Reflections from St. Ives (Spring 2000)

For the past hour, I have sat in the Yellow Canary with my hands wrapped around a steaming cup of tea or holding a fork to shovel in a Cornish English breakfast. It's drizzling in St. Ives--a steady, thorough-soaking kind of precipitation that does nothing but drench and frustrate. Still, I like this town. St. Ives, situated on the western-most coast of England, offers infamous views of the ocean. Artists and poets have flocked here in search of inspiration; many have found it. Rumor has it Virginia Woolf wrote To the Lighthouse based on the tower-light on this very bay. The narrow streets and walkways, cottages and seafood restaurants, beaches, cliffs, and hills all have obvious appeal. If it does not cease precipitating, I'll be forced to return in warmer weather.

I think back to yesterday evening when the friendly taxi driver who brought me from the train to St. Ives pointed me in the direction of the coastal path and told me a little about the town. He said locals and visitors alike spend hours admiring the sea, which changes colors continuously throughout the day in a spectacular display.

Walking down the early morning streets on my way to the Yellow Canary, I was greeted--actually greeted--as I passed a fellow human. Civility at last! I'd dare say that St. Ives has more well-mannered citizens than all of London. Or if London has charm, she's forgotten to reveal it to her visitors. No, that's not fair. Londoners have learned to build mental walls and invisible space bubbles as a response to the incessant press of personalities all around. I see this as necessary. Out in the open spaces of the rest of England, such barriers fall away: it's no wonder I spend so much time outside of London.


Porthmeor

Only the surfers--crazy for a wave to ride--
Are out in the cold, cold waters of the bay
They look like specks, black specks to me
But I know what they are:

Their sandprint tracks like scritch-scratch
Are printed letters on a page,
Their frenzied dance a melody,
A prelude to the sea.

And she, a song, an unrelenting rhythm
Has never ceased and never will
Long after all else is still, so still
In the frigid pale watches of the night.

The sea today: froth-blue and white
And quite subdued in hue
Has requested to dance with the rain
And these surfers, they merrily remain.