Once we'd gotten the jet lag over with, and the taste of history out of our mouths, it was time to head for the Cornish Coast and the next phase of our adventure: the hiking!
But first, a Train. We loves us a train.
We even got to see the miraculous bridge that separates Devon from Cornwall:
Met some nice Torontonians on the platform in St. Erth, waiting for the wee little train that runs along the salt marshes out to the coast and St. Ives.
How do you know it's a Welsh train you're on? When you can't read half the warning sign!
[My father is about to point out, and quite rightly, too, that 'Gofal' sounds an awful lot like the German 'Gefahr.']
And then, suddenly, the Coast!
Momma, I don't think we're in Somerset anymore...
This being Cornwall, of course, the weather changed somewhat abruptly, and while we were walking out on the breakwater, a squall hit and we ran for cover for the 283 seconds that it poured down rain.
We found just our kind of restaurant, had our first official British Fish & Chips (served in a newspaper packet, but on a square plate - so mod) and then headed off to our lodging for the night ... The Old Vicarage.
No, we sh*t you not: we couldn't make this up if we tried:
Great old house (Boy pegged it bang-on as vintage 1860), complete with a do-it-yourself-Pub station! Be your own Landlord!
With the help of our first official G&T of Britain (it was a day of Firsts), we make quick work of the first round of postcards:
And a good night's sleep, because the next day it's off on foot to St. Just!