A fleeting moment of not-hoying-down in Steinsville, during which a Black-necked Grebe performed in the harbour entrance. Moments later it came to my attention that my girlfriend's car's battery had developed a fault, information relayed in the form of a clicking starter button and underlined with a £150 bill from the RAC for the joy of being temporarily stranded in north Cornwall. Being the eternal opportunists that we are, Jack and I snuck off down the Camel Trail and found ourselves a couple of Firecrests in the now expected, and therefore strangely comforting, wind and rain.
An hour later we were off but, before achieving the A30 and its black-topped, multi-laned promise of civilisation, a Corn managed to barrel round a blind bend and destroy our driver's side (rather expensive) motorised wing-mirror assembly before disappearing from our perfectly undamaged rear view mirror in his shitty, murk-coloured Ford Focus. Despite leaping from the car and legging it back up the road, this second moment of car-related mishappedness did not produce Firecrest or, indeed, any other pretty little scarcy.
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