The Horror of Kernow MillA Story by HoWiE Mouse and I had stopped off for a cream tea in Kernow Mill on the edge of the Devon / Cornwall border, this is what happened...
Mouse and I had spent the day at the beach; Whitsand Bay just off the Rame Peninsula in Cornwall. The area is populated with dubiously named villages such as Portwrinkle, Freathy and Crafthole � naturally Mouse and I had done the, �I Portwrinkle in your Crafthole and made you all Freathy�, it was the sort of thing we said a lot. You can only imagine the things said when we reach places like Fistral or Lusty Glaze�
On the journey back, I was chuckling quietly at a road sign that said �Abnormal Load� when Mouse pointed out an advertising hoarding that said, �Kernow Mill�. For those not in the know, Kernow is the Cornish word for Cornwall; quite why they have to have their own language is beyond me but that�s the Cornish for you. The sign also read �Cream Teas - �3.50 (Tea or Coffee available).� The magnetic prospect of a sultana scone awash with strawberry preserve and lashed with Rodda�s Clotted Cream, was just too much to eschew. Chillingly and as we approached the Trerulefoot roundabout the Eagles �Hotel California� began to play on the radio: On a dark desert A374, cool wind in my hair Warm smell of colitas, rising up through the air Up ahead in the distance, I saw a shimmering sign My head grew heavy and my sight grew dim I had to stop for a scone� And there it was sitting hunched on the borders of ungodly Saltash: Kernow Mill (incorporating The Edinburgh Woollen Mill) � Cornish Gifts & Souvenirs, Clothing, Golfing Supplies and Tea Shop� The tyres of Mouse�s Toyota Carina E crunched ominously to a halt next to an old man leaning against the boot of his Volvo; he stared at us � a satchel with eyes. I could feel his eyes upon my back (or possibly Mouse�s bum) as we walked. An old woman trundled past on one of those walking frames with wheels and a tartan bag; she clicked her false teeth at us. Hungrily. There she stood in the doorway; I heard her false teeth rattle And I was thinking to myself, 'This could be Heaven or this could be Kernow Mill We entered the Mill, which wasn�t really a Mill at all; it was more of prefabricated aluminium shop with a fake stone wall and water-wheel bolted on. I saw old people flipping coins in to the �Genuine Cornish Wishing Well� with arthritic fingers and began to grieve. Horribly the Mill had seen fit to assault our ears with a synthesiser version of Billy Joel�s (Christ awful) classic �Just the Way You Are.�
�Oohh look fudge!� Mouse squealed already sucked in by the banality of the place, clearly I had to keep my head on a swivel if we were to get out of here alive. She was right about the fudge though: clotted cream fudge, black butter fudge, toffee fudge, run and raisin fudge, coconut fudge, chocolate fudge, fudged-fudge, Fugee�s own fudge, budgie fudge. (For alarmingly in depth information on Cornish Fudge, please see: http://www.cornishfudgeshop.co.uk/system/index.html ) �Do you like our selection of fudge, sir?� A middle-aged woman, caked in bad make-up, asked me, jerking me out of my fudge-reverie. �Erm�� I could almost feel my arteries slamming shut at the thought of all that sugar. �Yes, it�s all very impressive. Tell me,� I shot a sideways glance at Mouse, �do you pack your own fudge?� �No sir, none of our fudge is made on the premises,� she replied, totally deadpan. Sigh. We trawled around the Edinburgh Woollen Mill section frequently appalled at the prices some people would pay for a scratchy bottle-green shawl with yellow edging. Who the f**k wears a shawl these days? An old lady with complimenting blue-rinse hair, lumbered past in a scratchy bottle-green shawl with yellow edging. Fair enough. We wove through the woollen s**t and found ourselves in the scanted candle section right next to the Dartington Crystal, the kind that would shatter on impact with hot water the second you tried to wash it up. �Do you like our selection of candles, sir?� A middle-aged woman, caked in bad make-up, asked me. Is this the same woman with different hair and stick-on mole? She reached down and lifted a candle, dexterously palming a lighter into her free hand. The flame flickered between us for a moment or two before she set it to the wick. �Oh wow, look, you can set them on fire,� I said sardonically. She tilted her head, her face a mask of cosmetic detachment, �these don�t drip, sir,� she intoned waving it in front of my eyes, �no messssss�� Then she lit up a candle and she showed me the way There were voices down the corridor, I thought I heard them say... �For all your golfing needs, please see our extensive golfing section with such big named brands as� Mizuno!� I backed away from the candle-bearing woman and progressed through the aisles, propelling Mouse firmly by an elbow in front of me. Two old people stepped in front of us, a man in a flat cap and a woman who appeared to be hanging off the wrong side of the largest facial wart I had ever seen. They were looking at key-rings or rather the old man was busy knocking them off the stand with his bumbling fingers. They seemed oblivious to us so we re-routed through the china animal and pottery clown area and out towards the golfing section, right by the plastic plant stall. �Do you like our selection of golfing attire, sir?� A middle-aged woman, caked in bad make-up, asked me. F**k me! It�s the very same woman now with a clip-on beehive and repositioned beauty mark. �We have everything from Mizuno�� she droned, not even blinking and reaching for a navy blue polo shirt. �Erm, I�m not much of a Golfer, I�m afraid.� In truth, I really was afraid. This woman was moving incredibly fast through the aisles and subtly changing her appearance at every juncture. I looked at Mouse, �the caf�.