Sunday, October 13.
Not to worry, this post isn’t some long winded quote from the bible, although it does deal with, what was for me, an almost religious experience and it was Sunday.
Our first destination of the day was a little village called St. Agnes, a very short distance from our accommodations. As we drove down the tiny lane connecting the upper part of the village with the part right by the sea, we passed a little cafe. Outside of the cafe was a sandwich board type thing saying “bacon baps, locally sourced ingredients.”
“What in the heck is a bacon bap?” I found myself wondering. The road was too narrow to pull over at that point, so, we continued down into the village, parked and wandered around for a bit, and then walked back up the road towards the cafe. We were being pulled by a force stronger than the two of us.
Upon arrival, we noticed many cars tucked away in the bushes by the side of the road and many folks at tables inside and outside of the cafe. “These are very good signs indeed,” thinks I. Almost too good as it turned out.
There were ingredients left for only one bacon bap and Jackson, the young man who had arrived shortly before we did, had sort of indicated that he wanted one. But Jackson was local and he could tell that we were not. And, although I said “that’s alright, you should have it,” he could tell that I didn’t really mean it. Jackson then did one of the nicest things any stranger has ever done for me, he ordered something different.
Imagine this: About 1/3 of a pound of the leanest, most flavorful, back bacon you have never seen, piled high on a soft, whole grain roll that has been slathered with local butter. No other flavors to get between you and the essence of the pig. Bacon bliss. Heaven on a bun. Each of us worships in his or her own way and I found mine at a little shrine to pork on a backroad in Cornwall.