The Eternal BBQ that is the English Summer

"Goodbye Granny".  It's always hard to say, but especially so when we were leaving for Australia.  The taxi driver helped out by speeding off at such a speed that Granny quickly disappeared into the horizon.  Work restraints and a cub camp meant that my cousin Jen couldn't come down so instead we said farewell to the winds of tight, cramped Cornish lanes at excessive speeds cramped in a taxi with a driver who wouldn't get off the phone.  At least any sadness at leaving Granny were pushed out with the sheer terror of blind corners and oncoming tractors.

The sun was shinning on Launceston and with typical English gusto everyone was taking advantage of this rare and seemingly beautiful event.  My cousin's daughter, Jess, was packed off the Cub camp for the weekend - an inspection by 'Uncle Andrew' reviled a lovely riverside location, but totaly unnecessary, unpractical toilet facilities (he was heard to mutter a "what's wrong with digging holes like we did in my day).  Beers were opened and the BBQ was fired up ... well it was lit anyway.  The English make full use of their seven sunny days a year by having BBQs fired by real smokeless coal.  Gas though quick, efficient and clean doesn't have that "real BBQ taste", woods banned as it pollutes, so coal is the BBQ medium of choice.  I'm a little sceptical ... it's expensive, impossible to light and takes ages to actually be hot enough to cook on.  As for the "real BBQ taste" I'm a little off put by the liters of suspect, white, chemical fluid you have to pour over to get it started.  With the mountains of meat finally cooked a  pleasant night was had by all.  Several of Ian's friends came round and conversation was washed down with icy bottles of Stella.

One of the great joy's of staying with Jen is how easy it is to relax, how easy it is to sleep in on a relaxed Saturday morning.  There's a whole number of reasons to explain why I got up so late ... the sea air at Tintagel on Thursday, the walking on Dartmoor earlier in the week ... but definitely not the Star Wars Playstation game I played till the wee hours.  Saving the galaxy is tiring work.

A lazy morning was followed by a lazy BBQ lunch, but this time I was responsible for getting it going.  I sprayed the suspect, white, chemical, fluid thickly and it started no problem, first time, authentic taste.  The coal heated up, the meat was cooked and the last Stalls found.  The afternoon passed in a contented blur of snoozing, playing Pokemon cards with Ian's son Rohan and scanning the paper to catch up on the useless idiots tearing countries, cultures and people apart in the Middle East.  My second afternoon nap was rudely interrupted.  Fatigue was put aside for a pair of jeans.  It was time to go.  It was Saturday night and I was in Launches.

We went to a pub I'd never been to before called the West Gate. Full of old blokes and cigarette smoke the West Gate had one fantastic feature; the 'Gents'. When I asked were the above mentioned facility was I was told "walk out the front door, look right and walk straight ahead ... yes seriously seriously". Well the front door was OK, easy enough.  Looking right made sense, dangerous blind corner along a one-way street.  And there across the road, under an arch was a urinal.  How cool; pub toilets that were not just in a separate building, but to get there you had to cross a dangerous interception after drinking enough beer to make you want to go to the toilet in the first place.  Ian retired home so Jenny, Name and I moved onto Harvey's an up beat and cool pub to compare the quality of cider, before a final pint was had in an old favorite, the Bakers Arms.  It was a lovely night and an enjoyable chance to catch up with my Cousin amongst the beer fumes and 'dangerous, yet exciting' urinals of Launceston.

Launceston in many ways is not a progressive place - my mother would probably argue that things haven't changed much since she went to school there (how long ago is it now?) - but it does have a 24 hour Discos supermarket.  As we walked home we talked up profiteroles and pizzas, chicken and chocolate and what were we met with?  A big bloke on the door, harsher than any night club bouncer.  He politely informed us that a 24 hour supermarket shuts at ten on a Saturday night.  I was a little confused a point I'm pretty sure I discussed with him a length.  We stumbled home a little disappointed, ate cold sausages and watched the final slivers of light disappear over a distant Tertium.

If there's only one thing needed after a Saturday night in Launceston.  It's found between two pieces of bread and it's made from pig.  My Bacon sandwich was awesome.  Bacon done to the perfect crispness to contrast the soft, fresh 'tiger bread' (it's a Tescos thing), a dashing of tomato sauce, accompanied by a little brown sauce for the English twist and finally a sly sausage for interest and complexity.  Oh sweet bacon sandwich you were good.  Apart from packing as much pig as I could between two slices of bread my other aim for the morning was to pack my fishing rods ready for air travel.  The local home hardware place was open on a Sunday morning (another miracle in English opening hours) and there was no bouncer.  After searching for PVC pipe I finally managed to find a big grey plastic down pipe to load the roads into.  A little duck tape over the end and they were ready for international fishing adventures.

Our piles of luggage were packed into Jen's shinny red work car.  Our farewells were said to Ian, Archy Dog and the Playstation and we headed north, out of Cornwall and towards home (well away from really, but you know metaphorically towards it).