact opposite. The strategy is not without its flaws. A failure to listen often results in bad decisions. Upon reflection, I realize that sound advice was given to me. Unfortunately, I thought that I knew better. This can lead to problems while traveling since I can become too fixated on a self-imposed itinerary.

There are few things that I find worse than setting out on a journey with a goal in mind and failing to achieve it. The fear of failure stalks my every step. Avoiding it keeps me going past the point of common sense. And yet, there is no feeling quite like the pursuit of a long sought after place. As my good friend Brian Walton once said to me with his typically English pragmatism, “the gettington is always better than the havington.” This is of course a twist on “the journey is more important than the destination.” With that in mind, I do have one piece of advice worth giving to travelers or anyone else who might be interested. Always have something to look forward to. In the context of travel this means having a future trip in mind. The future belongs to those who believe in it.

On the edge – Isles of Scilly (circled) and Great Britain (Credit: Smurrayinchester)

Staying Alive – Many Happy Returns
Even before returning from a trip overseas, I begin planning my next journey. To do otherwise, is to invite depression. It is imperative to my mental well-being that I figure out my next port of call. Since an overwhelming majority of my trips abroad are to Eastern Europe, I begin planning a visit to those places I have yet to reach even though I have spent years thinking about them. Several have been coming to mind lately. Places that have lodged themselves in my semi-consciousness waiting for me to grab hold of a delayed destiny.
These places are the lifelines that will pull me across the Atlantic and deep into continental Europe. Among them are Kaunas, Lithuania, Chernivtsi, Ukraine, painted monasteries of the Bukovina region in Romania, Wroclaw and Cieszyn in Poland. I am not surprised that these places have been living somewhere deep inside of me. I have developed sublime affinities for each of them. It is not so much that I want to visit them, as that I need to visit them. They are the equivalent of oxygen; I need them to stay alive.

There is one recent addition to my current crop of future destinations that is an outlier. A place about as far from Eastern Europe as I could get and still be in Europe. My love of the remote, my fetish for the obscure, manifested itself in a barely controlled urge to visit the Isles of Scilly. The Isles are the southernmost place in Great Britain, the most isolated and least populated part of Cornwall. They consist of 145 islands of which a mere five are inhabited by a grand total of 2,271 people. The total land area of the Isles of Scilly is only a bit larger than the city of London. The Isles are little more than an afterthought if anyone thinks of them at all. I imagine their mention is reserved for geography classes filled with British schoolchildren bored out of their minds. Or perhaps they come up in conversation among trivia buffs that like to impress no one other than themselves by reciting peculiar facts aloud.

The Isles of Scilly are not easy to access and can be prohibitively expensive to visit. A vacation on the Mediterranean is cheaper for a Brit than a trip to the Isles. Despite their remoteness, the Isles of Scilly are heavily reliant on tourism. The beaches are pristine and blissfully isolated from the massive crush of tourists on other areas of the coastline in southern Britain. The Isles’ other economic engine is more surprising. They are something of a garden spot. The Isles of Scilly experience the jet stream on steroids. In the summer, the Isles are cooler than the rest of Britain and in the winter they are warmer. The mild climate makes for optimal conditions for growing flowers. It also makes for the kind of eccentric inspiration for a journey that I find intensely seductive.

Landing pads – Isles of Scilly from above (Credit: Mike Knell)

Imaginary Plans – A Powerful Desire
Seeing really was believing, even if what I saw was a mirage or a figment of an overactive imagination. While visiting Cornwall I spent a day on the Land’s End Coaster, an open-topped bus which covers the Penwith Peninsula, an astonishingly beautiful area known for its rugged stretches of coastline. Not long after leaving Penzance, the Coaster began to wind its way between hedgerows and towards the Atlantic Ocean. In my guidebook, I noticed the Isles of Scilly, which are located 45 miles southwest of the Peninsula. I began looking out over the ocean trying to find them.

I asked a fellow passenger for help. He pointed at an indistinct area of sky, ocean, and cloud cover in the distance. There were the Isles of Scilly or so I wanted to believe. That moment may or may not have been love at first sight. I am not quite sure if I saw the Isles or not. Just the idea of them was enough to fire my imagination. I felt a longing to see them, to stand on them, to be with them. I kept looking, hoping that something more could be seen. A powerful desire came over me. The Isles of Scilly might not have been mine on that day, but I comforted myself with the hope that one day they would be mine.

Powers of Observation – Cornwall’s Hidden People (Cornwall Chronicles #26)

Cornwall is one of the most unique counties in Britain. Much of this uniqueness derives from its splendid nature. Beautiful and bucolic, tumultuous and dramatic, emerald landscapes and rugged coastline tumbling down to shimmering seas, Cornwall has a personality all its own. One moment it can be relaxed and gentle, the next fissured and formidable, its nature defies traditional definitions of beauty. Cornwall’s land and seascapes are transcendent. It is the reason Cornwall has the highest number of visits by tourists anywhere in Britain other than London. The love for Cornwall is well deserved. I doubt anyone leaves disappointed.

Open door policy – Welcome to Cornwall

Transcendent Beauties – A One-Sided Affair  
There is another aspect of Cornwall’s beauty that is less apparent to those who suffer love at first sight. Its nature acts as a seductive distraction that makes the county’s inhabitants less notable than they would otherwise be in less beautiful places. Tourists are in love with the land and the sea, the people are largely an afterthought. I fell under that same spell as soon as I crossed the River Tamar and entered Cornwall on my inaugural train trip to Truro on the Great Western Railway. Thinking back on that journey, I cannot recall a single person inside the train. I have images of estuaries, landscapes, and rivers still in my mind. So much as a single face fails me. I vaguely recall what looked like a few teenagers sitting by the water near Exeter. I only noticed them because they were silhouetted against the water turned into a mirror by the sunshine.

The transcendent beauty of Cornwall was akin to one of those moments in a movie where a beautiful leading lady enters a room, and everyone’s attention turns to her. The focus revolves around the leading lady while everything else ceases to exist. This head turning, trance inducing effect, never really wore off during my time in Cornwall. First impressions turned out to be lasting ones. The competition between vanity and reality is a decidedly one-sided affair, where vanity (Cornwall’s nature) wins out over reality (Cornwall’s people). That is a shame, because the people in Cornwall I met were funny, kind, and insanely helpful. I had enough time in Cornwall for numerous interactions with locals.

