Half-term heaven in the gardens of Eden

I think 15-year-old boys would be so much happier learning to be riveters in Tyneside shipyards

"I know, let's go to the Eden Project in Cornwall," I said enthusiastically to my last remaining nestling on Monday, the first day of half-term. "We could go on the train, and if you like you can invite a friend."

"I know, let's go to the Eden Project in Cornwall," I said enthusiastically to my last remaining nestling on Monday, the first day of half-term. "We could go on the train, and if you like you can invite a friend."

No one would want to come, he said without taking his eyes from his laptop screen. He was sending e-mails to his new girlfriend. "Why ever not? Everyone says it's amazing," I persisted. Because it was crap, educational crap, which they already got enough of at school, replied my son, and he bet me anything I liked they'd give him a quiz sheet when he got his ticket and he'd have to spend the whole bloody afternoon finding out boring facts about banana trees.

I often think 15-year-old boys would be so much happier learning to be riveters in Tyneside shipyards as they did in AJ Cronin novels. Except that there aren't any shipyards left, in Britain anyway, and submarines probably come flat-packed and ready-riveted these days.

"Listen, you love Cornwall," I said. "Your favourite holiday was the one we spent in Tresco, remember?" No he didn't, he replied, because he was three and besides Tresco wasn't in Cornwall, it was in the Scilly Isles.

In Chairman Mao's revolutionary China, 15-year-old boys could easily be pithead supervisors, having worked down the mines since they were 10. How satisfying that must have been for them, so much more rewarding than shopping for trainers all day and playing video games on television all night.

But he is right, unfortunately. We've been through Cornwall but not actually to Cornwall, which my discerning friends assure me is a glaring omission on our part. Like Venice, the only sensible time to go there is in the off-season like, well now. Despite annual horror stories about traffic jams in St Ives at 2am in August, tourists continue to flock to this grid-locked cul-de-sac in the high season where a two-bedroomed bungalow with cliff-top views costs roughly the same as a beachfront apartment on the Cote d'Azur.

Was the Eden project anywhere near Padstow my greedy husband wanted to know, because if it was we could try out Rick Stein's fish restaurant. Yes it was I said, but my plan was to have lunch on the Cornish Riviera Express as we had done last time on our way to Penzance and Tresco so we wouldn't really feel like a gourmet dinner. That was the first disappointment. The Cornish Riviera Express doesn't have a restaurant car any more. There is a girl with a tea and sandwich trolley and all-day breakfast buns in the takeaway buffet car, but I had dreams of a proper sit-down lunch at a table with a starched, white cloth, the same as we had had before as we chugged along beside the spectacularly beautiful Cornish coast. Dream on baby.

Now there's a thought, why don't Rick Stein and Great Western Trains offer joint venture apprentices to 15-year-old boys as chefs and waiters, first on the train and then in Rick's restaurant. And if they are really good they could go to the Eden Project on their days off. The harbour car park in Padstow was packed and this was February for heaven's sake.

Rick Stein's Seafood Restaurant was also packed, half the diners being a party of 30-something blokes lavishly dressed in silk shirts, Gucci shoes, gold Rolex watches, drinking champagne and expensive wine. They all worked for a pharmaceutical company, the waiter whispered. Ah, that explained it, drug dealers.

Rick wasn't there. He rarely is owing to his many commitments. Still, he was there in spirit in his restaurants (three), deli, craft shop, hotel, seafood school, etc. There's still room for expansion into lingerie, Rick's Knicks; escort agencies, Rick's Chicks; and Viagra injections, Rick's - well maybe not.

Enough of this nonsense. I went to Cornwall to see the Eden project and it was even better than I imagined. You know the statistics - it's the biggest greenhouse in the world and has done more to raise the Cornish profile than Lorna Doone, clotted cream, Prince Charles and pasties put together. Looking at those huge, transparent domes that house plant species from every soil, climate and altitude on the planet was awesome.

Running into Tim Smit, the man who dreamed up the whole thing, was even better, like going to Dallas and bumping into JR. I liked everything about it, from the biodegradable forks in the café to the quirky labels that told us that we drink 400 billion cups of coffee every day. I knew that already, said my son, who to his surprise was enjoying the trip. Education is wasted on the young. Send them down the mines.