What do you supposed happened? I didn't see the incident; only heard the angry yells. Until I looked at the photos, I also thought there were only two parties involved--the cyclist and the bearded gentleman with glasses. Perhaps the bloke in the blue button-down shirt stepped in to try and be a reasonable third. Whatever the incident, the amount of rage and cursing on the part of the cyclist could be felt in the bones. At one point he picked up his cycle and slammed the tires back down on the pavement as he spat two more times. Spitting really is one of the most disgusting things, and in general, this sidewalk show illustrated some of the worst human behavior I have ever seen. I asked a woman standing next to me on the sidewalk what happened and she said she didn't know, but implored me to take more pictures. "You 'ave to, don't you?" I'm not sure what she thought I could do with them, but I am relatively certain this kind of thing happens across London all the time, and I am likely to see one or two more similar shows before I fly home.
Nevertheless, I was grateful to get on the train at London's Paddington to head to Cornwall on the 29th. I still wasn't fully recovered from the flight over the pond, and hadn't slept all that well so my nerves were terribly frayed and misfiring and not all that up to London zip and chaos. It was a long train ride--nearly 6 hours--and I played a game of sorts to keep my wits about me so I could stay awake and make the needed train change at Plymouth.
I looked for things. Things that could be stories. Beautiful things. Out of the ordinary things. And simply paid interest to, and took delight in, the land zipping by outside the First Great Western cars as they rumbled over the tracks and through the occasional tunnel.
Here is what I saw:
So many spires in the distance. Rising above trees. Above green hills. They reached up to billowy white puffs or clouds dark with rain.
A riot of cows, horses, and sheep. Baby sheep. Some sheep were all white and their coats recently shaven. Others had white bodies with black heads. Some had curious blue and red marks painted on their sides--a sign of the butcher, perhaps.
One half hour into the ride, I saw my first thatched cottage. It was large and beautiful. Until then, I had only seen them in photographs or movies. Silly perhaps, but I have always wanted to learn how to thatch. It's not just a home-building technique. It's an art. And if I remember correctly, it's an endangered art.
Curious white bags....BIG white bags filled with rocks at various places along the train tracks. Bags of rocks in piles; bags stacked one upon the other. All along the route. I have no idea what they are used for.
Backyard gardens everywhere with wooden composting bins and small glass garden sheds and greenhouses; rakes and shovels standing against fences.
A pile of hedge cuttings and pulled up roots...good for shelter building and giving shape to thin places along the canals and running trails.
A runner in a yellow cap and yellow jacket running on the trail beside a canal.
A farmer in a flat cap and wool sweater with a white bucket opening the gate to his sheep.
Large dirt fields ready to be planted with seed, dark brown against vivid green.
One tree in the middle of a field, no leaves...just twisting branches with patches of missing bark.
An impressive array of solar panels larger than a football field.
A cluster of trees with 6-7 bird nests spread between them.
Circles and clusters of white plastic tubes containing and supporting newly planted tree-lings. They looked more like large white toothpicks stuck in the ground.
(Between observations I sipped a blueberry-banana smoothie and ate a few bourbon creams.)
And then I listened to a Polycom guy in pinstripes with a flat cap. (Polycom makes conference phones and videoconferencing equipment...I know this from my previous life as an IT support person.) He was American. And frustrated about a contract. He got off after 5 stops, replaced by an older woman in braids. She peered out from tinted glasses and wore light blue/irridescent Nike’s, and a large oval turquoise ring.
Countless fields of yellow flowers.
A gray compact car, dented in good shape on the driver’s side parked on the street in a residential neighborhood. Owner-inflicted or another Marcy?
Nearer the coast there was the red cliffside with patches of yellow and pink flowers that grew out of and clung to the rock. The red reminded me of the sea caves and flower pot rocks I explored in St. Martin’s, New Brunswick.
At the last station before Penzance, a series of cargo cars flew by on the parallel track....cut logs...at least some of them pine I gathered, on account of the baby pine cones still clinging to a spindly branch or two.
A patch of brillant red poppies growing in front of a fence.
A backyard treehouse built in the center of a tree.
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