Day 29 - Penzance to Porthleven: 20.28 km

This was a fantastic day.  So the photos will be great but the writing will be short and sweet.  

Contentment is a creative flatline; without a little blood, rain, or psychological collapse, there is nothing worth writing home about. The weather was  perfect. The trail was a civilized cocktail of cliffside vistas and strategically placed cafes. Even the local black adders couldn't be bothered to strike. It was an idyllic.

My only real grievance is Porthleven, a harbor town that fancies itself a culinary Mecca. If this is a foodie paradise, we were firmly exiled at the gates. We went  to a local gastropub, expecting an elevated, upscale riff on British comfort, and were handed a meal that was an absolute crime against humanity. My "100% beef" burger with "British cheddar" arrived as a pathetic, child-sized puck of mystery meat, draped in a sweaty sheet of processed yellow cheese and drowned in cheap American mustard. It was flanked by twelve desolate, flaccid fries that lacked even a molecule of sodium. The entire dining room was gripped by a frantic, spice-starved desperation, patrons begging each other for a salt shaker while being mocked by an abundance of useless pepper mills. Ken’s "beef pie and mash" arrived looking like a sad Swanson’s TV dinner from the Eisenhower administration. It featured a token tablespoon of mashed potatoes and a handful of boiled frozen vegetables that had surrendered their will to live long ago. We paid extortionate prices for this tragedy. Welcome to the grim, flavorless reality of a post-Brexit.  Back in 1595, the Spanish raided this coast and burned the nearby settlements to the ground. After eating  that burger, I finally understand the impulse. At least the smoke would have added some flavor.