Eventually Direct

(You needn’t go on about things you loathe all the time, it’s garish.)
I sat on a bench on a bit of sea front between one road and another and listened to a man play a harp, good notes in a fine order while the sea sent wafts of white noise in approval and the seagulls kept their beaks shut for once. It was all a good accompaniment to Jose’s horror, which had intensified to the point where I thought I could smell it. A young man in an old man’s clothes went past pushing a walnut-faced dog in one of those upright-canvas-bag-in-a-wheeled-frame things in which your gran might carry home her bargains. The dog was facing him and he was staring at it not for the first time that day. He pushed it yapping past the harp and before he turned the corner asked it: why are you being like this?
Facing west now (it's important to let you know in which directions this was written), trying to find things to say about the view, get some visual sauce on this introspective pile of uncertain nourishment, but I can’t so I won’t, but I will type it up and submit it to the Telegraph’s travel-writing prize and be utterly furious if it doesn’t win five hundred quid.
Last night the train from St Ives to Penzance went as far as St Erth before going backwards. I should’ve paid attention to the unboldness of the numbers next to the stations after St Erth, in the timetable, which indicated a change should've been made, if Penzance was where you wanted to end up. But I was busy with Jose and had no interest in why some numbers were bold and some unbold, nor why the unbold ones continued in an unbroken chain to the destination. Logic or curiosity might’ve prompted some easy research. But I’m on holiday so I have a lack of both. 
We hurtled backwards while the sun disappeared and Jose piled on the horror and I said to the conductor I’ve stayed on by accident and he nodded like you’re not the first. By the time we were going forwards again the moon was up, looking sunburned.