Going Back to Scilly, via Penzance

---12.29.1999---

I arrived back in London yesterday for a brief visit with Zoe before catching the train down to Cornwall and shared yesterday’s meandering, unedited dream passage. Her sole response: “Did you eat a lot of cheese before you went to bed?” Priceless, that girl.

------

The train arrived in Penzance last night at about 9:00 pm. My flight to the Scillies left early this morning so I’d booked myself a room for the night. Last night, on my way to the guesthouse, just as I was getting lost again, the couple I’d met and asked for directions down on the high street, two corners and ten minutes earlier, reappeared down an alley and shouted encouragement. “You’re almost there, keep going!” After I realized it was them, and not just any random, shouting couple, I yelled, "Thanks!" and was back on my way.

There’s something about passing through this ancient little town for only one night that makes me feel like a Traveler. The fact that the guesthouse could easily have worn the sign, “George Washington’s grandfather slept here,” also helped a great deal. I checked into my room, grabbed a book, and headed out for a quick dinner feeling a bit like Bill Bryson (in whose footsteps I don’t wish to follow since, in the book I’m reading, he has just fallen down a hillside).

I happily tucked into crab soup and a pint of Murphy’s at a great little pub—a contemporary of the guesthouse, I’m sure—called the Turk’s Head, same as the pub on St. Agnes. I wonder if the history books have record of a Turkish invasion of Cornwall. It was a great little place, a fire, dark wood paneling, and booths tucked back into the wall over its whole length, like a bunch of 300-year-old cubbyholes. I continued reading the Isabell Allende story that had caused me so much delay days earlier, finished my soup and beer, and left without asking the publican the connection between this Turk’s Head and our own.

Back at the hotel I distrusted the shower, standing by itself near the wall, not even pretending to be a bathroom, just standing there like a lost phone booth--it was weird. Was this some contractor’s joke? Needless to say I carried the sweat from the day to bed.

The next morning I walked past the last fingers of the harbor, past stone walls and boat ramps, towards the train station to meet my ride to the airfield in St. Just. The sun was just coming up and the little town was quiet and good, drawing its waist in tight to allow the waters of the high tide their course.

The airfield is literally that, a grass field. This morning the low sun cast shadows across the small bit of tarmac behind the terminal and hangars, and lavished itself long across the field in full, dewey sweeps of emerald, green and gold. A lone windsock stood on the lawn, reporting. The wind drew its long face taught, but the very tip, its mouth, babbled incessantly about the wind at a ridiculous pace, in some silent language. These were the first flights of the day. The airport crew was pulling the sleepy planes out of their hangers. One was going through its morning calisthenics, engines full-throttle, brakes engaged, and noticeably shivering.

These planes—Sea Otters, I think—hold only six passengers. I guess that’s one of the reasons the 15-minute flight costs over $140 round trip. I imagine there being only one carrier is another reason. But anyway, the pilot turned around in his seat and said, “Good morning, Ladies and Gentleman, we’ll be flying at an altitude of 1000 ft. Please keep your seat belts fastened and have a nice trip.” He then turned around and began his pre-flight switch flipping.

This morning offered a pilot of sporting character. He had the engines blazing full guns before he’d even finished swinging the plane’s nose around and pointing it toward the end of the runway. The buzz was deafening and the propeller tips were just a few inches outside of my window. I kept thinking that if they break, I’d be sawed in half in no time. Everything held together though. A second later we were airborne and banking sharply islandward, one window all land, the other all sky. On the crossing the plane skidded and slid, really giving the sensation that one was indeed in a flying machine moving through unsteady volumes of air. The pilot made notes in his logbook. I could practically see the fish in the water below.

As we approached the runway on St. Mary’s at an oblique angle, I tried to work out how the landing would be resolved given our current heading and closing speed. The answer, I found out, was another massively banked turn. As we came around I could see the runway through the front window leaning dramatically to one side. Just before we touched down it swung itself into place under the plane, the engines cut and we dropped the last couple of feet into a perfect landing. I was also impressed with the grip of the little tires as we veered off the runway, pulling about half a G in the turn before we squealed to a stop in front of the gate.

I stepped out of the plane and smiled. It was a beautiful morning and I was happy to be back.