Today we drive over the moors and into Cornwall. We head for Kit Hill a place of stunning views and immense sentimental attachment to my Dad (who trust me doesn’t normally do sentimental) as his beloved mother grew up in sight of it directly below the Tamar Bridge in Salt Ash.
The trip provokes him to break the normal silence about his childhood and I get a rare insight into his parents and his rather austere upbringing.
We head back to Gunnislake and take the Tamar Valley Railway down to Plymouth. Gunnislake station is fully wheelchair accessible and the guard couldn’t be more helpful getting the ramp out and helping us board.
Being away right now means I’ve had to miss the Move festival in Manchester. I was in two minds anyway, but chances are the lure of Morrissey and The Pixies would have won out.
Reading reviews it appears that on the Saturday night some of the crowd were sporting T’shirts reading “Stereo-who? I’m here for The Pixies”. In line with this half the crowd apparently disappeared before the headliners took to the stage. Ouch, that’s got to bruise old Kelly Jones’ ego. Maybe he’ll write another bitter whine-fest like Mr Writer as a result? Let’s all pray not.
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