Cornwall's+Treasure

 Alex Donovan Composition G Block Mr. Bouton 03-13-09  Cornwall’s Treasure The framed photographs on the wall behind the kitchen’s bar in my house constantly remind me of the place my mom calls “home.” Portscatho, England: a village secluded from bustling cities and crowded towns, set just along the cliffs overlooking the deep, cold ocean. My mom grew up there; in a home I have not seen change in its appearance in over the ten years I have visited. The white stonewall surrounds the path that leads up past the window with the crafted sailboat in it, onward through an alcove to the wooden gate, which allows entrance into my Granny’s patio area. Through the door, the small kitchen brings warmth to your damp skin as one by one the visitors file through the doorway, passing the hundreds of pictures of children, grandchildren, and great grandchildren that are displayed prominently along the mahogany wood table: her prized possessions. The pride for her family exudes throughout the home, displayed with each frame visible in the home. As the final left turn into the living room area is taken, I am never surprised to see my Granny sitting up against the heater with the crossword beside her and the electric fire burning. As I look out through the window toward the village below, I see the same picturesque features I remember so vividly because similar to that of my grandmother’s house, it has ceased to change. As soon as we drive into the heart of Portscatho, we know that Ralph’s Village store will be to our left, The Plume of Feathers Pub up ahead, the jetty jutting out toward the ocean, and our home for the week stay the second to last on the right with the bright blue door: no questions asked. Jumping out of the rental car, the salty water air can hit you with such force that it becomes impossible to forget the scent. My first instinct is to run down toward the jetty and stand as the wind soars through my hair and the seagulls sing as they fly, circling the area. But instead, I tend to withhold and continue walking up the steps, through the double doors I have entered many times, as each year we rent this same house. The stairs welcome me, calling me to climb them in order to claim my bedroom. The purple room receives the most light out of any of the rooms and seems to be the home to a young girl, as children’s books are always stacked along the shelves. With each visit, I get to feel as if I am seven again as I curl up under the covers of the twin size bed. The window of the room takes up the majority of one of the room’s walls, looking out toward the ocean, something this village has revolved around throughout its existence. The paintings hung throughout the house tell enough stories, illustrating the popularity of fishing and boating over the years. There is also the annual regatta, an event my aunt always calls about, hoping to get us over to witness one of them since they tend to draw in the crowds. The best part of the room, however, is the view. I can always look out across the water to the cliffs some miles away. At the point of one of the cliffs is the Mermaid’s Chair, a stone formation overlooking the water. My mom and I will walk across the pastures full of sheep and through the stretch of beach once or twice during a visit in order make the two-mile trek out. She will tell me stories of how she came here when she was my age with her friends. It was the usual outing for a young couple: they would walk out to the chair and carve their names or initials into the rock. It seems old fashioned, but also as if it means a great deal more than the crafting of initials into a random oak tree along the side of the road. It seems more permanent. But all of this is slightly difficult to believe as the beach seems deserted now, and the cliffs empty of people. The purple-checkered curtains of my room just about hide The Plume of Feathers Pub, but for Portscatho, it is the liveliest place around. Most nights, every table is full of people my parents have known for years and who welcome us with open arms back into their presence. We will sit down, preferably in the “cove”, a room more private room, and my brother, James, and I will be offered a beer as the drinking age is eighteen. After not seeing us for a year or two, they imagine us to be older than we are. We will politely decline and accept an Appletizer instead, a thirst quenching, sparkling apple juice drink which we have probably been drinking since we were five. Usually there are about seven of us at least for our first dinner in the village, so my dad will take out a pen and a napkin to take down everyone’s orders and report them to the waitress behind the counter toward the corner of the pub. The tendency seems to be to order the fish and chips, golden and crispy with mountains of peas and chips. But this dinner hardly compares to what comes after it: hot chocolate fudge cake. Not once has this cake disappointed my expectations nor has its presentation changed. I have ordered that cake every visit for over ten years and its warm, melt in your mouth taste ceases to amaze. For some reason, it constantly comes to mind in any memory where the Plume of Feathers is mentioned. I always have to limit myself to two slices per week visit. After unpacking, I will eventually make my way down to the kitchen, its emptiness providing the message that we have not been around for awhile. James and I usually volunteer to head over to Ralph’s, our lifeline for the first few nights as we settle in. James and I will run to the store and look around for the usual and necessary foods: eggs, sausage rolls, chocolate digestive biscuits, milk, English sausages, orange juice, Rubina, various crisps, and all of the glorious foods that America is unable to provide. But we try to waste no time, as we both know the real reason we ever volunteer for this job is to make our way to the candy shelves, where we are presented with various sweets. My favorites are the chocolate buttons, a pack of circular shaped chocolates that coat your tongue as one by one as they are devoured; or the flake, another chocolaty treat that will break with even the most delicate touch. James on the other hand tends to turn to the white chocolate buttons and the fruit pastels, sugar coated gummies in various flavors, the best being blackcurrant. We will pay with the pounds our parents have given us and bring everything back in huge cardboard boxes rather than plastic or cloth bags. Each time we enter the kitchen after providing the necessary food stock, our family becomes vultures after devouring half of everything we have bought, knowing that we will probably make another trip to Ralph’s tomorrow morning for bread or bacon, or some other item we forgot the first time around that will end up being thrown to the seagulls at the end of the week. After a visit to Ralph’s, I’ll make my way through the doors I entered not too long before, and will see the bucket and small shovel that has sat in its same position next to the blue door of the house for years. It reminds me of the jetty that sits only hundreds of feet in front of me, jutting out from the seaweed-covered rocks. When James and I were younger, we would take a bucket like the one by the front of the house, a fishing rod from the shed in the back of the house, and some bait, and head down to the end of the jetty to fish; however, now that we are older we usually just head down to end and watch the waves break over the rocky shore. The boats to the left of the cement formation are either swept up by the waves or they are left deserted among the sand as the tide goes back out. When that happens, James and I will sometimes go and explore the crevasses and cracks between each rock, searching for any kind of sea life to bring back to the house: snails and shrimp tend to be the most popular. One year, James had our mom cook up some of the shrimp we had found during our adventures, though we never actually ate them. We never forget to head down toward the end of the jetty, our feet hanging off the side with the red lamppost standing over us, to simply take in the surroundings. It is the one place where you can breathe in and understand the serenity Portscatho offers to us.  Though the uniformity that Portscatho provides becomes boring by the end of the week, it’s what I love and look forward to when we fly over the Atlantic every couple of years. I know that at the end of the week, we as a family will spend time at the house with my Granny that is always the first to welcome us back to the village. The same sailboat filled window that greeted us upon our arrival is the last thing we will see as we depart. The grassy pastures, rocky cliffs, and quiet village that surrounded me for a week of solitude and relaxation will disappear, and then I know that I will return within a matter of less than twenty four hours to the hectic and ever changing life in America. But, I enjoy knowing that each time we visit; it will be the same routine, the same necessary to do list. If it were to change, I don’t know what I would do without my slice of hot chocolate fudge cake.