I departed Redruth in a drizzle that seemed less rain than an all-encompassing mist. Cornwall, I have discovered, prefers to blur its outlines: hedgerows melt into field, cottages into fog, and even my Steam Unicycle emerged from its own vapour like a beast half-imagined.
The roads proved treacherous,muddy and narrow, hemmed in by high granite walls which amplified every hiss and clank of my contraption, so that I travelled within a perpetual echo chamber. At one point a farmer’s wife, hearing my approach, dropped her basket of turnips and declared me a herald of the Judgement. I reassured her that, on the contrary, I was simply an artist travelling north; yet she refused to collect her produce until I was entirely out of sight.
Near Scorrier I was overtaken by a cavalry officer on a chestnut horse. He slowed to my pace, observing me with the amused severity of one accustomed to command. “You ride a dangerous thing, sir,” he said. “It lacks the honesty of a horse.”
I replied that honesty may also be found in brass and piston, if one only listens to its rhythm. He considered this, then spurred his mount into a gallop, calling back over his shoulder: “I should still prefer a horse.” I felt oddly triumphant.
As I rode, my clothes damp from the rain, I pondered the inadequacy of current methods for drying one’s clothing whilst travelling. Rain and mist render garments perpetually damp. In a flash I had conceived of the Bromley Drying Apparatus,a waistcoat lined with narrow copper tubes, through which exhaust steam from the unicycle might be channelled, gently warming the fabric. One could arrive at any inn not merely unsoaked but positively fragrant with heated linen – though it might have a slight coally tang. I shall look into getting a patent when I return to London after this journey.
By late afternoon the drizzle gave way to sun, sudden and theatrical, revealing the countryside in vivid colour: gorse ablaze with yellow, mine chimneys rising like ancient obelisks. I paused to sketch one such scene, the unicycle at rest beside me, puffing like a contemplative dragon. Passers-by seemed to accept the tableau, as though artist and machine were now inseparable.
This evening I lie in a humble inn at Truro. My landlady insisted on polishing part of the unicycle, mistaking its brass chimney for a candlestick. She jumped when it hissed at her touch. I apologised, though not without a certain pride.
The road north beckons with a strange intimacy: each day seeming harder than the one before.
