Pasty handbag panic at Port Navas

Sometimes the Pasty bells ring loud and proud in Cornwall.

When you hear them, you know what you have to do.

If you have the ingredients and skill, you bake.

For most however you embark on a pilgrimage.

This is the situation that Annabelle, next door, found herself in this morning.

To bake or to journey?

She chose to journey.

But where to? Well, from Port Navas, you have options.

But options / smotchams.

The holy grail of Pasties lie in the Mecca that is, Gear Farm.

Geddon!

But this is a two dimensional tale involving forgetfulness, accomplishment and trust.

That's three.

For Annabelle arrived at Gear Farm penniless... save for the one that dropped when she realised that she'd left her handbag and purse at home.

But fear not, for now, as the good folks at Gear Farm trusted her and gave her a pasty and told her not to worry and just to pay later (Dreckly), next time she was passing. How lovely.

But this is not the end of the tale, for the trust dimension has another twist.

Upon arriving home, there was her handbag on her garden wall*, where she had left it nearly an hour before.

Untouched, unmoved, unstolen, and unrummaged.

An old bag, and Annabelle.

Port Navas is a lovely place, full of lovely souls.

Annabelle (aka little red riding hood) had her pasty & her wotnots remained untouched.

TTFN

Kurt

*(Technically 80%ish our garden wall.. but I'm not one for percentages).