St Ives

Climbed high above the town normal and quiet to find French Anne and a bed on her hard floor. Saw Tate nice but not inspiring but Barbara Hepworth museum and garden fantastic I spent two hours in the garden in contemplation. Met wonderful old irascible woman on the street and bought her a drink and met more cornishmen and now I have a local to have a warm flat beer in!

You looked and away
And growled
Give me your money
And laughed
When I gave you
The time of day and
A bloody mary
To hear your story
Of husbands gone
And dead sons
And if you were
Twenty years younger
You'ld pinch my arse!

Awake with broken back and bones then on the street again. Much more to the town than first impressions. Peel back the veneer of the tourist promenade and there is some damn good art. Met Bob in his gallery and treated to his life, his poetry, his friends and his paintings. He closed the gallery doors to recite and talked for two hours with him about life and art. Shambolic, learned with a good soul he only shows paintings away from the mainstream so doesn't sell a lot, more it's a place for his artist friends to drop by.


Rip, rip, rip, rip it up Bob
Your pink, pinkprint for living
Will leave you destitute
Your friends will be artists
And you will ask the people you meet
For their souls to burnish
And to Hepworth their gardens

So I hope it's not left to me
Neither wordsmith nor
Minstral enough to sing
Your sweet song
But will take the vision given
And J, J, J, Appleseed it
In rows of fertile minds

It's the first time I have been in a place where I have had the time luxury of saying I will leave some art for tomorrow!