It is the nature of the idyll to be episodic. The perfect day cannot help but describe its limit. The best you can ever hope is that in the film frame illusion of your life, you have enough flawless moments of joy coming at you to make it appear whole tranches of time seem blessed.
Usually, knowing you are experiencing a patch of perfection generates enough by-product sadness to end it. Insight can be a bugger like that. Yet today crumples that rule.
I stay in bed till 2pm. Wrapped in the warmth of cotton sheets, strong sun and my lover’s skin. Wandering the ill-defined border between sleep and waking, my only certainty is that I am safe.
Eventually we tumble down the stairs, then Chapel Hill. We walk towards Newlyn. The sun polishes a green bottle sea as wind teases mermaid banners and the black and white hopes of St. Piran.
Chance and the shortened gap between idea and action that comes so easily on holiday, help push us further to Mousehole. For an hour or so, we experience the purest distillation of a childhood’s worth of glorious English seaside holidays. Everything delights, from discovering the best new ice cream flavour in the world – apple pie and clotted cream – to realising when you close your eyes, the only sound you hear above wave and gull is laughter.
We sit on the harbour wall, backs enjoying a bench that has stored the joys of a full afternoon of sun. Down bellow, children shout with the emphatic glee of knowing they have the perfect mix of sand and water for castle building. The subtle rhythmic creak as moored boats test the limit of chain and rope is almost hidden by sudden the chaotic splashes and shrieks of people having undiluted fun. Painters tickle and scratch canvas; drinkers at the Star Inn bring their pints outside to keep company with the rest of the town. Nothing is wrong with this picture.