Like most sane people in the UK, I decided not to bother with a foreign holiday this year because I figured it would be cancelled by new Covid restrictions at the last minute. So, then I’d lose all my money and I’d have to go on a radio phone-in and complain, in a regional accent, about the travel agent and Boris Johnson, and this would make me look foolish.
However, last week I was unexpectedly gifted three days off – the harvest was aborted by rain – so I decided to relive my childhood and go to the British seaside to do a bit of rock pooling. But where? Normal people would say that as I was born in Yorkshire I should go to Whitby or Scarborough, but there are those who say that life begins at the moment of conception. And I was conceived in Cornwall – at the Bedruthan Hotel, in case you’re interested. Room 7.
Plus, we had all our family holidays there and I remember them fondly. Sitting in cafes in Padstow, drinking bitter tea from thick-rimmed mugs, while my mother peered through the hole in the condensation she’d made on the rain-streaked windows to announce that it was “brightening up”. But it never was. We’d hunt for quartz and amethyst in the rain, we’d look for crabs in the rain, I played with my little wooden yacht in the sea in the rain and we’d sit in the shed we’d rented, playing Monopoly and listening to the rain beat down on the tin roof. They were happy times, so I booked us into the Idle Rocks hotel in St Mawes and off we set, in the rain.
Cornwall has changed since I was eight. Even though it still rains all the time, it’s much busier these days. Mostly this is because of all the film crews making programs in which locals sit in their teak and mahogany Hatteras sports fishing boats, moaning about how their tiny cottage is now worth £17 million and how their catch is snapped up every day by bloody Londoners willing to pay 40 quid for a sardine.
Food? When I used to holiday in Cornwall, they put the vegetables on the stove when you made your booking, so they’d be properly cooked by the time you wanted them. But not anymore. I went to Porthleven for lunch and at the Kota Kai Bar and Kitchen had a seafood laksa that caused me to go cross-eyed. Later we walked round the town, in the rain, and locals offered me sea glass jewellery and pictures of waves for £1400, and some kids egged on their mum to jump into the sea from the harbour wall, and I couldn’t see why she was so hesitant as it was drier in the sea than it was on the land.
I loved Cornwall. I loved how it’s become bijou and trendy and full of paddleboarders and snazzy racing dinghies and huts serving excellent food to intelligent people. But I won’t be hurrying back because that’s the one thing that hasn’t changed. No one hurries anywhere. At one point I followed a Mini One down a hill and even though the gradient was nigh on vertical the driver never exceeded 25km/h. And since she wasn’t using her brakes, I can only assume she was in first and the engine was turning at four million rpm. Later I encountered a Renault Scenic being driven on a perfectly wide bit of A-road at less than 30km/h. And I couldn’t overtake because the road was full of bloody Londoners with roof boxes on their Volvos heading back to Notting Hill. You’d see a sign saying your destination was 25km away and covering 25km in Cornwall takes days.
Which was handy because I was driving the new Bentley Continental Mulliner edition. Lisa, my other half, said this was a stupid choice as the lanes in Cornwall are narrow and we’d spend all our time backing up. I don’t subscribe to this argument, though, because it doesn’t matter whether your car is a G-Wiz or that truck NASA used for moving Saturn V rockets, you still can’t pass anyone. And nor do I think large cars are a nuisance in old fishing villages, because when it comes to creative parking, I’m an Olympic gold medallist.
So no, so far as I’m concerned the Continental is an ideal car to use in Cornwall because its size is irrelevant and it’s just a lovely, quiet, comfortable place to sit while the roof box people and the glacial locals get in your way. This is especially true of the Mulliner, because this is a car where you, the owner, can indulge any whim. Any wood. Any leather. Any colour. You get self-levelling centre wheel hubs, a Breitling clock and 400,000 stitches in the upholstery. You can count them. In Cornwall there’s time.
My car had been trimmed by someone channelling his inner Cheshire. It was finished in brown and gold and was as gaudy as a French pornographer’s tie. But the locals seemed to like it. One came over with his craggy face and smock and asked how much it was. He was a bit surprised when I explained that it’s more than $500,000. “You could almost buy a house for that,” he said.
So, what would I have? The Bentley or a second home in Cornwall? I think I’d take the car. It’s less wet.
Bentley Continental GT V8 Mulliner
- ENGINE: 4.0-litre twin-turbo V8 (404kW / 770Nm). Average fuel 11.3 litres per 100km
- TRANSMISSION: 8-speed automatic, all-wheel drive
- PRICE: $544,000
- STARS:★★★