Transcendent beauty – Landscape on the coast of Cornwall

Peoples & Pasties – A Local Delicacy
In Truro, I stayed a fifteen-minute walk from the city center in a residential area. Thankfully, a good portion of my interactions with the locals were not at sites frequented by tourists. I have never trusted how locals treat tourists when money is at stake in a tourist venture. The staff are paid to be on their best behavior. Putting on a happy face is essential. Friendliness is not hard to come by in these situations. In my opinion, judging a nation by the people who work at hotels, guest houses, historic sites and national parks is not the best way to get a gauge on how people socialize or treat each other in a foreign country. The situation is different in city centers, sidewalks, train stations, grocery stores, and on the road. This is where the locals are in their element as I discovered while enjoying my first pasty in Cornwall. This resulted in an unexpected meeting.

After getting a pasty from a local bakery, I sat down on a bench beside Saint Nicholas Street ready to try this delicacy. My first bite was tepid. I am not a fan of most meat products, but the pasty was better than I could have ever imagined. The crust was chewy and tasty. The meat filling melted in my mouth. I could not have asked for a better introduction to Cornwall’s most famous gift to cuisine. I immediately understood why there were long queues at the bakery. This was the ultimate carry-out lunch. While I was savoring my first Cornish pasty, a local took it upon himself to greet me.

There was neither an exchange of pleasantries nor an acknowledgement of one another. Instead, this man disarmed me right away by scrutinizing my pasty. He then mentioned exactly what kind I had selected. He went on to commend me for making a good choice and concluded by saying, “enjoy your pasty.” At first, I thought the man might have been trying some sort of swindle by first ingratiating himself with me. Instead, he was genuinely curious. I do not know what was more remarkable, the pasty or the interaction. It was a memorable moment that set me at ease.

Pasties and people – Daily life in Cornwall

Humble & Heartfelt – The Cornish Way
My other interactions were more mundane, but no less telling. The Cornish are nothing if not terribly polite. More than a few times I felt embarrassed about my lack of manners. The courtesies they extended to me were so profuse that I began to mind my manners out of respect for their kindness. I felt compelled to be politer than normal in public just by being around them. Politeness goes hand in hand with modesty. One of the main conclusions I made about the Cornish was that they were modest people. There were few signs of conspicuous consumption or ostentatious wealth. The idea of bling, haute couture, and flashy cars was lost on them. The people dressed casually. I do not recall seeing a single person in a suit.

The normality of the people was heartening. No one I met or saw was putting on airs. I did not detect any pretensions. This could be a byproduct of living in such a beautiful natural landscape. Personal fashion pales in comparison to the environment. Why bother competing with the drop- dead gorgeous countryside and sensational stretches of coastline? This would be a no-win situation for the Cornish. To their credit it is something they avoid. There was a noticeable modesty in their residences. They mirrored the humble look of Truro which had a quaint, yet unremarkable city center except for its spectacular cathedral. Perhaps the Cornish modesty came from the fact that the county has one of the lowest average income levels in Britain. This is not a society where wealth is openly sought. The Cornish are comfortable with themselves. Some might call them simple; I would call them good people. That is all that needs to be said.    

Click here for: The Power of Hope – Isles of Scilly: At A Distance (Cornwall Chronicles #27)

Missing Persons Report – Making A Life In Truro (Cornwall Chronicles #25)

How do people live in Cornwall? What is daily life like for the inhabitants? How are outsiders treated? These were some of the questions I wondered about before traveling there. I had never met a single person who lived in Cornwall prior to my visit. While I knew about Cornwall’s famous pasties and pasty complexions of the British, I didn’t know anyone who called Cornwall home. Furthermore, none of my acquaintances had ever traveled there. When I told friends and colleagues that I was going to Cornwall they looked at me with a half-smile and blank stare. Then they, “what is in Cornwall?” I did not have an answer other than, “It is supposed to be beautiful.” This ended those conversations rather quickly. Cornwall and its inhabitants were a gap in my knowledge that I hoped to rectify.

Meeting the locals – At Truro Cathedral

Anecdotal Evidence – A Journey of Discovery
I scoured my memory trying to find a human connection to Cornwall. I found everything but one. Despite all the human diversity Great Britain has to offer, Cornwall eluded me. I had met a Welsh couple on a train through northern Poland, Scots when I spent twelve enchanting days there twenty years ago, a woman from Northern Ireland at university when I was preparing for a career in alcoholism, countless English who were verbally brilliant, socially awkward and a bit on the uppity side, and Scots-Irish every time I looked in the mirror, at a family photo, or the people who made up the main ethnic group where I grew up.  I had met Poles who immigrated to England, Poles who worked seasonally in Wales, and another Pole married to an Englishman who was on a tour of Chernobyl with me. I knew Hungarians who spent summers teaching English by the seaside in Bournemouth, a Romanian that spent several years living with an English family, an Indian who went to an English school in southern India and spoke immaculate English with a British accent. Among all these people affiliated with Britain, not one was from Cornwall.

My parameters were not strict, they did not even have to be Cornish to count. And still there were none. Cornwall was the most visited tourist spot in Britain, but no one I knew had ever spent time there. Cornwall was a mystery to me. How the people lived there was an even greater mystery. I was going to find out by staying with locals, who of course were not Cornish or British. They were immigrants from Eastern Europe, outsiders like me, but with one big difference. While my experience of Cornwall would last a mere week, their experience had already lasted several years and was due to continue. I wanted to see how they lived, worked, and led their lives. I wanted to get their thoughts on Cornwall and its people. This would be cultural anthropology and a journey of discovery. I played tourist, they played the game of life. And only at the end of my journey did I have time to reflect on a week’s worth of observations.

Going about their business – In Fowey Cornwall

Looking for Opportunities – Coming To Cornwall
My hosts in Cornwall had moved to Truro a couple of years before from London. They came for the educational offerings. One of them had just completed a master’s program at the University of Exeter, Cornwall Campus in Penryn. Cornwall does not have many things to attract the young and upwardly mobile. Universities are one of its greatest assets. Higher education can prime the pump of economic development. While Cornwall’s residents voted for Brexit 56.5% to 43.5%, in footballing terms that was an own goal. That dealt a self-inflicted blow to an economy that has been reeling since the 19^th century from the continual decline of the mining industry which once dominated the county. That industry is now all but non-existent. Tourism is triumphant. The problem is that the pay in the service sector is not very good.

