Headland Hotel

I think that this might be one of my favourite hotels. There’s one in The Azores that tops it. But… Here I am from the last time I was here: https://albarclay.blog/2019/06/12/headland-heat/ . This is my arrival:

What a building

I looked that old blog up because I wanted to remember a bit about my last stay. I never go back over these blogs but perhaps I should. I found a rush of pleasant nostalgia, and it’s a reasonably vital bit of prose. If I put my mind to it I can create decent wordwalls. The hot water works fine this time – I’m not in the tower room.

There’s a spa downstairs that I don’t believe existed last time I was here. I certainly didn’t go. And the hotel is busy, which I’m glad of because everybody seems to be lovely here. This time, when I can actually afford their £150 deposit, they didn’t ask for it. Yay.

They’ve put me in a room with a view, bless them. There’s a four poster bed. The sun sets into the window. I know this from last time. I was in a variety of different rooms last time and got to know this place. I even got to wash in one of the suites… The staff are legendary in their competence and hospitality. It feels like a rare holdover from another worldtime. I feel right at home. Plus one more ridiculously pleasant review just landed for the Bletchley gig. I haven’t been bribing them… The review has spoilers so I ain’t sharing and it’s a very clear reminder that THESE THINGS ARE SUBJECTIVE OPINION: “Dilly (that’s me!) is completely eccentric, and he just so happened to be my favourite cast member – he was absolutely fantastic.” There we go. Italics. I’ve arrived. And it means nothing. Otherwise I’ll be a gibbering wreck when somebody drops the inevitable hatchet – and they’re out there waiting to do it. It is ALL just about how you are positioned. Dilly is a free pass. I put the props firmly at the door of Christopher and Beth and the team who know so well how to make a frame for playfulness. Parabolic are huge mad wonderful creatives. Fucking good too. You should all book and see this lovely show. It’s on for three weeks and David is gonna rock as Dilly too. I’m back a week on Tuesday though if it MUST be Barclay.

I’ve arrived at my hotel.

The hotel can wait though. I’m hungry and it’s Sunday and I’m in Newquay, so off to The Red Lion for a Triple Roast and a glass of Pinot Noir that isn’t overpriced. I’ll consume this all voraciously and then I’ll wander around Fistral. I love The Headland but I’m unlikely to eat there regularly because it’s not the cheapest.

It’s an old habit of mine, and I think it might be to do with brand-consciousness, but once again I only packed a selection of suits to wear while I’m on and around set. Fuck all else. I like to arrive looking like the guy they cast, and I like to feel sexy when I’m on set. It helps the performance. I suit a suit. But it’s hot in this jacket and I can see the Newquay regulars growling “here comes London” behind their pipes.

— TIME —

I wandered the beaches at Fistral, and leaped on rocks in my suit and hat. This bright westerly beach is a smaller version of the beach at St Ouen on which I have spent many words whenever I return to Jersey. It faces out into the dark Atlantic too, and the longitude is pretty much identical to that very special beach of my childhood. This one is livelier. It’s more accessible. The water is dotted with surfers. DJs play old classics on visible outside decks. Everybody sits around outdoors talking and smiling and drinking. A few of those wankers in dry robes strut around with that face they all do: “What? Yeah it’s my dryrobe. Screw you.”

I had my big roast. I ran around. I went on the beach. Now I’m having a fish supper and a fine glass of Mouvedre Merlot from The Fish House. Last time I was here I was stone broke and wanted to eat here. I looked at it longingly. This time I’m immediately treating myself despite having just had a Sunday roast. Fat fat glory. I shall have moules. Even the rocks on the beach here are swarming with young mussels. Moules, and the catch of the day. Hang the expense. John Dorey?! Dear John. I intend to consume you utterly.

Tomorrow it’ll be the familiar rush of a movie set. Next time I’m growling about having to dance in my pants for a commercial casting with a 1 in 500 chance, I can remember the other side of this shit.

Car at 5.55am tomorrow. Yikes. Only one wine? Maybe two…

The Fish House is basically a more expensive version of El Tico where you have to book.

Author: albarclay

This blog is a work of creative writing. Do not mistake it for truth. All opinions are mine and not that of my numerous employers.

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