No matter what I say later in this post, I am sitting in the evening sun with a bottle of cider on the table beside me, scribbling this out while the thoughts fall from my head to my fingertips.

The last two days have been learning days.  Mostly what I have learned is that toddlers are BLOODY HARD WORK and frankly, my admiration for my eldest daughter and her lovely husband is pretty boundless, at this point.

Lu has had enough.  She is not in familiar surroundings; her routine is all shot to hell; it’s hot; we keep going to places that blatantly ARE NOT THE BEACH; and she just wants her home and her friends and her routine.  Only, because she’s only just two the best tools she has available to her to express all this are shouting, screaming, crying and keeping her parents awake at night.

Having dealt with three toddlers of my own, you might imagine that I have all the answers to this and am able to step in and help out. And I’m trying; really I am. But I am not Lu’s favourite person right now.  She is entranced by having Daddy at her beck and call (instead of at work all day) and I am really only entertaining in concept form.

So yesterday we went back to Sennen because really what Lu loves best is the beach.  And we dug sandcastles, and the three of them played in the waves.

Today, I had an interview to prepare for.  I’m a bit grumpy about this, to be honest, since the timetable for this particular recruitment had nothing in this week, and so I didn’t bring any of the stuff with me.  But still, that’s the beauty of an online world, right?? So I got up early, and went for a *lovely* little five mile run from Penzance to St Michael’s bay.  I set off from the unglamorous coach station, and ran along the coastal path.  On Saturday, sitting in the cafe in Sainsburys when we first arrived, I had seen runners on this path.  The perspective from the cafe made them appear to be running along the roof of the train in the sidings, and I imagined myself as the roof-running runner.  I just wanted to go easy and see whether it was comfortable; I am recovering from a torn medial collateral ligament (or something) and didn’t want to push too hard.

So from Penzance, along the coastal path and up to St Michael’s Bay.  About 2 1/2 miles and then back again to make just over 5 miles.  Mostly on concrete or cinder path, but a short stretch running across sand dunes, which made for proper rehab running, I tell you.

Like a fool, I forgot my water bottle, and it was a warm and largely shade-less morning.  I paused at the Marazion car park, but it was way too early for the cafe to be open.  So I pressed on to St Michael’s Mount. The cafe there was shut, but the woman was there, preparing for her day, so I asked if I could have just a couple of swigs of tap water.

“Sorry.  We don’t give out tap water” she said, looking at the tap. “We sell bottles of water.  But we’re not open yet.”

“OK.  But I don’t want a bottle of water – just a couple of sips.”

“Sorry…”

So I turned back.  I was really kicking myself for forgetting a water bottle; but also a little bit furious that the woman at the cafe wouldn’t give me any water.  All through Cornwall, Mima has been asking cafe owners to fill the water bottles and has met with no resistance.  But here I was, expending actual energy and sweating like a good’un and she wouldn’t let me have a sip of water.

[aside: my granny used to say that ladies glow, gentlemen perspire and pigs sweat.  Fine. I glow like a fucking pig]

So I turned back, and ran back to Marazion where the cafe was still closed, but Hoxton Special – a surf shack and board hire place – was open. So I jogged up, feeling seriously dehydrated, and asked him if I could just have a bit of tap water.  “Sure”, he said, “no problem.” and handed me a kilner mug full of lovely, cold water.  What a stand-up gent!  So, sporty readers, if ever you’re in this part of the world, please do go and give some love (and some business) to the lovely folks at Hoxton Special – I might even try their board hire, next time we’re here!

Then I came back to the cottage, via a little wander around St Just, and did some work.  The family had gone to Gweek, to look at the seal sanctuary, which seems to have occupied and appeased the smallest of them, so I had a few hours to research and think of questions… and then I took myself back to St Ives, to the Barbara Hepworth museum.

The Hepworth museum is a teeny, tiny place.  I mean, it’s her gallery and workshop, preserved and recreated in beautiful detail.  She died there, having gone to bed with a cigarette, and they have broadly repaired the fire damage and put everything back where it was.

But the garden! Oh, the garden is a thing of glory and loveliness.  Not least because of the summerhouse, which smells potently of my Granny’s kitchen.  I don’t know whether the curators use it to make their tea, but you walk in and the dominant aroma is freshly brewed pot of tea.  Just delicious.  And the garden itself is beautifully laid out, gloriously tended, and with a wonderfully curated exhibition of her sculptures.  It really is – corny though it sounds – like stepping into her life and finding she’s just popped out for a moment.

And then I sat in a cafe on the shore, doing more research and reading, before heading back to the family.  Thankfully, the toddler is exhausted (probably not quite so exhausted as her parents) and has gone more or less straight to sleep.

Honestly, parents of toddlers.  You are all motherfucking heroes.  You and the man from Hoxton Special.