Like rural areas across Europe and other western countries, urbanization has hollowed out the population of young adults in Cornwall. For the county to overcome its long slide into economic obsolescence, keeping the upwardly mobile at home is of great importance. That has proven to be extremely difficult. Prior to Brexit, development funds from the European Union were vital for a region that lags in development. The EU also brought Eastern European immigrants to Cornwall. They helped boost the economy, and the ones who have stayed still do.

Being young adult immigrants in an isolated region is never easy, but Cornwall has been good to my hosts. They have not experienced any overt anti-immigrant sentiment. They mainly received strange looks when the locals learned where they were from. Eastern Europe in Britain usually means Poles. Since my hosts were not from there, the locals had very little to go on. One went so far as to ask if they had internet in Eastern Europe. Another asked if they still travelled by horseback. My hosts found this ridiculous rather than offensive. It showed their inquisitor’s ignorance of Eastern Europe. Though to be fair, I doubt many people in Eastern Europe have much knowledge about Cornwall either. 

A day in the life – Experiencing Cornwall

Enjoy The Silence – A Quieter Life
My hosts’ stay in Cornwall started out as temporary, but from what I heard it is likely to be longer lasting. And why not? Life in Truro might not be filled with excitement for young adults, compared to London or Budapest. On the other hand, a quieter life has its advantages. Worries about crime are close to non-existent in Cornwall. The beautiful landscapes go some way in compensating for salaries that are lower than in other areas of Great Britain. The main drawback to living in Cornwall is the cost of living. This is nowhere near as bad as London where my hosts spent several years squeezed into a small flat. Living elbow to elbow, even with someone you love, is never easy. Doing that while navigating the clamor and controlled chaos of a major city is difficult at the best of times. London is a great place if you can afford or tolerate it. Truro is a great place if you know what to make of it.

From what I saw and experienced in Truro the city is livable and clean. It is easy enough to get around on foot or by bus. While public transport options in Cornwall are limited, the Great Western Railway covers South Cornwall’s main cities and towns. Anyone who lives in St. Austell, Truro, Redruth, and Penzance will find the train a convenient option. I used that same option to make my way around several parts of Cornwall. Just as the landscape left a lasting impression on me, so did the people.

Click here for: Powers of Observation – Cornwall’s Hidden People (Cornwall Chronicles #26)

Going Local – Daily Life Abroad (Cornwall Chronicles #24)

Recently I was asked by a friend if I cared to accompany him on a trip to Jordan. I did not ask why he wanted to go there, because I already knew. It was obvious as soon as he mentioned the destination. Any American travelling to Jordan on vacation will be visiting Petra, that world famous ancient site that attracts millions of tourists each year. I know next to nothing about Jordan, but I am keenly aware of Petra. Anyone I know who has been to Jordan went there. They spoke about it in glowing terms. Unlike other world-famous tourist destinations that have their dissenters, Petra is universally lauded except for the crowds. It is the destination in Jordan, nothing else comes close. I understood why my friend wanted to see it. Who doesn’t?

Local life – People in the city center of Truro

Maximum Irritation – Tour of Duty
I have known this friend since grade school and always enjoy spending time with him. Combined with my love for overseas travel, a trip to Jordan sounded like a win-win situation. There were two big problems. The first was cost. My friend has the means to go on trips run by high quality tourism companies. Luxury is something I avoid, partly due to cost, but also because I prefer independent travel. I once spent almost two weeks in Turkey on a tour. While it was organized for maximum flexibility and much more to my liking than most organized tours for foreigners, I was irritated beyond belief less than a week after it began. Put twenty-five people together and someone is bound to drive everyone else crazy.

The tour only moved as fast as the slowest person. Meals were an excruciating exercise that tended towards the interminable. Those ten days were anything but a Turkish delight. Being part of a captive audience is not something I care to repeat in an overseas experience. Since then, my independent travels in Eastern Europe have exacerbated a need to avoid any organized tour experience. I will not be going to Jordan and certainly wish my friend well. Instead, I will be looking for another localized experience like the one I had in Cornwall. Far from the maddening crowds, micro-managed itineraries, and mediocre hotels, the best thing I did in Cornwall was staying with locals.

Taking it all in – People at a football game between Kispest and Ujpest

Subject to Scrutiny – Taking It All In
I would never have travelled to Cornwall if not for knowing someone who lived there. That ended up making all the difference, not only in having a reason to visit, but also in my experiences. For all the fascinating historic sites and transcendent natural beauty, the best part of the trip was getting a unique look at daily life. This is something I have become increasingly fixated upon in my travels. It started years ago in Kispest, a down at the heel, working class district in Budapest. While staying there I began to frequent a local shop, to the point that the women behind the counter started greeting me in the same manner as the regular customers. The items for sale captured my interest. Higher prices compared to chain supermarket stores became noticeable. The nuances of shopping were apparent, in the same way they were at home.

I began to observe the comings and goings in that store. I did the same thing on the daily bus route to the metro. I found comfort in being an outsider watching people go about their daily business. The term usually given for this is people watching, but it goes much further than that for me. Sitting at bus stops, wandering around neighborhoods, scrutinizing signage, I cannot get enough of what most people would consider banal. There is a tourist’s experience and a local’s experience in a city. These two do not often coincide. The local’s experiences came to interest me as much as tourist sites in cities. I could not bear to tell my friend who wanted me to join him in Jordan, that I was much more interested in the quotidian in forgotten cities in Eastern Europe. And that impulse bled over into my Cornwall trip.

Tourism tends to skew perspectives. They provide a distinct experience of a country that is often the opposite of how people there really live. Take for instance museums. In foreign countries, museums are among the most popular attractions for tourists. I sometimes think that if it was not for foreigners, many museums I have visited overseas would be empty. Besides hyperactive schoolchildren, I see way fewer locals in museums than other places I visit. Unless a local is an aficionado of museums or has a specific interest in one, they are likely to avoid them. Museums take time and energy away from people busy with daily life. This is sad, but understandable.

