"You can't miss it"

said the main on the Tamar bridge, giving directions to an all night garage. But I could. And did.

"You can't miss it," said thebleary-eyed gatehouse keeper at the end of the long and winding road through the industrial estate. But I did.

The police station was shuttered and silent - no nighttime crime here? I asked a night walker.

"I can miss it," my tired brain told him, asking for a repeat of the directions to the top of the hill in front of me. As I pulled in next to a petrol pump and lights, he waved as he walked on by.

I bought petrol. I bought a map. With difficlty, I bought a map which deigned to acknowledge the existence of Cornwall as an afterthought to the detailed map of Devon. But it would do.

Once more I crossed the Tamar and took to the distorted contorted roads, stopping to check and recheck the map anxiously, frequently.

But this time, I found Falmouth, pulled into a car park and fell asleep upright, complete with seat belt. With sleep stops and piskey diversions, it's takenme 14 hours to get to Falmouth. I'd been up most of the previous night, too. I was exhausted. Two hours later, I found the right marina, and waited for my ship to come in.l