We retrieved the car from King Arthur's Pay-'N'-Display Car Park and set off for our hotel in Newquay.
Throughout the journey Wilson constantly criticised both King Arthur's and Merlin's living arrangements.
'How poor Queen Guinevere coped with living in that ruin I can't begin to imagine! I'm only surprised she didn't leave HRH Arthur and take up with somebody with a bit more ambition!' and so on. I have to admit I rather tuned out.
He was in the middle of a tirade against Merlin for not helping out more when suddenly he stopped, mid-sentence, shouting, 'Stop the Car! New Dad, Stop The Car!'
I'm quite used to this by now, so instead of performing an Emergency Stop in the middle of the road I drew into a parking bay.
Wilson jumped out of the car and ran into a toy shop we'd just passed, calling back to me that he had to buy a souvenir of the holiday.
By the time I'd locked the car and followed him inside, he was trying to decide between many cute animals — monkeys, giraffes, hedgehogs and hippos — when he spied a rack of piglets.
'This little guy,' he announced as he took one off the shelf, 'is EXACTLY who I need to guard my Tomato Farm back in Uckfield!'
Coinage was exchanged with the shopkeeper and the piglet, currently called 'Piglet' was proudly carried back to the car.
To the annoyance of some of the other passengers, Wilson had to wrestle his surf board into the Land Rover for the trip down to King Arthur's Castle and Merlin's Cave.
Once we arrived, to their further annoyance, he had to wrestle it out again.
It was a surprisingly tight fit, and you'd be amazed what a fuss some people make when they're poked round the head with a surf board...
We stood for a long time without speaking, taking in the beauty of this wild and rugged spot and listening to the cries of the wheeling seabirds and the roar of the surf breaking on the rocks below us and soaking in the atmosphere of this magical and elemental place.
At length, Wilson spoke: 'I'm a bit disappointed that King Arthur lived in a ruin,' he announced, 'and very surprised that his magician, Merlin, lived in a cave with its floor underwater!'
I raised my eyebrows and tried to maintain a neutral expression.
He continued, 'If Merlin was such a Red-Hot, Tip Top Magician, I'd have thought he could magic himself up somewhere a bit grander to live than a wet cave. Somewhere with a dry floor, for a start. And a door. I bet Paul Daniels' house is WAY better than this!'
We drove in through the main road into Tintagel and parked in King Arthur's Pay-'n'-Display Car Park (Max Stay 4 hrs).
Strolling towards the centre of the village we passed King Arthur's Hair Salon, King Arthur's Café, King Arthur's Launderette and King Arthur's Toy Shop (selling King Arthur's Teddy Bears).
Wilson remarked that King Arthur seemed to have this town pretty much sewn up — even tighter than Prince Charles, who actually owns all of Cornwall!
However, the main objective of our visit was to see King Arthur's Castle and Merlin's Cave, and we soon located a Shuttle Service that would transport us down the very steep hill to the castle.
Hopefully back up again, too!
________
PS: Wilson says "Hi!" to his new readers in Russia! Добро пожаловать! 🇷🇺
Wilson spent a long time in the junk shop; a LONG time.
As I waited outside with Antony and little TT, guarding W's surf board, it felt as though he'd been inside for several hours, but when I checked my watch it turned out he'd only been inside for several hours.
Finally he emerged, without having bought anything.
He explained that he thought he'd found an Etch-A-Sketch once owned by the Dutch artist Mondrian — when he looked closely he could apparently make out a lot of pale rectangles 'Exactly like Mr Piet used to draw' — but he was unwilling to risk a whole £1 on it.
While W had been in the shop the sun had come out and the sky turned blue, so I suggested we move on to Tintagel, putative home of King Arthur and Merlin, his magician.
Wilson applied some Factor 50 to the end of his snout and we set off back to the car.
In a tiny lane leading away from the quayside in Mevagissey, Wilson spotted a shop he couldn't resist.
He is magnetically drawn to seductive places such as this, imagining he will find a lost Picasso sketch or misidentified Ming Dynasty ashtray, or even just a complete Clarice Cliff tea service, then get rich and famous on Flog It or Dickinson's Real Deal by selling it for £1M, and so keeping the promise he once rashly made to his Mum, Mrs Vermilingua.
Daytime TV has much to answer for.
Anyway, he ducked inside to have a good look round, leaving me outside holding Antony and TT, and guarding his surf board.
As he left he admonished me, 'Don't let anyone buy my "stick" New Dad — not unless you can snag a REALLY good price!'
