LE JOG

[Sweder]

Bah! I sat and wrote my latest diary entry in the snug at the delightful Traveller's Rest in Trevarrian, once again restricting myself to a soft drink. Sadly the lumbering Hagrid character squeezed in alongside me was in fullsome praise of the St. Austell Brewerys' fine ales, so much so that he managed to send his pewter tankard skyward, ricocheting off the oak beam above us to spin its foamy contents all over my parchments.

Suffice to say the chap was effusive in his apology and not a little miffed that I decined his kindly-offered pint of Old Bastard. I explained the reasons for my abstinence but this left him more puzzled than satisfied. He scratched his great woolly scalp, surveying my modest paunch before gazing down upon his own vast belly. I'm not sure the conept of weight-loss cuts much ice in these parts.

I'd arrived here via Trevarrian Hill, leading up from the coastal Watergate Road. This thoroughfare runs parallel to the roaring ocean and I was lucky enough to observe local sportsfolk at play as I ran.



The ocean fair tore in, driven by the bitter wintry blow. Mad men wrapped in wetsuits lashed their feet to flimsy boards before wrapping their arms in harness beneath monstrous kites to dance and race in the crushing foam. This brought to mind my own thrilling experience under a Giant Wing some years ago on the beaches of Dorset's Ringstead Bay. Sadly there's no time to relay that short yet for some reason hilarious tale now; I must away north, heading through Mawgan Porth to Tranance and my lodgings at Magic Cove. The winter storms have ensured the welcome will live up to the name; I just hope that my convivial hosts Lesley and Brian have thought to fire up the wood burner to help me thaw out.