The day again dawned bright and clear. I wandered out with a coffee to the pubs beer garden to write for a bit with the blue sheen of the Atlantic in the middle distance. Quite an inspiring view I have to say. When we went in to see about breakfast we discovered we were the only residents that night which says something for the popularity of the pub seeing how the bar was chock full of people last night. Em noticed a symbol etched into the stone entryway floor. It was a circle with a cross through it which apparently is the symbol showing that pilgrims were more than welcome here.

If Kent is the garden of England (which it well can lay claim to be) then Cornwall has to be its nursery. I lost count of the number of signs I saw for Gardens, nursery's even herberys on our road. Everywhere is lunch and green and it give great pleasure to the eye to see all this lovely countryside.

Well, not all of it is quite so lovely.

We loaded up the car and headed south along windy twisty roads until we passed through an unpleasant little village called Bugle. The architecture has nothing to recommend it and the gardens were less than lovely but if I'm honest it was probably the millions of tonnes of spoil from the china clay mines pilled up in man-made muddy mountains that really spoilt the view. The industry has wrecked the countryside here but kept people in jobs by gouging out great craters of the countryside. In one such crater someone had the brilliant idea of creating a garden the like of which had never been seen before. The Eden project is a series of enormous geodesic domes which, along with the surrounding external gardens one of the widest collection of plants in the world all whilst being super-eco conscious. Its like looking into the future where the ecologists have risen up and burnt Jeremy Clarkson at the stake. Well, they'd probably mulch him down to compost over the alliums on the nursery slopes but you get the general idea.

Em being a keen amature botanist was in what I can only describe as a state of constant over-enthusiasm, bouncing from one plant to the next with such unmeasured glee it was simply a joy to be with her. Now I like plants. I like them lightly steamed, deep fried or otherwise. But Em's obvious excitement was nothing if not infectious. You walk around the sides of this deep bowl through meadowfield plants and industrial style crops to the bottom where you can go into one of their temperature controlled domes housing tropical or Mediterranean plants. Their focus on ecology is everywhere and their hope and optimism for a more ecologically conscious future is inspiring.

After five hours on our feet we were ready for a sit down and a cuppa/pinta something so we headed to our stopping point for the night Fowey (pronouced FOY). The car parks are clearly indicated on the edges of the town and once you head inland you find out why. The narrow turning streets are barely wide enough for three people to pass abreast, god help any cars that are foolish enough to trundle through these back streets. In fact you can tell the locals who drive as they effortlessly whip through the tortuous alleys whilst Toroids creep forward at a pace a snail would scoff at. Also the locals have more scratches on their cars.

We wandered the pleasant streets for a while seeing the boats sail through the harbour with enough breeze just to use sails. Watching a small boat catch a breeze and zip forward through the waves is a thrilling sight even to a complete land lubber like myself. We stopped at our pub located on the waterfront, where I believe we were promised a sea view. Well, if you crane your neck out of the window , avoid the roosting seagulls you can make out the barest sliver of deep blue so I suppose technically they're correct.

We headed out onto the pubs verenda which hangs over the bay and watched the comings and goings of this small town. The table behind us was occupied with the worst sort of English upper class twat stereotype. Making fun of the people their were moored next to who happened to be french so would 'stink of garlic' but would be 'bound to have a decent bit of plonk'.

You hear twaddle like that and you just feel sorry for everyone. from the person the lazy stereotyping is aimed at to the stereotype who clearly hasn't pulled his head out of his own arse long enough to experience the wonder and riches that other cultures can offer. How ever sorry I may feel for him he's still a twat though.

Finding the company a little off putting we headed along the bay and wound up in a tiny bar/bistro with a bunch of bohemian eccentrics drinking Budvar and eating tapas from fifties formic tables whilst listening to David Bowie and John Coltrane. And I'm ashamed to say I thought 'This is exactly the experience that the little englander is making himself miss out on.' Czech beer, Spanish food and American music in the Cornish sea air. Now that's a truly pan cultural experience!