IT WAS ONE OF THOSE LOVELY DAYS which are carried for all time in the memory of the traveller who has had the good fortune to see England in the early summer. London, with all its joys and sorrows, traffic and tragedy, we soon lost to sight and mind, as the fast travelling train carried me on my way to Penzance, the place made famous in comic opera under the title: “The Pirates of Penzance.”
Past fields and meadows alive and ablaze with beautiful flowers, acres and acres of such splashes of colour that they defy and beggar description, while for the last fifty miles of the journey the train passes through an avenue of rhododendrons in full bloom. This beauty has to be seen to be appreciated.
Then, with much puffing and panting, as though the iron monster were a thing alive, the train draws into the platform of Penzance, and we are at the very end of Old England. With eyes eager to see more of their wonderland, all the passengers alight from the train, agog with great anticipation.
Mount Bay, St. Michael’s Mont, Mousehole, Lands End, and much more than space allows to tell, all these with the old township of Penzance itself, were the attractions I had come to see.