I am no different than other tourists who flock to museums overseas. Back at home it is a different story. I generally avoid museums. Many are static, boring, and uncomfortable. Try standing on a concrete floor while reading an encyclopedia. That is a rough approximation of most museum experiences. If you want to see how locals live, then it is best to avoid museums. I can hardly blame the locals in Eastern European nations or Great Britain for their failure to frequent museums. During my time in Truro, I walked past the Royal Cornwall Museum on at least five separate occasions. Never once did I see anyone entering it. That does not mean its exhibits are lacking. Locals might find the museum of great interest, but they have better things to do with their time. It is a simple calculation and a brutal one to those of us who love history. Truth be told, many of us are guilty of the same behavior back home.

Daily life – In Truro

Paid To Smile – Putting On A Happy Face
Hotels are the one place where tourists spend most of their time on any visit. They are also the one place devoid of local life. At their best, hotels can never match the experience of staying in a local’s home overseas. This is especially true if you know the locals. Around friends, people tend to relax. That can make a home stay enthralling. This is not true with hotels which are impersonal by nature. No matter how hard they try to make their guests feel at home, hotels have an anonymity about them that is impossible to ignore. The rooms look alike, the halls are uniform, the front desk staff is polite because they are getting paid to be polite. I have stayed in hotels in Eastern Europe, as well as people’s homes. I am always shocked by the difference between the two experiences. The same thing would happen on this trip to Great Britain. In Cornwall, I experienced highly personalized hospitality. In London, I was pretty much ignored at a guest house. There was very little to interest me there. The opposite was true in Truro. That fascinating experience was largely due to my hosts.

Click here for: Missing Persons Report – Making A Life In Truro (Cornwall Chronicles #25)

Missing Persons Report – Making A Life In Truro (Cornwall Chronicles #25)

The Institution – Waiting On A Train In Truro (Cornwall Chronicles #23)

It was mid-morning at the railway station in Truro. The station was quiet with only a few people waiting for the next train to Penzance. I was one of them. Waiting on trains in Truro has a long history. Since 1852, those seeking work, pleasure, or visits with family and friends have found themselves standing on platforms, checking their watches, or watching the clock for the scheduled service to their next destination. During the 19^th century they took the West Cornwall Railway (Penzance to Truro) or the Cornwall Railway (Plymouth to Truro). Later that same century, they took the Great Western Railway, as I soon would on my way to Penzance.

Waiting on a train – Truro Railway Station

Peculiar Calm – The Weight of Expectation
There was a morning chill in the Truro Railway Station as the coolness of early autumn lingered along the platforms. The seasons were changing, but the scheduled railway services continued all the same. Every railway station has a certain rhythm that centers around the arrivals and departures that occur at frequent intervals throughout the day. The station at Truro was no different. For the most part it was slumbering, as the commuters had already departed earlier that morning. The somnolence was deceptive because the station could spring back to life in a matter of moments. When a train arrived at a platform, those who had been awaiting departure now had a focus, some might even say a mission. One that needed to be executed in a couple of minutes to be successful. They boarded with the determination of people being held to a deadline. Fear of being left behind acted as a source of motivation. I knew this feeling all too well. That was the reason I arrived at the station twenty minutes prior to departure.

A peculiar calm permeated the station now that the busiest part of the morning had passed. The weight of expectation still hung in the air. There was a tension waiting to be released. And at the same time, the station seemed to be half-asleep. No one showed any hint of excitement. The waiting game was being played with a collective shrug. Perhaps this was a response to being told exactly what to do. At a railway station, passengers do not have much say when it comes to the time of departure. They are at the mercy of the timetable. The only way to take it is with the stiff upper lip or cool reserve for which the British are well known. The stress from waiting and wondering was kept bottled up on the inside. Stoicism was the preferred emotion. This acted as a sedative. The passengers would be awakened from their sedation by the sound of a lonesome whistle blowing.

A long time coming – Benches commemorating Truro Railway Station
(Credit: Geof Sheppard)

Penzance & Possibilities – The Idea of Travel
There are few things in life that are certain. The cliché says death and taxes are two of them. I would like to add a third, that another train will be coming to Truro. This offers an everyday opportunity worth taking if you have the time and inclination to choose your own adventure. Modern life is measured in time. What better way to make the most of it then by hopping on a train and finding out what is waiting to be discovered further down the line. I know those words sound straight out of a marketing campaign, but that does not make them any less true. There are so many options and adventures to choose from even when starting from a smaller city station like the one in Truro. My choice was Penzance, a mere 45-minute ride along the final stretch of the Great Western Railway. Those who start their journey to Cornwall from London Paddington can go no further than Penzance. The latter was a worthy destination, but it did not have to be that way. There were four other stops between Penzance and Truro that piqued my interest. Judging by their names, Redruth and St. Erth sounded extremely enticing. I stuck to my original plan while still allowing my imagination to run wild. The possibilities excited me just as much as Penzance. The idea of travel can often be as powerful as the act.

Waiting on trains has always been one of my favorite aspects of traveling in continental Europe. The same held true for me in Great Britain. There was anticipation, impatience, and worry. I kept watching the departures information to make sure the train was on time. 15 minutes before the scheduled departure I was already compulsively looking at the electronic board giving the same information I had read just a few seconds earlier. I did want to miss the train. The fear of being late for anything has stalked me throughout my life. Travel tends to exacerbate this fear. I have a deep-seated phobia of missing trains, flights, and buses. The idea terrifies me. It gives me a feeling of abandonment, something I have loathed since my parents divorced when I was a child. Like most fears, this one is highly irrational and that is the reason I find it so hard to control. To be worried about missing a train between Truro and Penzance is absurd. That did not stop me from worrying that it would happen.

Down the line – Leaving Truro (Credit: Robin Webster)

Politeness & Pragmatism – The Greatness of Britain
The train to Penzance arrived right on time. I stepped on board and departure was soon underway. The railway station at Truro became a memory. That was until I returned from Penzance in the early evening. This time the station was quieter than before. On the way out I saw one of my favorite people, an attendant I had observed on several occasions during my various arrivals and departures from the station. He helped those who purchased tickets to scan them and get through the electronic gate. He was always cheerful and jocular. A man who did his job like it was a duty, full of politeness and pragmatism. Those traits that express the greatness of Britain in a subtle and understated fashion. He was lively, affecting a warmth for everyone who passed his way. I decided to try a bit of jocularity myself, saying to him, “you are an institution at this place.” He laughed and affecting an exaggerated look replied, “sometimes it feels like I am in an institution.” I laughed. Later, I thought about his reply. He was right, the Truro Railway Station feels like an institution, in the best sense of that word.  

