we stay in a backpackers hostel in Zennor ... clean reasonable and next to the pub ...
the pub is warm and welcoming and we watch a company of holidaymakers, walkers, cyclists and locals parade before us ... there are Germans and Londoners and goodness who-from-where-else, but it makes for an entertaining evening ...
back in the hostel we blog the night away in the company of the family groups that pass as backpackers these days ... of course I too am nowhere near what might be reasonably defined as a backpacker so who am I to cast nasturtiums at my fellow hostellers ...
we are in a dormitory of six beds, and we are the last to go to bed ... every creak and rustle of the wooden bunk and sheets seems amplified to Metallica proportions ... but no-one leaps out of bed, not even the two Germans to tell us to be quiet ... the sunburnt Englishman seems intent only on moaning gently to help distract from the pain of his roasted skin ...
next morning the Germans are away at the crack of dawn .... and we leave at 930 ... the busiest day for blue jug action lies ahead
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