We walked down Cornwall Street, Devonport, once home to Samuel Sargent, onto Cornwall Beach, home now to tyres, camping chairs and a resident white swan which he pub locals call Asbo. I nicknamed him Arsenic after he sneaked up behind me when I was picking up things from the beach. The beach is only 20 metres or so wide covered in shingles, broken slate and water worn glass and other debris. Under the “sand”, as the publican in the Steam Packet called it, are still the 18th century cobbles that led from the street all the way to the low water mark. He scratched away the slate and glass to show me the stones his mother broke her ankle on jumping onto the beach. We had lunch in his pub, one of the few buildings to remain intact after the WW2 Blitz. The publican, a sailor who jumped ship in Albany for three days before being dragged back to ship, was very talkative so we learnt lots about the street and Devonport area. He kept bringing out books and photos of Devonport to show us. He was a local after all. His Grandmother had lived across the road and was 100 years old when she died.
We had a glass or two on The Hoe overlooking the harbour, warships entering Plymouth Harbour and the America’s Cup Trials in progress all watched by Francis Drake on his pedestal behind us.