Click here for: Going Local – Daily Life Abroad (Cornwall Chronicles #24)

The First Time – The Great Western Railway To Truro (Cornwall Chronicles #22c)

When you have already been awake for 24 hours and endured a Trans-Atlantic flight, a journey by train sounds like a great way to finally get some sleep. I was travelling from London Paddington to Truro. The trip would take almost five hours. This allowed me plenty of time to close my eyes, relax, and sleep until the train pulled into Truro. On a less than scenic route, I would have availed myself of the opportunity for some much-needed rest, but in this case, I decided to do the opposite. The Great Western Railway from London Paddington to Truro is one of the most scenic lines in Great Britain.

Room for a view – Devon as seen from the Great Western Railway

Window Seat – Room For A View
The line travels through Devon and across Cornwall. These two counties are synonymous with natural beauty. They attract throngs of tourists during the summer, many of whom take the train because window shopping the scenery is as much an attraction as their final destinations. I relished the chance to take in as much of Devon and Cornwall as could be seen from a window seat on my way to Truro. Upon departure from Paddington, I was wide awake and would stay that way throughout the trip. Everything I would see was new to me. I had no prior experience with either Cornwall or Devon. The scenery would be more than enough to keep me awake throughout the journey.

The Great Western Railway route to Truro is a feast for the eyes as it glides over sparkling rivers and deep valleys while passing through pastoral landscapes and low hills covered with infinite shades of green. Even in mid-September, the landscape of Devon and Cornwall looked to be forever in bloom. Imagine the world’s largest garden outside your window. That’s what I looked at for hours on end. From time to time a passing shower added a mystical element. This would be followed by bright rays of sunshine bursting through floating clouds. The weather was in constant flux and much more compelling for it. The landscape engendered optimism. I could not help but feel better about the world just by looking at it. The journey lived up to the loftiest expectations.

Crossing the Tamar – Train on the Royal Albert Bridge (Credit: Geof Sheppard)

Getting A Rise – Crossing The Tamar
In Devon, the countryside was astonishingly lush. It looked like springtime never stopped. Compared to what I would later see in Cornwall, the terrain in Devon was more gentle and less rugged. It was also there that the train passed through the two most sizable cities on the line. Plymouth and Exeter were both places I was aware of, if only vaguely. Exeter for its famous cathedral which I spied from my seat, rising above the city, and piercing the skyline. From an American perspective, Plymouth’s fame rests with its role as the point of departure for the Puritans who sailed out of its port to New England. I never saw the port or harbor at Plymouth. The line did not go anywhere close to the water’s edge. Instead, it passed through non-descript, modern housing estates whose chief defining characteristic was that there was none.  

Just past Plymouth the greatest thrills began. This started with a crossing of the River Tamar, the famous natural border of Cornwall that divided it from the rest of England. Here was one of many crossings of rivers and valleys to come. Disconcertingly, it felt like the train was riding on air. On either side were great drop-offs to the water below. I did not realize until later that bridging the natural divide between Devon and Cornwall resulted in the greatest manmade structure along the line. The Royal Albert Bridge consists of two iron trusses that rise a hundred feet above the water and cover a span of over six hundred meters. Unfortunately, this would be one of many times that I was unable to see the bridges and viaducts that are the foundation for much of the railway. Without them, the journey would have been impossible.

Because train travel is ubiquitous in Great Britain and continental Europe, it Is easy to forget the role that engineering played in blazing new routes for the railways that connected the most far-flung places in Britain by successfully mastering the most rugged terrain. It took incredible amounts of imagination and resourceful innovations to build the line to Truro. I did not fully appreciate this during the journey. That is a tribute to those who designed and constructed the line because the train glided over vertigo-inducing defiles in seamless fashion. The gradients were moderated to such an extent that they were scarcely noticeable. A journey that would have been an ordeal by foot or wagon was the equivalent of a walk in the park.

On down the line – St Germans station on the Great Western Railway
(Credit: Alexandra Lanes)

Follow The Leaders – A Whole New World
My journey on the Great Western Railway to Truro turned out to be worth the high price of a ticket. The trip provided a fantastic introduction to the landscape of Cornwall. I got an up close and personal view of its topography without so much as breaking a sweat. The best value came from viewing countless vistas that were full of nature at its wildest. At the same time, I got to pursue one of my greatest passions by following in the footsteps of history.  While time travel is not possible in the sense of turning back the clock to experience a bygone era, it is possible to travel along the same path as those in the past and do it with the same fresh eyes as those who came before us.

There was a tangible connection between my journey on the Great Western Railway from Plymouth to Truro and the travelers on what was then known as the Cornwall Railway when it opened in 1859. The overwhelming majority of those travelers had never seen any stretch of Cornwall, let alone a wide swath of the country that crossed the southernmost parts of the county. Few had set foot there or imagined they ever would. I had that in common with them. I knew almost nothing about Cornwall before crossing the Tamar. The miracle of railway travel allowed all of us – past and present – to see a whole new world for the first time. For that I will be forever grateful. I am sure those early travelers on the line felt the same.

Click here for: The Institution – Waiting On a Train In Truro (Cornwall Chronicles #23))

The Great Transformation – Cornwall’s Revolution On The Rails (Cornwall Chronicles #22b)

The Great Western Railway, need I say more? It is hard to go wrong with a name like that. One look at the name and I could sense the pretensions to greatness. For rail enthusiasts, the name resonates with a bygone era of travel where an everyday drama unfolded with each ride along the rails. Imagine the thrill of those who had previously gone no faster than the speed at which they walked. Now they could sit in comfort while traveling at an astonishing rate of speed to destinations both near and far, many of which they could never have imagined visiting before the advent of railway travel.

Riding into history – City of Truro steam locomotive used on the Great Western Railway (Credit: Ashley Dace)

Come Together – Revolution By Railway
The history of the Great Western Railway and its predecessors in Cornwall that created the current line is a story of connections. These connections go much further than the usual ones for points of arrival and departure. That is because the railway connected urban and rural environments, cities and seaside, tourists to natural and cultural wonders, economic hinterlands to population centers, provincials and urbanites, the simplistic and sophisticated. These connections were transformative in the extreme. The far-flung frontiers of Britain were now accessible in a day or less. A revolution rode in on steel wheels. For those who lived in Cornwall, the railway transformed travel patterns and the way of life. The county had always been one of the remotest in Britain, difficult to access or find on a map. Tucked away in the far southwest corn of Britain, relatively few outsiders crossed over the River Tamar, the natural boundary that had separated Cornwall from England for centuries.

