Lands End and the Fat Neck Man

July 24, 2010

When we woke up, it was sprinkling. I said a little prayer, thanking whomever that we would not be carting our panniers on our little ride today. We dressed, ate, and then hopped on our bikes, headed for Lands End.

To get to the start (or the middle of the beginning, as it were) of our journey, we pedaled through Penzance and into Newlyn Beach where Joshua's yummy fish from the night before had been caught. Continuing down the coast, we followed the National Cycle Route into Mousehole, a cute and quirky seaside village with tiny which-way streets and topheavy, skinny buildings stretching above the hedges to see the sea. On our way out of the village, we climbed a steep, 15 percent grade hill into the rich farmland of the peninsula. To our left and right, cottages and farms dotted the fields, and pretty blue hydrangeas festooned the blackberry bushes.

Down another hill, we entered the small village of Lamoran, and then we climbed another hill for view of the sea on the other side of the peninsula. Passing a couple more lovely villages with big, beautiful church towers, we followed the signs for Lands End. At mile fifteen, we crossed into... An amusement park? Apparently, Lands End is not really the seaside village of our dreams. Instead, I think there might even be a theater showing Mr. Ripley's Super Famous Whats-its and Who's-its.

Oh well. We hadn't really gotten our hopes up, having been warned by Lonely Planet that it was a tourist trap. We bought overpriced Cornish pasties and sat on a bench near the cliffs, watching the gloomy sea and a hundred German tourists taking their photos near the sign that points to O'Groats. In the free museum, Joshua and I walked through and read about all the famous E2E journeys (that's right. I'm "in the know" now. E2E stands for End to End... What Joshua and I are doing.). People have walked it, run it, run it twice, run it backwards, biked it, roller bladed it, and even hiked it naked. Apparently, some 4,000 people journey the length of Great Britain every year, and the two of us seemed to be in good company, even on a dreary day like today. Just as we were leaving, people were popping champagne and having a little to-do fanfare for those departing and arriving.

It costs 5 pounds to get your picture taken next to the official sign, so Joshua and I just asked Eric to take our picture with the cliffs in the background. When we were done, we rode back to Penzance. Round trip (including getting completely lost on the way there), we traveled 28 miles. In Penzance, we stopped by the library for a little Internet face time, and then we made our way back to our campsite to pack up and head out. We picked up a quick snack of bread, humous, and hot pastry sausages for dinner, and then we went to the train station.

539 to Penzance arrived early, and we tied up our bikes and loaded our panniers onto the luggage racks in time to find a table with seats to ourselves. I typed a little bit, and then we spent the last hour chatting with Eric about his upcoming trip back to the States. When we arrived in Exeter, we loaded our panniers back onto our bikes and cycled to Globe Backpackers, a hostel at the top of the (yet another) hill.

July 25, 2010

I should have just come down to the sitting room of the hostel hours ago. Joshua and I decided to splurge on a real bed last night when our train came in late to Exeter, and both of us were looking forward to clean sheets and the extra padding. To scrimp on a few pounds, we chose to sleep in the 6 person mixed dorm. We came in at 9 PM, showered, empty our bags of sodden clothing into the washing machine, and then read for a little bit under the electric lights. Had I known that those couple of hours were going to be my only chance to sleep, I would have gone to sleep as soon as my head hit the pillow.

At midnight, a very large bearded man trundled in and turned off all the nights. Clearly, he was serious about the business of sleeping. I had just powered down my computer, so I didn't mind the sudden plunge into darkness, and I nestled down into my freshly cleaned covers and fell asleep. Two hours later, I awoke to the sound of a steam engine chugging through the room. I gasped and spluttered, wondering how on earth a vehicle of that size could have possibly entered through the small window or narrow door. It was then that I realized that the sound was coming from a human being, namely, the man who is very serious about the business of sleeping.

For the past three hours, I've gone through the stages of mourning. First, I was in denial. How on god's earth could just one human being create that kind of noise WHILE THEY ARE SLEEPING? I can't believe this! I paid nearly 20 pounds to sleep in a cave with a man who sounds like he's being strangled by his neck fat in his sleep! That's like 40 dollars! Tomorrow I'm going to have to bike god knows how far, and I won't have even slept! (Clearly, I segued into anger pretty quickly.) Doesn't he KNOW? How could a person move through life not KNOWING that he creates a racket on par with a pre-historic engine? He must know. He must think this is funny. He probably lives in Exeter, and for his Saturday night kicks, he rents a 6 person dorm and just lets it rip. Then, the next morning, he looks at his bleary eyed, weepy room mates with the self-satisfied knowledge that he can destroy the next 24 hours of 5 people WITHOUT EVEN TRYING. I'm going to kill him. This is how hostel horror stories begin. A room mate snores with the thundering volume of a soccer stadium during finals, and another room mate plots his immediate death. I am not a violent person. Really, I'm not. But I thought of at least 8 different ways to end this man's life as I lay there, bemoaning the loss of a good night's sleep.

After over an hour of broiling anger and violent machinations, I took out my (until now unused) iPod, thinking that maybe I could drown out the sound of the beast with some very chill, very relaxing music. I circled my thumb down the playlist and selected Bon Iver. If the crooning and strumming of this beautiful man can't calm me down, I don't know what could. Unfortunately, not even Bon Iver's sexy voice at top volume could block out the snorts of the fat-necked man. I briefly forayed into more violent dreams of slitting the offending throat, but then decided that I just needed to find my ear plugs.

No earplugs. Don't know what I did with them. Back to the iPod.

No luck there, either. By now, I'm in such a state, it's pretty unlikely that I will ever fall asleep again. I resign myself to lying in bed and listening to Bon Iver. With nothing else to do, I start listening to his lyrics and replaying my favorites, Blood Bank, Skinny Love, and Stacks over and over again. I'm far from sleep, but now I'm remembering (as if I had ever forgotten) how much I love Bon Iver, and how his music, like, speaks to me. I communicating with his music on another plane. He makes me feel sad and hopeful all at the same time. He makes me fall in love with my husband all over again. If it sounds epic, that's because it is. There's discord and rising tension, and then there's the pure resolve of his one guitar and his bed-pillow voice. I'm not falling asleep, but I see the light slitting through the cracks in the blinds, and I think that maybe I should just go downstairs and write. (I think I'm at acceptance now.) I'm behind in my posts anyway, and who doesn't love to hear about the funny misfortunes of others?