Hands full of shells

a poem about the activities on my St Ives break.

We set out early, four plus half, on a trip down south to St Ives, through a deluge of water of which so much fell, before the well-earned break of our lives.

 

A cottage named Driftwood, three bedrooms and an attic, not far from a beach that had so many shells, dogs, a pool, where everyone bathed as a kite flew erratic.

 

The train into town, just I, my wife, and the youngest of five, to play on the sands with cameras in hands, running from waves and feeling alive

 

A walk along the front, where vocal seagulls were at play, being fed by people eating fish and chips, more birds gathered as we swiftly walked away.

 

An adventure park, where the youngest of five had lots of fun, playing with goats and ropes while sailing a large pirate ship bathed in a shower of sun.

 

A day in a mine, now converted to an educational attraction, domes with large exotic plants, large statues, a giant bumblebee, and a children’s spiral garden.  

 

Into paradise we went, to see birds of various types tweeting, flying low overhead with character and grace, as youngest played softly before stroking a penguin.

 

Long trip back home, as six hours turned to eleven, many cars made one say "should have left at four",  but still a great time in Cornwall heaven.