In the mid-19^th century, everything began to change when the railway bridged the Tamar and penetrated deep into Cornwall. This was one of the great turning points in the history of Cornwall. To the masses, Cornwall was terra incognito before the railway reached it. The reverse was also true. Very few of Cornwall’s inhabitants had been to London or any neighboring counties prior to the railway. That would change dramatically. The making of modern Cornwall was a byproduct of railways. The first of these was an internal one. The Hayle Railway opened in 1837 for the transport of copper and tin ore from the mines in West Cornwall to ports on the coast. The impetus for construction of a railway line that would lead to and from Cornwall began due to fears that Falmouth would lose the lucrative packet traffic. This was due to the rise of Southampton which became the main port for packet traffic when the London and Southampton Railway was constructed. That traffic would never come back to Falmouth, but the initial fear that it could be lost did spur construction of the Cornwall Railway from Plymouth to Truro.

Following along – The Great Western Railway now covers the Cornish Main Line
(Credit: openstreetmap.org)

Going Further – Down The Line
Due to issues with funding and the difficult terrain the line had to traverse, the Cornwall Railway was not completed until 1859. A year later it linked up with the West Cornwall Railway which already ran between Truro and Penzance. Both railways were later bought by The Great Western Railway. This was the same railway I used for travel to and from Truro. During my travels around Cornwall, I would manage to cover every inch of what was once known as the Cornish Main Line. Then, as now, it travels through all the most important economic centers in Cornwall. That is not surprising, since much of Cornwall’s economy became centered around the railway. Mining products and agricultural produce were shipped out and tourists began to pour in. The revolutionary effect of the railways on Cornwall was similar to how the Interstate Highway System reconfigured the economy and society of post-World War II America. Innovations in transport created the Cornwall that exists today.

Overland rail journeys across Cornwall moved at light speed compared to earlier ones by wagon on rough roads. The railway was also a better option for those who previously traveled around Britain’s coastal fringes by ship. Railways were less dangerous and more predictable than sailing along the treacherous coastline of Cornwall. Train travel was rarely at the whim of weather, a great advantage in a region where storms can be ferocious. Railways conquered space and time in the most straightforward and expedient fashion. Cornwall was no longer a remote land, isolated from the rest of Britain. It became a fashionable destination open to the wider world. That is still true today. While more travelers now come by car to Cornwall than by train, the rails were where the county’s popularity exploded. It has never really ebbed since that time. Visitation to Cornwall is like the population, it just keeps growing.

Still going – Great Western Railway (Credit: Geof Sheppard)

Passionate Excesses – The Romantically Inclined
Mass tourism is a modern phenomenon. This tends to obscure the fact that it is also a historical one. The Great Western Railway is part of the past, present and future of Cornwall. For better or worse, for richer or poorer, the county is wedded to the line. Losing it would be akin to losing a limb. The Great Western Railway for Cornwall and its inhabitants is the first love they can never let go. The same is true for rail enthusiasts who realize the transformative effect it had on travel and travelers to the county. Comfort, adventure, elegance, discovery, all these things were available to great masses of travelers on long distance journeys for the first time when they started riding the rails into Cornwall. It was a novelty that would soon come to be seen as a necessity.

Holidays became a rite of passage. That idea still exists today, a legacy bequeathed to the British by the Great Western Railway and hundreds of other lines just like it. Is it any wonder that Britain is still filled with railway enthusiasts despite the current desultory state of the system? Trains and railways are to Britain, what cars and highways are to the United States. They are modes and methods of transport that a large section of the populace believes they cannot do without. This is not only to get to and from work, but to relive the romance of the rails. That romance still exists, even if in degraded form. I felt it on my journey from London Paddington to Truro.

Click here for: The First Time – The Great Western Railway To Truro (Cornwall Chronicles #22c)

Cost of Traveling Crisis – London to Truro By Train (Cornwall Chronicles #22a)

I had no idea what to expect when it came to riding the rails in Great Britain. Everything I had read beforehand was negative. The trains were often delayed, funding was a mess, infrastructure shambolic, customer service lacking, industrial actions (strikes) common, and ticket prices extortionate. I must add that these were the only things I ever read. There were zero positives.  This was not a product of recency bias. I had been reading about the dire state of Britain’s railways for years. The phenomenon was decades in the making and extended into the latter part of the 20^th century.

These problems often manifested themselves in a range of maladies that left travelers wishing they had rented the car or taken the bus. Chronic underfunding from the government meant the price of maintaining everything from trains and the rolling stock to services, were passed on to passengers. Tourists were a captive audience. The companies that ran the railway lines saw them as ATMs in human form. The railways were privatized between 1994 – 1997. They are now run by some 100 companies all looking for a way to maximize profit, at the expense of comfort and affordability. The passenger pays the highest price.

Return trip – Sign at Truro Railway Station for train to London Paddington

Peak Pricing – Going Off The Rails
Britain is not a cheap place to travel. One of the main reasons for that is the cost of railway tickets. This was not the first time I had noticed the sticker shock of railway journeys in Great Britain. Twenty years earlier I had travelled to Scotland. The option of riding the rails across the homeland of my ancestors was something I considered until I looked at the prices. That was then, but now the cost is even more exorbitant. Long before the recent inflationary woes in Britain led to a cost-of-living crisis, there was already a cost of railway travel crisis that had been going on for decades there. The usual way travelers are told to deal with the chronically high cost of railway tickets is to do one of two things.

The first is to book well in advance to avoid periods of peak pricing. The higher the demand, the greater the ticket price. The idea is to avoid booking tickets at the last minute. I learned that booking them several weeks in advance still does not offer a discount. It is best to book several months in advance at times when demand is lower. I love travelling when public transport services are not packed with passengers. There is nothing better than a half empty railway carriage with plenty of seats available where everyone can stretch their legs.  I am sure that red-eye railway journeys booked months in advance are available at a much cheaper cost. This is not something many are willing to do and the railway companies in Britain know it. Even for my trip to Truro this was not a feasible option. I did not want to get off an overnight, trans-Atlantic flight to London then wait around for at least half-a day at Paddington Station until the wee hours of the morning for a train to Truro. That would save money, but at the expense of my mental and physical health.

