I could feel a hard and disapproving stare from those passing by on the narrow pavement.
The picnic bench style seating along the forecourt of the Patisserie/café had intruded onto the pedestrian walkway but was evidently legal, no doubt positioned right up to the red line boundary depicted on a typical Title Deed Plan. In the days before adoption by the Local Council the frontages of High Street trading premises invariably ended (or started) at the road edge being suited to the display of goods spilling out in racks and wheeled barrows.
Those on foot, in the days before mass car ownership, just made their way along the street dodging water filled potholes, piles of horse manure and recumbent drunkards.
The Patisserie was what us Northern Folk just call a fancy bakery with a window full of iced buns, croissants, chocolate dipped flapjack, millionaire shortbread and the local variant passing for an Eccles Cake, Maid of Honour or ginger Parkin.
The place was, however, a bit more than that as we were in the tourist hotspot of Tintagel, Cornwall with intense competition from businesses in the town to attract the patronage and cash of the seasonal visitors.
Although busy all year round there was, as with most coastal resorts, the golden period of the peak weeks from Whit weekend to August Bank Holiday in which to earn, in the case of a bakery, the icing on the cake otherwise known as the profit to keep the wolfish bank manager happy in the downtime of the winter months of scant cash flow.
In this particular establishment there were multiple income generating activities under the one roof.
On one side of the double fronted shop unit stood long stainless steel work tables with apron clad employees in full public view. There was frantic activity involving the throwing up of clouds of flour as they prepared breads and pastries for the day. A few years ago this will have been quite a secretive process in a back room in the unsociable early hours but what with the fascination of, in particular, the British Public with all things baking this was now part of the pantomime of food production.
Being Cornwall a main item being home made was the Pasty.
They must have been very good or very cheap given the length of the queue waiting patiently at the serving counter.
The other side of the premises operated as a traditional café with gingham chequered table clothes, wheel backed chairs under authentic timber ceiling beams and framed sepia tinted photos of fishermen and cliff views.
The speciality on offer was, of course the Cornish Cream Tea.
As part of our week long vacation in the far south west of England the Cream Tea figured high on our wish list alongside, if not slightly above the procurement of a dressed crab, locally sourced fish and chips and an authentic pasty.
One of the chunky bench and tables fell vacant as we came out of a nearby shop clutching a handful of postcards.
It was a pleasant mid afternoon in late September sunshine, dry and with no perceptible breeze, all constituting the ideal conditions to partake of the county treat.
There was no debate from any of our party about the pavement outlook, close proximity of passers-by of which a high proportion had a curious dog in tow or even the extortionate price for what was, after all, a bit of a snack.
I went into the café to order and having parted with in excess of twenty English Pounds returned to take my place on the hard wooden perch facing the road.
Four tea plates arrived each with two scones, a ramekin of clotted cream and a miniature, ie scaled down jar of strawberry jam plus respective drinks orders including a latte, green teas and hot chocolate.
In bringing together the constituents of the Cornish Cream Tea I became aware of the hardening of attitude of the general public at large as they sidled by from both directions of the main or Fore Street as it was called.
I checked that my trouser flies were done up, that my lightweight jacket was not on inside out and even clocked my reflection in the plate glass window for any potentially major social or fashion transgression on my part.
Nothing seemed amiss.
I mentally backtracked on what I had done in the previous few minutes in case it could be misconstrued as inflammatory, rude or lewd.
Upon arrival of the plate and its contents I had carefully cut open the still warm from the oven scones and applied a thin veneer of Cornwall produced butter. They were just moist enough not to break up under the pressure of the knife. Next was an unhealthily thick layer of the local dairy clotted cream and topped with a dollop of the jam (branded in the name of the tea shop but made on an industrial estate in a Leicester, East Midlands postcode).
My structuring of the cream and jam appeared to be the reason for the silent but very visual disapproval of the wider population.
I glanced at surrounding occupied tables.
Open air Pasty eaters dominated having spent a good period of their day stood in line in the posh baking part of the shop but a few of those seated were, like us, tucking into the ultimate in a civilised afternoon tea.
I felt a chill to my very core at the realisation of having committed a major blunder.
Without exception all of the others had the order of scone, butter, blob of jam and lashings of the dense, lush cream.
Was it that obvious that I was a seasonal visitor.
You could say that I felt a bit of a clot.
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