Empty beaches, empty cottages and a yachtless sea
Just fishermen and gulls, no tourist cream teas
But now Easter is here again and that Spring time vacation
And sleepy Cornwall awakes from it’s quiet hibernation.
M4, A30, Flybe and South West Trains
The arteries from London begin to flow again.
Trebetherick’s lanes are clogged with Fulham mothers in Chelsea tanks
Setting up home pre arrival of their husbands from the banks.
The car parks are bursting and the estuary is chocablock
With boats, wetsuits and debutantes from Port Isaac right up to Rock.
The cliff paths are rampant with binoculars and bird watch prying
But it’s the breasts on Polzeath beach that these chaps are really spying.
Archie has become quite expert at making castles in the sand
And older brother Bertie is happier in the water than on the land.
Lucinda prefers the rock pools, catching little shrimps and fish
For nanny to cook and peel and add to tonight’s seafood dish.
Mummy sips some rosé with Clapham friends staying just next door
And Daddy drinks too much beer, bangs on, becomes a bore.
For a special treat one night we’ll take the ferry across to Padstow
And supper at Rick Steins: “It’s the very best, you know!”
They serve proper fish and chips with a real knife and fork
No newspaper wrapped in grease here, nor nasty brown sauce.
A sprig of parsley and perhaps some mushy peas and squid
With a glass of Chardonnay, no change from fifty quid.
All too soon the holiday comes to a happy end
Weight-boards are packed away (they’re the latest trend).
Holiday cottages are now cleaned; doors shut and locked
Their inhabitants to join the roads that are already blocked.
And grumpy locals celebrate at the departure of guests so raucous
They count the pennies, shut up shop and wait for lucrative August!