Waiting on a train – London Paddington Railway Station

Fleeced – Sticker Shock
The second method of cost control is to purchase a railway pass. This sounded like a great idea until I attempted to compare the multitude of options that seemed confusing and convoluted. There was something for everyone, except of course for someone who wanted to just take the train to Truro and back. Cornwall’s railway lines are not what they used to be. There are nowhere near the lines that once existed. This is a sad fact in Britain, especially considering that the British Empire had given the world its first great railway boom. If Britain did not have such a rich history of railways, then the current state of its railways would be more tolerable. That will never be the case. History is a blessing and a curse, nowhere more so than while riding the rails in Britain.
 
It was the latter that proved most worrisome to me. Getting from London to Truro and back was impossible in an affordable manner. While I could afford the tickets, the sticker shock was such that purchasing them made me feel like I had been fleeced. Train tickets in Britain were higher than those in any European country in which I have traveled. Both empirical and anecdotal evidence bears this out. A report done in 2011 on the state of Britain’s railways and potential reforms showed that train tickets were 30% higher in Britain than continental Europe. That gap has not closed. I could have flown for less between London and almost any city in continental Europe for less. The high prices left a bad taste in my mouth and a hole in my wallet. The only thing I could think of was that this roundtrip railway journey had better be worth the money. As though such idle threats could change anything.

Final destination – Truro Railway Station

Time Sensitive – Getting On Board
Money is not everything or the only thing, but the cost of a ticket to and from Truro made it seem that way. Before booking, I tried one last time to find a cheaper option. This involved researching the same trip by bus. I already had done this a couple of times. Perhaps a third time would yield better results. Out of sheer stubbornness I searched again and then weighed the options. Taking the bus would cost 60% less than the train. There was one big problem. The trip would take twice as long. A bus would make it much worse for me. I find bus rides to be barely tolerable at the best of times, let alone an eight-and-a-half-hour odyssey. In the final equation, timeliness meant more to me than cost. All my hand wringing over ticket prices had gone for naught. Taking the train was the only logical way to go. Getting to Cornwall was never going to be easy. I paid for the privilege of being transported there in the most straightforward manner available on the Great Western Railway. The most amazing thing was that the journey would be worth it.

Click here for: The Great Transformation – Cornwall’s Revolution On The Rails (Cornwall Chronicles #22b)

In The Grip Of A Vision – A Glimpse of St. Michael’s Mount (Cornwall Chronicles #21h)

I think there are some places we were meant to see and not to visit. Places that exist outside a bus or train window, places that we look down upon from several thousand feet while in the comfort of an aircraft seat, places that leave us wanting more and knowing that we will never have it. These places are like a kiss that we thought was coming and never touched our lips. They induce romance and longing. They are the equivalent of love unconsummated. They are the teasers that torture us, the elusive which was within our grasp until it suddenly slipped away. These are places we cannot forget and will never truly know except while glimpsing them from a distance. They tantalize us with thoughts of what it would be like if our plans had been different. Places that fill us with regret for chances not taken, places that linger in our imagination, and pose a single maddening question, what if.

Distant prospect – St. Michaels Mount on a stormy day

Blurred Visions – The World Outside A Window
The final stretch of the Land’s End Coaster journey back to Penzance was a dreary ride. The sky had opened and unleashed all the pent-up precipitation it had been threatening throughout the day. The rain was a percussive accompaniment for the final half hour of this journey. It was hard to notice anything outside the windows due to the rivulets running down them in a hundred different directions. This was the worst weather I had seen since arriving in Cornwall. There was no let up to the relentless rainfall, but I was grateful that the stormy weather had held off for so long. This allowed me to see much of the Penwith Peninsula even if it was cloaked under heavy cloud cover most of the day. The sky could have opened at any moment when I walked to what was left at the Levant Mine. Thankfully, it had not.

Even the St. Ives drive-by had been memorable because the raindrops were a mere drip feed. Now the rainfall was taking its revenge. Soaking the world outside the bus window and covering it in a watery veil. I could hardly wait to get off the bus at Penzance. The journey had taken up half the day. Being on a bus for hours while exposed to the elements had exhausted me. I was beginning to feel my age. How could I not. I was on the wrong side of forty, closer to retirement than to a mid-life crisis. A majority of passengers on the bus were pensioners, if I were lucky to live that long I would be joining them in a decade. Everything was a blur now, my life because of age, the road into Penzance because of the rain.

Special effects – Clouds over the coastline in Cornwall

A Different Standard – On Traveler’s Time
The excitement I had while first boarding the Land’s End Coaster was all melted away. I was feeling traveler’s fatigue, a weariness that pervades the body from excessive time spent on the move. Watching the world go by had been hard work. Now it was almost time for arrival before departing again by train back to Truro. My expectations for this final stretch run into Penzance were virtually nil. The best that could be hoped for was that the rain might subside by the time the Land’s End Coaster arrived at the bus station. I had given up following the Coaster’s route after St. Ives. Trying to see anything along the final return to Penzance seemed pointless. The Rough Guide was safely tucked away in my backpack. I passed time sorting through photos on my phone and dreaming about dinner. The photos had only been taken an hour or two earlier, that seemed like a lifetime ago.

Travel time adheres to a different standard. It passes with either excruciating slowness or head spinning speed. The moment when I first stepped foot on the Coaster to begin this journey now seemed like several lifetimes ago. So much had happened since then to clog my mind with memories, I could not coherently set them in order.  As the traffic picked up along with the urban development, I assumed the bus was on the verge of Penzance. I had no idea that there was one final place for the Coaster to pass through. Long Rock was a “blink and you will miss it” kind of village. I thought we were already in Penzance, but Long Rock was still a single kilometer to the east. It was entirely unmemorable. This was mostly due to the rain and the fact that it seemed like an appendage to Penzance. From what little I could see, Long Rock only had one thing to recommend it. Ironically, this site was not located in the village. Just offshore, rising from the water, was the same prominent point I had seen upon arrival in Penzance earlier that day. A site so gripping that my eyes were immediately drawn to it.

