Another group had already bagged the giant jenga game, which felt like something of a usurpation. It was not that I wanted to play myself, it was simply that it was difficult to concentrate on anything else whilst someone else was playing. It was hard to tear your eyes away from the towering pillar of wooden blocks; difficult not to experience the same tension as the players as they removed a piece; always anticipating the tower’s imminent and noisy collapse.
We sat on a wooden bench in the pub’s garden, beside a stone-dappled wall, surrounded by the signs of earlier Turks Heads. I wondered about the apostrophe, or lack thereof; I couldn’t help myself.
We had spent the day walking to St Michael’s Mount––no conflict with an apostrophe there––and we were tired and hungry. Exhilarated too: it was a beautiful sunny evening after a beautiful sunny day.
The menu had boasted fresh mackerel. We had seen signs earlier in the day advertising evening boat rides to join a fishing trip. It had seemed like a good idea at the time but, when it actually came to it, we were simply too tired: there is only so much entertainment that can be packed into one day.
The mackerel was delicious. Cooked in the oven whole, and served with flowery potatoes and a chard salad, and accompanied by a pint of local Cornish bitter.
It was the perfect end to the kind of day when it is hard to imagine being anywhere nicer than the English seaside.