Voilà la conversation dans le camping

The memories of having a BBQ on the beach, with a sunset and friends stood around, nobody quite able to imagine quite how nice the moment is, will be the overriding memory of the trip.


There was lots of wine, of course, and several downpours that tested the smiling resolve, but certain hours in a holiday, and in your life just stand out from the rest.

The campsite was deserted, with maybe as few as 15 of the 200+ pitches taken, and 6 of those were filled by the tents we had just about managed to squeeze into our rucksacks. The beach was a 2 minute walk away, and unlike Le Grand Plage in Biarittz that we later visited, there were no other tourists around, so miles of golden sand in either direction was ours. We spent the days eating baguettes on the beach, trying out our school book French (much like Ant) that we remembered from Tricolore 1. We walked or bussed to a few different beaches and took in steaks and mussels, complete with miniature crabs, in some restaurants far too posh to be wearing sandy board shorts.


I also had my new compact camera, which when combined with my waterproof bag-type-thingy enabled me to get a few OK shots of some of the locals ripping the waves apart.


Then before long it was time to head back home to the inevitable post holiday blues, and sit in my room wondering if I should give up my job and go travelling. Writing this a few days later, I'm back in the groove and happy again, but it is slightly concerning how rapidly I flit between states of mind.

Similarly, the girl situation has become more complex. I had hoped that the Biarittz trip would consolidate or rule out things with The Twin, but neither has really happened, and for a variety of reasons I’m not sure where we stand, and if that place is even in the same country as to where we should be standing. I think my eyes have been opened to the fact that I’m probably not ready for a serious relationship – but I’m unsure as to whether that means its OK to keep seeing the Twin every two or three weeks, or if it would be a better thing to do to call time on it.

Anyway, this isn’t supposed to be a tribute blog to Adrian mole, so onwards we go. I’ve got the small matter of an Ironman-distance swim this Sunday which I feel hopelessly under prepared for, but am looking forward to seeing family and friends back in the homeland. June has arrived – not one minute shall I waste.

A Bientot.

Spring surf

The beeping signalled it was time. I cursed at the thought of leaving my warm lair, and reached into the darkness to find the button that would allow another 8 minutes of warm black sleep. Somewhere into my second snooze the Bed Balance of Power swung past the tipping point of awakeness, and the importance of getting up was suddenly an alarm in my head that I couldn’t switch off.

I didn’t bother with a shower, had a quick brekkie and set off to the north Cornwall coast. The weather was awful and several times I questioned my motivation for going. What was I doing out here on my own in the cold and wet? I reminded myself that the surf forecast was 4 stars, 4 STARS! (Magic seaweed), and it would be worth it. Solid bands of rain were keeping both the visibility and speed on the roads down, but eventually I arrived at the beach car park in Polzeath. It had taken 1 hour and 8 minutes.

When I came here at the end of last summer, the small stream that ran down the beach was a hive of activity with toddlers playing the ‘lets make a dam!’ game while their parents looked on over the top of their books and newspapers. On Sunday, the stream was a wild river. It was honking it through like an Amazonian tide on the push (well not quite, but I am getting Amazon-excited!) and I feared for my footing and safety as I gingerly crossed it on my way down to the shoreline.
The surf was as good as they had promised. I struggled a bit at the start as I re-familiarised myself with the weight balance of my short board, after hiring mini mals for the last few small-wave trips. I caught the first few waves too late and did some funny bouncing around and arm waving before succumbing to the inevitable violent dunking. It was so nice to be in the water with virtually no wind, and I marvelled at how the lake-like conditions between waves contrasted with the huge power of the walls of green water that were relentlessly coming towards me. The atmosphere was electric, with people whooping as the bigger sets rolled in and cheering as a few elite showed off their potent skills. For me, waves #4 and #6 were good and I got out after about 90 minutes with a bruised hip, aching arms, but a big old grin.

I drove home in the sunshine and thought about how glad I was that I had made the effort to go.

Photos are not me, but taken at Polzeath about 1 hour after I was in. I did a lot of the first, and not a lot of the second.