Our next port of call was Falmouth, in the Duchy of Cornwall. Falmouth is one of those classic old English seaside resorts, complete with dignified Victorian hotels, a waterfront promenade, some beautiful beaches, and even a good old-fashioned bandstand for outdoor concerts of Gilbert and Sullivan and other popular favourites of that bygone age (if anyone still organizes such events nowadays!).
This town sits on a multi-armed natural harbour, on the shore of the English Channel -- actually the first significant English port on the Channel as you arrive from the open Atlantic. For many migrants to North America, throughout the twentieth century, Falmouth represented their last farewell to their homeland.
For other mariners, it was the first welcome to the British Isles. I well remember reading (years ago) a book entitled simply Tinkerbelle. The author, a Cleveland newspaper reporter, got a significant case of the midlife itch, and sailed single-handed in his small boat, built to a design that made her uniquely suitable for the North Atlantic, from Falmouth, Massachusetts, to Falmouth, England (this in the 1960s). The welcome he received from the Cornish twin of his port of departure was, to put it mildly, overwhelming.
For me, though, Falmouth means just one thing -- which I'll get to in due course. All the other attractions of the place, the cliffs, the beaches, the rocky coastal scenery, the romantic location of Pendennis Castle on a high point overlooking the harbour entrance -- all of these things serve only as a backdrop to the one thing that matters to me the most.
But not to sell Falmouth short. It is a lovely and relaxing place in its own right.
All of which could serve to explain why I never so much as glanced at the tours offered by the cruise line, simply planning a four-mile long walk for my visit. Not that I didn't see anything worth the trouble, by any means. We got blessed again with a beautiful, sunny, not-too-warm day, ideal for walking.
Falmouth has numerous docks, but the harbour is (or so I assume) simply too tight for a ship of our size to manoeuvre around inside the bay. Zuiderdam is, after all, longer, wider, higher, and much heavier than even the legendary Titanic. And remember, this is considered a mid-sized cruise ship these days. So, no surprise, we anchored outside, with the bow pointing more or less at Pendennis Castle for most of the day.
This meant that we had to board tenders to ride for 25 minutes each way to get to the dock and back again. And this was my first bonus of the day. To help with the morning rush hour to get ashore, Holland America chartered one of the two-deck ferries that normally operates across the harbour from Falmouth to St. Mawes. This was bonus because the ship's own tenders are fully enclosed rescue boats, but the ferry had an open-air upper deck, and I took full advantage.
Like many harbour towns, Falmouth has steep hills. I had to climb a few of them. The first one took me up from the harbour and over the ridge to the seafront, where I emerged on the promenade right beside the grand old Falmouth Hotel.
Walking along the clifftop walkway, you soon notice that the tide is out and there are large areas of bare rocks showing. Well, that and the big cruise ship anchored out yonder.
And then you approach the first of the two large public beaches, Gyllyngvase Beach, or simply "Gylly" to the locals.
Beyond the beach, I kept following the path along the edge of the bluffs above the protruding rock beds between low and high tide marks. Here the path becomes a kind of green tunnel, with wild flowers popping out every so often.
Then the path curls to the right into a bay, drops abruptly down and you are on the second beach, the Swanpool Beach. At the back of the beach, simply turn right along the road on the shore of the Swanpool, an enclosed body of water which reminds me very much of Grenadier Pond in Toronto's High Park.
At the north end of the Swanpool, the road curves right and starts up the hill back towards town -- and it's here that I came to a gate in a stone wall with this sign beside it -- and so arrived at the purpose of my morning walk.
And here it is: the grave of the man I never knew.
Gordon was my father Stuart's only (and younger) brother. He died when his ship, on anti-submarine patrol, was torpedoed no great distance offshore from Falmouth. Our cruise liner could very well have sailed right over the spot where it happened on the way in. Three men died, and my uncle was buried here.
You can probably imagine that this was a very thoughtful day for me, especially as I've now reached an age where I can see clearly, as never before, the consequences of this event reaching forward for years and years into my family's future. We may never have met our uncle, but he certainly had an impact on our lives in many ways. So, for the sake of the record, here are the two of them in 1944, Stuart on the left and Gordon on the right.
After I'd spent some more time, standing in the sunshine and thinking about it all, I began the walk back. I know it sounds cliche but the sun did seem brighter and the colours of the flowers more vivid on the return trip through town and back down to the docks.
And here is the latest version of our cruise map.
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