In the grip of a vision – St. Michael’s Mount as seen from the Land’s End Coaster

Dangerous Idea – Interpreting A Dream
St. Michael’s Mount was distinct against the sky despite the deluge pouring down upon it. The castle atop it looked embattled. As though nature was laying siege to it. So were my eyes as they stared longingly across the water. I have never had visions, but if I did, I am certain that St. Michael’s Mount in a storm would be one of them. I have always wanted to be where a storm rages the most. On this day, at that moment, I had a sudden urge to cross the water in a wooden boat, beating back the waves, then scale St. Michael’s Mount.

I now understood the immortal words of George Mallory who explained his urge to climb Mount Everest by saying, “Because it is there.” St. Michael’s Mount was my own personal Everest at that moment. A dangerous idea that made sense. One that I was pursuing mentally on the way into Penzance. I have rarely seen an image that spoke to me so deeply as St. Michael’s Mount did on that day. And now a month and a half removed from that moment, I still feel that overwhelming urge. Maybe one day I will return to Cornwall and climb to the top of St. Michael’s Mount. If not, I can always recall that moment. Some things were meant to be dreamed.

Click here for: Cost of Traveling Crisis – London to Truro By Train (Cornwall Chronicles #22a)

On The Road – A Fleeting Image at St. Ives (Cornwall Chronicles #21g)

I was standing by the roadside in the village of Trewellard waiting for the Land’s End Coaster to arrive after exploring the surface at Levant Mine. There were very few vehicles on the road. The surrounding village was lifeless. I could hardly blame the inhabitants. Waiting beneath a low ceiling of all clouds that might burst at any moment was not an experience anyone would care to endure. I imagined that winters were long here. If this weather in early autumn was the norm, than six months of gloom was well on its way. The Tin Coast had seen better days and not only weather wise. The economy was a perpetual source of frustration. Eking out an economic existence had always been difficult in this remote region.

Stormy weather – St. Ives

Waiting On A Ride – Passing Time In Trewallard
The mines may have created great wealth, but they did not sustain prosperity. I wondered what people did in Trewallard to earn a living. For that matter, I wondered what people did here at all. Despite standing at a bus stop with residences nearby and nature infringing upon the village on all sides, the most noticeable aspect was silence. There were no birds chirping, no children yelling, no dogs barking. Life was hidden behind four walls and drawn curtains. I imagined that Saturday was for binge watching bad shows on television. I am sure the locals were sleeping. The weather offered an easy cure for insomnia. I would not have minded an afternoon nap. It was not to be. I still had the other half of the Land’s End Coaster to complete.

I am impatient and mistrustful by nature, so waiting for twenty minutes by the roadside on a bus promised by a paper schedule was difficult for me. I began to ask myself the question that I always do when waiting for a rural bus. Would it ever show? And if it did not, then what would I do? Go around knocking on doors and asking for help? Trying to locate life in a place where at that moment it did not seem to exist would have been a thankless task. I have always feared abandonment. This wait by the roadside only exacerbated it. There was nothing to do except stare longingly at the bus schedule and thumb through my guidebook as a distraction. The sky was getting grimmer. It was a minor miracle that rain had held off this long. I did not care to take my chances under such leaden skies. Fortunately, the Land’s End Coaster soon arrived. Just to be sure it was the right one, I asked the driver if it was going on to Penzance. He said that another bus coming in the opposite direction would get there sooner. I did not want to take my chances again, so I decided to board.

Waiting by the roadside – In Trewellard

Fishing For Tourists – The Reinvention of St. Ives
One of my goals on this day was to get the full Land’s End Coaster experience. There was to be no backtracking.  My goal was to complete the entire loop come hell or high water. The latter soon arrived. As the bus wound through grasslands with only a handful of houses scattered across the landscape, drops of rain began to fall. The open topped portion of the Coaster was not even half full. The threat of inclement weather had driven the passengers to seats beneath the roof. I stubbornly held out until finally forced to make a compromise. I took one of the sheltered seats which was nearest to the open topped ones. This way I could move back and forth for photos as the weather allowed. Heading north from Pendeen there was a feeling of remoteness. Every so often the ocean would appear off to the west. It looked more like a mirage.

I had flashbacks to my trip around the northern tip of Scotland twenty years before. The land was a contradiction, green and barren, lush and deserted. Now that mining was in the past, the only other viable economic option in this part of Cornwall was to leverage the region’s transcendent beauty for tourism. One place had done that better than most, the seaside town of St. Ives. Less renowned, but no less traditionally important for many communities along the coast of Cornwall was the fishing industry. Like mining, the fishing industry in Cornwall has seen better days. At St. Ives, those days were legendary. According to The Rough Guide, a single net hauled in sixteen and a half million fish offshore of St. Ives in 1868. Such astonishing numbers show the wealth extracted from the sea and brought ashore in St. Ives. At the same time, it demonstrates that overfishing was a major problem. Natural resources are not inexhaustible. Eventually fish stocks were bound to run low.

St. Ives was forced to reinvent itself. It helped to have a magnificent seaside setting with a stretch of sand that other communities along the coast of Cornwall viewed with envy. Rugged cliffs might make for stunning photographs, but a sandy beach brings tourists in droves. St. Ives also has a long history of being a haven for artist. This is something it has common with the rest of Cornwall. Authors such as Daphne Du Maurier, D.H. Lawrence and Virginia Woolf have all expressed a love for the region. Their literature was influenced by the time they spent in Cornwall. The same is true for artists. St Ives has been and continues to be a hub for visual artists. No less an institution, then the world-renowned Tate Gallery has a branch in St. Ives.

On the edge – Storm on the coast of Cornwall

Riding The Waves – Postcards & Panoramas
I did not disembark in St. Ives, but what I saw from my seat on the Coaster made me want to return. The road provided a unique vantage point overlooking the town. St. Ives had the best beach I had seen so far in Cornwall. Houses clustered together on serpentine streets. Waves rode in on the wind and broke upon the shoreline. This could have been an image on a postcard or a panoramic painting. The scene made me want to stay for a summer. I took it all in just as the rain began to fall much harder. The clouds burst as the bus made its way out of St. Ives. The journey was effectively over, the only thing left was a final stretch to Penzance.

Click here for more: In The Grip Of A Vision – A Glimpse of St. Michael’s Mount (Cornwall Chronicles #21h)