� She nodded, her eyes wide. An old man shuffled past, fat and wheezing, pressing us into the cheap DVDs: The Way We Were (Remastered)� �2.99. and of course, unforgivably, �The Cruel Sea� just �1.99! The corpulent man gibbered and coughed raucously, mopping at his chin with a rag. His nose was a purple strawberry � I mean, Karl Malden had f**k all on this guy. He rubbed his belly with podgy fingers and did some more wheezing for good measure, it looked like he�d swallowed a space-hopper. �We need to get out of this aisle,� I whispered to Mouse, nose pressed to a copy of �Hello Dolly�, �if this guy goes off, he�s going to make a hell of a mess!� We hurried onward, the need for a cup of tea stronger than ever. Welcome to the Kernow Mill hellhole Such a lovely place (Such a lovely place) Such a lovely face Plenty of crap at the Kernow Mill hellhole Any time of year (Any time of year except Christmas Day) You can find it here I stumbled near some books, feeling their magnetism and turning my attention aside from the throngs of old people and same-faced changeling saleswomen. Shaun Hutson pulp horror � some s**t by Jeffrey Archer � gardening by Alan Titchmarsh � more obnoxious cookery by mockney twat Jamie Oliver and thankfully something to break the literature spell! Two hundred unsold copies of �Oh My God: The Biography of Chantelle�. 256 pages of arse paper. I blinked once and snatched my hand away from the books and felt again, Mouse tugging urgently at my sleeve. �Do you like our selection of affordable fragrances and soaps, sir?� A middle-aged woman, caked in bad make-up, asked me. �No thanks.� �Do you like our selection of Farah trousers, sir?� A middle-aged woman, caked in bad make-up, asked me. �Nope!� We upped the pace. �Do you like our selection of Christmassy snow domes, sir?� A middle-aged woman, caked in bad make-up, asked me. �Get lost!� I hurried past, jinking this way and that as she stepped out of various nooks into my path, thrusting old people in my direction from� okay, okay; I have to say it: �granny-crannies.� �Do you like our selection of lavender pillows and scented drawer liners, sir?� A middle-aged woman, caked in bad make-up, asked me. �F**k you!� We were running hard now shoving old people out of the way, putting them through such crap as novelty jelly moulds and make-your-own greeting cards. Mouse spied a sign that read, �The Smuggler�s Caf�. We had made it: although quite why Eighteenth Century smugglers would have stopped for coffee at the junction of the A374 and the A38 was again, beyond me. Breathlessly we approached the counter. The music was subtly different here; here somebody was vocally raping Paul McCartney�s �When I�m 64�, instead.
�Do you like our selection of pastries and sandwiches, sir?� A middle-aged woman, caked in bad make-up, asked me. I ordered two cream teas and resisted the urge to take her head off at the upper jaw with the tray I clasped. I just knew that had I beheaded her all I would have found were wires and smouldering circuits beneath; less Westworld, more West-Country-world you could say. I was disappointed to note that there were no more sultana-scones left, only plain. �I�m afraid we can�t make up anymore, we have run out of clotted cream,� she muttered staring right through me. �Oh well, can�t be helped,� I replied smoothly nudging the tray along the food rail. She nodded even though I�d not posed any question of any kind. �We�ve had a real run of coaches in today,� she said pushing two pots of tea towards me, �sooooo many visitors.� She looked at me again, �come to see the Mill and eat our cream�� �Oh so there is a Mill here then,� I said conversationally but not caring. �No.� �Uh� right.� �Used to be though, many years ago�� she added distantly. �Before the cream ran out.� �Oh right, there was a Mill on this site?� �No, twelve miles up yonder�� �Ooookay then,� I rummaged in my pocket for some change. �Ah,� she said, her face brightening and looking beyond me, �looks like we have another coach load or two.� �Oh my God.� I heard Mouse gasp. My fingers tightened on the tray, showing white at the knuckles. A faint odour of cabbage and wee pervaded the tea room coupled with the slow inexorable shuffling of slippers on carpet. Hordes of old people shuffled towards us, saggily expressionless and hungry. The gentle click of walking aids, the squeak of wheelchair wheels and the steady clunk-clunk of ill-fitting false teeth punctuated the monotonous dirge of voices as they mumbled. �Cream tea�. Ooooh�mmmmm� creeeeeamm teeeeeeaa�.clunk-clunk.� I knew it now, the futility of it all; Kernow Mill is the place people come to shop whilst they are waiting to die� and the tea-time of the dead was upon us: Polystyrene on the ceiling, The Earl Grey Tea on ice And she said 'We are all just pensioners here, of our own device' And in the Smuggler�s Tea Room, They gathered for the feast They stab it with their steely knives, But they just can't spread the jam Last thing I remember, I was Running for the door I had to find the passage back To the car we parked before 'Relax,' said the Volvo man, 'We are programmed to drink tea. You can check-out any time you like, But you can never leave!' The Staff at Kernow Mill thanks you for your custom and we hope to see you again � have a safe onward journey! 
Music courtesy of Billy Joel, a simpering Paul McCartney and the indomitable Eagles. © 2008 HoWiEAuthor's Note
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HoWiEPlymouth,, Devon, United KingdomAboutWell, I'm back - it only took 8 years to get over my writer's block! Now 47, older, wiser and, for some reason, now a teacher having left the Armed Forces in 2012. The writing is slow going but .. more..Writing
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