One of the ladies gestures towards the theatre’s entrance. “They stop showing plays in October when the weather gets too bad. It’s open air, so you’re rather exposed to the elements,” she finishes briskly.
“Ah. Well, I wasn’t here to see a play.”
They look at me curiously, and then the same lady speaks. She’s obviously the spokeswoman of the two. “You can still see the museum, and the café is open until four. That’s well worth a visit. Their vegetable quiches and cakes are lovely.”
“I’ll remember that,” I say gravely. “Thank you.”
They nod and begin to walk away. I sneak another glance at the vast grey sea and follow them. I pay my money at the kiosk and follow the guide's instructions to take the steps down.
The Minack is actually stunningly beautiful and quirky in the way that England does so well. It’s built like a craggy amphitheatre. A small stage is set on a granite outcrop that juts dramatically over the sea, and rising above it in natural, terraced layers are seats carved from stone and topped with grass. Paths run along the jagged rocks leading to the amphitheatre’s basin,and everywhere you look is the timeless backdrop of the sea. The entire setting looks so ancient that I almost expect a Roman soldier to appear. It’s hard to believe it’s less than a hundred years old. There’s a charm laced with wildness to the scene.
I sit for a while on a stone bench that bears the name and performance date of a play that was performed here several decades ago—The Tempest. It seems very appropriate for this windswept part of the coastline. As if on cue, the wind gusts again, and I shiver in my thin jacket. The other tourists are long gone now, chased away by the cold. Spotting the lit sign for the café and remembering the recommendation, I make my way up to it.
It’s small and toasty warm inside, and I sigh with relief, shrugging off my jacket and joining the queue at the counter. The place is decorated for Christmas, and Mariah Carey’s voice on the speaker competes with the sound of happy conversation. Most of the tables are full and there’s a cheery atmosphere. Feeling suddenly hungry, I order a plate of fish and chips and sit at a table with barstools set in front of a big window.
I inhale in pleasure. The view is spectacular. The sun has found a break in the clouds, and casts sparkling light over turquoise water that spreads as far as the eye can see. When my gaze lands on the scenery to my left, everything goes still. It’s the most perfect little beach, lined in rock, with a crescent of pale sand that breaks the sea in great rollers.
“Fish and chips?” a voice with a strong Cornish accent says. I drag my eyes away from the beach. It takes a lot more effort than it should. I find a waiter smiling at me quizzically. He’s young with a shock of dark hair and enough facial piercings to make going near a magnet a hazardous occasion.
“Sorry,” I say immediately, realising that he’s holding my food. I lean back so he can set the plate on the table along withmy coffee. As he goes to move away, I say urgently, “What’s that beach called?”
His gaze follows my pointing finger, and he smiles at me. “Ah, that’s Porthcurno, that is.”
“Can you get down to it, or is it inaccessible?”
He directs a surprised look at me. “Yes, of course you can. Just follow the road down when you leave here until you come to a car park on your right. Park there and take the footpath. That’ll bring you out on the beach. You can’t miss it.”
“Thank you.”
“Be careful, though,” he warns. “The tide can turn quickly. You don’t want to be trapped down there.”
“I’ll watch out for that.”
He nods and moves away to empty a table, and I stay staring at the beach, my food forgotten. It’s like finding a trove of jewels, the colours intense and so beautiful. The sudden need to access that beach and walk by the water is a yearning that’s deep-seated and almost painful in its intensity.
And before I know it, I’m getting up and leaving. My food is forgotten, as is the journey home as I walk with long strides towards the car park, taking the steep steps at a pace as a voice clamours inside me.
Hurry. Now is the time, it whispers.It’ll never come again.
I get in the car and drive down the winding road. The engine makes a whining noise, and occasionally the car judders, accompanied by a clunking sound.
Ignoring it, I fix my gaze on the narrow lane, waiting for the car park the waiter mentioned. Trees brush against the car, scratching the paintwork, but I pay it no mind.
The voice whispers in my ear,Make haste.
I put my foot down.
The car shudders, but it obeys, and I give a sigh of relief when I see the car park. It’s windswept and deserted, with no othercars in sight. I pull into a bay, but before I can turn the engine off, it jumps and judders as it stalls. I turn the key, and the motor makes a funny wheezing sound, but nothing else happens. The engine is dead.
Hurry, the voice urges, and I climb out of the car. I should be thinking about how I’m going to get home now, but I can’t be bothered. All my attention is on the footpath at the edge of the car park. The waiter had said it leads to the beach.
I’m dimly aware of locking the car and putting the key in my pocket, but the actions are made in a dim cloud as the funny sense of urgency drives me onwards.
The path turns out to be narrow and rocky, and I march down it at a brisk pace more suited to a route march than a gentle tourist amble. The sky is grey once more, and trees stretch their bare branches towards it as if trying to call back the sun. Rooks caw and wheel above me, and nearby, a small bird sings, but there’s no one else about.
I turn a corner and glimpse the sea ahead, grey and vast. I stumble a little in my haste and wince as stones dig into the thin soles of my Converse. The path widens, and now I can hear the sea’s roar. It sounds wild and somehow magical, and my pace quickens again.
I stop and suck in a much-needed breath when I come out over the beach. I’m not built for a race. A lifeguard’s hut is next to me, closed and shuttered for the winter, and a set of stone steps leads down through a tunnel of bramble bushes. I hesitate for a second, and something tugs at my brain—like the view is a memory my brain tagged in the past.
