I don’t think I have laughed so much for years. We had a side-splitting trip to Cornwall with a car that randomly disappeared into a Bermuda Triangle. Never trust a GPS on British roads. We drove down tracks not wide enough for goats. The streets were so narrow we all had to breathe in and went miles and miles with the GPS arrival time not changing. There was one hilarious moment when we realised we had passed through the village of West Camel numerous times. We decided it was some Bermuda Triangle vortex as we would disappear down exceptionally tiny goat tracks and reappear half an hour later, but the time hadn’t changed. The cry-laughing was something else.
Alex held his nerve the whole way, and even when a massive piece of farm machinery stared us down on a goat track, he held firm. It was, therefore, no surprise that he didn’t flinch at the St. Ives tiny lanes and signs that said no vehicle access. His constant comment was that years of burger truck driving had prepared him for that moment.
Cornwall was still beautiful, and we had a fantastic time arguing whether the jam goes on first or the clotted cream (David was the heretic who said cream first), looking for giants at the beautiful St Michael’s Mount, and being regaled by Alex’s theories on how Stonehenge was built. Bored youth who had nothing else to do thought they would grab a few mates and drag a few tonnes of rocks a hundred km. According to Al – no Netflix, so they needed entertainment!
Sleeping under the stars 