Try Everything Once, Except Incest and.......

.....Morris Dancing. If there is one thing I dislike intensely, it is Morris Dancing (and incest, obviously). So when we arrived in the Pasty Capital of the World (that's Pasty as in pastie, the Cornish pastry and meat/veg/cheese based handy meal, not pale-faced emo-goths who need to get out more in the daylight), that is St Just, I was more than a little distressed that a Morris Dancing Festival was in full swing. There were at least seven groups/troupes/bands, whatever, of MDs there in the square. Fortunately, once we had gritted our teeth and fought our way past, in the garden of the Star they could barely be heard, nor in the Wellington, or the Commercial, or the Kings...
Still, other things went well. I walked from the campsite to the Crowns below Botallack,

and along to the point across from St Just.

And this morning M and I went to Logan Rock, where her mum used to sit, many years ago, and from where we have strewn several sets of ashes of her family members since.