“I looked in on Eleanor for a minute, but she was asleep and looked comfortable. With a clear conscience, then, I slathered sunscreen over exposed skin, clapped on a sensible wide-brimmed straw hat, and we set out. Alan, on the way through Newlyn, detoured to show me his old house. “Just a fisherman’s cottage.” It was attractive, though small, a solid structure of stuccoed stone painted a dazzling white, with window boxes and a bright-blue front door. Someday I would ask Alan how a Cornish girl ...happened to meet a Kentish hop farmer, but not now. Now I wanted to reconnect with the comfortable present. “I think this is as near as we’re likely to get,” he said a few minutes later, pulling up to the curb and parking opposite a row of houses. He pointed to the sign saying “Mousehole.” “It’s a fair walk from here, but in a few yards there are steps down to the beach, where it’ll be a bit cooler.” The concrete stairs were broad and well maintained, with a firm steel-pipe handrail.MoreLessRead More Read Less
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