I took turn for the worse on road trip to Cornwall

“NOW take a left,” barked my wife, scrutinising the large map of Cornwall. “Go down there. Over there!” “You’re pointing behind you again,” I sighed, resting my forehead on the steering wheel.

“What is the point of telling me where to turn after we’ve passed it?”

“According to this,” she muttered, ignoring the comment, “you’re coming to another village that I can’t pronounce, but starts with ‘Saint.’” I groaned.

“Then take a sharp right, which I think is that one.”

I blew my cheeks out in exasperation. “You’re pointing behind you again!”

“There’s a toothless old man with a dog on a rope,” my wife shrieked. “He must be local. He’ll know where the hotel is.”

The vehicle screeched to a halt. “Don’t you dare spend a penny on that man’s shoes,” the yokel bellowed, tugging furiously on the rope around the shaggy hound’s neck.

“Excuse me,” I shouted, keeping a respectful distance between my brogues and the mutt. “Are you from here?”

“Fraid not,” he grinned, “I’m from the next street.”

“Er, close enough. I seem to have turned when I shouldn’t have.”

“And sprained your ankle?” he butted in.

“And lost my way. Could you tell me the quickest way to St Thomason-the-Molehill?”

“Straight up the hill,” he gibbered. “You’ll see a big sign for clotted cream. Keep going, and you’ll come to a disused tin mine. Keep going, you’ll see a man standing by the side of the road pointing his finger. Keep going, but don’t stare because he’s likely to expose himself.”

I glanced at my watch. “And by that time,” I pressed the rustic, “we would have travelled how far?”

“Oh, a good 30 yards. You’ll pass a field with a cow with a misshapen udder. Keep going, through the ford. King Arthur’s crotch is on the left. Keep going, then turn right immediately after a mangled badger. Can’t miss it.”

“Was he any help?” asked my wife. “The bloke’s a moron,” I glowered. “He’s on crack cocaine or something.”

She laughed: “I don’t think they have crack cocaine out here.” Crack fudge then.

“There’s the man pointing his finger,” I shouted as we wound our way through the narrow country lanes like a drunk man in a maze. “Don’t stare because he might... Damn, too late.

“There’s the dead badger! Who needs a route finder when you’ve got road kills.”

Has it really been three years since we visited this beautiful, unspoiled part of England?

I admire the Cornish for their resourcefulness. When the bottom fell out of tin, thousands of redundant miners turned to fudge and pastymaking. I only hope they washed their hands first.

Can this tiny duchy rub shoulders with the world’s industrial superpowers on fudge sales alone? Of course not – that’s why they manufacture Cornish pixie keyrings, wooden love spoons and over-sized joke false teeth made out of sugar.

“People forget how important and powerful Cornwall was,” gushed the tourist bod I chatted to. “Unfortunately...”

“The knights of the Round Table fell out,” I nodded knowingly.

He gave a world-weary look. “...the tin mines closed, as did the docks. Now we’re trying to resurrect the Cornish language by teaching it in schools,” he added.

I think that’s vitally important. For too long the Cornish have missed out on the opportunity to smile warmly at tourists while verbally abusing them in their native tongue – something that is close to a national sport in Wales.

“We have a glorious, almost Mediterranean climate...” (I glanced at the bullet rain forced horizontal by the gale-force wind.) “...that’s why people grow palm trees.”

So what? People grow cannabis in Wolverhampton, and plants don’t get more tropical than that.

“There’s also a vibrant arts scene.” I fingered the postcard of a fat naked man, his embarrassment covered by a giant pasty.

“What I’m trying to say,” stressed the tourism boss, “is there’s a lot more to Cornwall than clotted cream, King Arthur, fudge and pasties.” “Such as?”

After an awkward silence, he asked: “Heard of Poldark?”