UNEXPECTED LUNCH

Unexpected lunch break today. After back-to-back, continuous meetings, I logged on to the fourth one of the morning, and immediately, everyone else started logging off. The names on screen reduced to ‘leaving...’ until only mine was left, ‘waiting for others to join’.

I was too relieved to worry that it might have been because of me. Three and a half hours of meetings is exhausting, especially when most of it doesn’t really mean anything to me yet. I just closed my laptop, exhaled, and went to make lunch, with a happy little skip.

What if it’s always like this? What if working remotely is a continuous stream of meetings through the day, followed by people doing their actual work outside of work hours? That would be a weird twist to the industrial revolution story: for the first 150 years, we locked ourselves into factory opening times, then, when we finally realised we didn’t have to do that any more, just when it looked like we were mastering our own freedoms, we decided to take the factory home with us.

I do not want to be working outside of my contracted hours.

Hopefully it will calm down a bit, the other side of the learning curve. I’ve a lot to take in after all; maybe I can start dropping out of things, like my colleagues did on my lunchtime meeting.

More this afternoon too. At least until 4pm. Then perhaps I can do some of the things on my todo list.

It’s a bit like town centres: at some point in the last few years, the balance weirdly shifted from work and retail, to coffee shops and restaurants. The pandemic accelerated it of course, but it was happening anyway. There are so many of these places! You do your shopping online and your socialising in Starbucks now it seems, or in an in-store coffee shop, where the model is that you’re tempted by all the sparkly things you see on the way to your panini.

The paninis though turn out to cost a small fortune, and the glittering array of coffees on offer are so packed with sugar, you might as well be wide-eyed Willy Wonka. It costs you in the end, that kind of thing.

And similarly then, I might be orbiting the expensive black hole of ‘taking my work home with me’ which I don’t think I like very much. Hopefully I can work it out.

I’m thankful for this lunchtime though.

ECHO CHAMBER MOOT

“Do you think you might ever branch into providing Internet?” I tweeted to my ISP, “Only I think I’d be interested.”

I had to apologise for the sarcasm. They replied pretty quickly with some advice, and then I phoned them up and yes, they turned out to be even more helpful. It’s odd because you hear a lot of negativity about their service, and their support, out there in the world.

“Oooh, you’re with them are you?” ask people when you tell them, sharply inhaling. “Only yourself to blame then,” or “You probably want to switch to…” whatever.

They were okay today. I got through to a real person with just three clicks and three rings of a phone. He was a young man called Brett, who seemed more nervous than I was. I put him at ease while he got me to go through the security questions.

Then I told him how my hub silently flashes the word ‘INTERNET’ at me as though it’s some sort of taunt, and how I can’t actually get online despite checking for network outages, having unplugged, replugged, switched off and on, and performed a rather uncomfortable ‘pinhole reset’. He was sympathetic. Nonetheless, young Brett agreed that someone should come round to look at it.

“Could you make sure the engineer lets me know when he’s coming to look at my hub?” I asked. He reassured me that that would happen (booked for Wednesday).

“Thanks Brett,” I said as warmly as I could.

“Would you mind mentioning my name in your feedback?” said the young man, nervously, telling me about how I’d get surveyed on how well this call went… “Only I’m still in my training, and it would help me out.”

“Sure thing,” I said, smiling, “I’ll make sure I do that.”

It’s funny how your echo chamber tells you a narrative about something being true, but when you actually dig deep, you find a slightly different story. We’re all part of families, organisations, companies, clubs, that presumably have a reputation out there, lambasted or praised in certain corners of social media. There’s probably an element of truth to what they’re saying, but it can’t be the whole picture, can it? It’s always worth finding that out for yourself.

Mind you, without the Internet being plugged in, social media’s a bit of a moot point, isn’t it? 

WHAT CAME FROM THE PAGODA TREE

I sat under the Pagoda Tree at lunchtime; back against the trunk, feet sticking out into the ring of shade. There were some insects buzzing, and a couple of squirrels darting and rustling overhead. They looked at me suspiciously.

I call it the Pagoda Tree because in Autumn it turns oriental gold, and its layered branches and gilded leaves make it glimmer like the rising sun. It’s really just a very ordinary oak tree. Today, in the heat of summer, its leaves were full and green, and there I was, in the cool air beneath its lowest branches.

It has been hot. Baking, in fact, in that sweaty way that English summers seem to have perfected. Low thirties on the mercury (that’s 90+ for the Fahrenheit people), and humidity soaring, making pink sweltering messes out of those who ‘go out in the midday sun’. To be honest, I’ve barely been able to think straight in the heat, and keeping going through the first couple of days in the new job has been a struggle.

“If you only get 5% of it,” said my new manager, reassuringly, “That’s okay, right? No-one expects you to pick it all up straightaway.”

5% seems like a lot. I didn’t say that though; I’m trying to give myself a break. I’ve been here before - it’s always overwhelming at first, but it’ll eventually work itself out. I just have to concentrate for now. And in the heat that’s quite difficult.

What is it with squirrels? Beady eyes, always up to something?

Later, I was sitting, quietly listening to a meeting (camera off). Suddenly, there was a crash, as though something heavy had just toppled off a window sill. Whatever it was, clattered to the floor and then thudded its way down the stairs.

I took off my headphones and went out to see. I imagined it to be just the wind of course, although, it could also have been the glass bottle I froze overnight, cracking as the ice melted.

What I didn’t expect to see was a bushy-tailed squirrel darting up and down my stairs! It had jumped in through an open window (they’re all open) and the poor thing couldn’t find its way out! And (who knew they did this) it was making a horrible little croaking sound. Panicked? Probably. Angry? I hoped not.

Now. What do you do with a squirrel that’s beside itself with hysteria, when you’re upstairs, the only door is downstairs, and it, is bouncing around your hallway like an exploding furball? Could I call someone to come and open the door from the outside? They’d need keys. Could I climb out of the window and shimmy down to the front garden? Maybe I could throw the keys out of the window and then call for help?

But what would anybody think of that? I mean it’s a squirrel; it’s not exactly a grizzly bear going nuts on my staircase.

I did the only thing I could think of. I started talking to it.

“Come on then,” I said as sweetly as I could, “Let’s get you out of here.” It darted behind my shoes. I crept down the stairs. I don’t know why I imagined I could reason with it - maybe it’s an inbuilt human thing to imagine that everything you want to influence responds to language - and English as well! Nonetheless, there I was reassuring a squirrel that everything would be alright if he just kept still and waited for me to get to the door.

My heart thumped. I definitely did not want to be lacerated to ribbons by the wild claws of a climbing rodent - what a terrible way to go! I had no particular desire to be bitten with its pointy little teeth either. I didn’t want a trip to A&E and I didn’t want to have to consider what diseases might be lurking beneath its fur. It cowered and croaked as I did my best to lean across to the door-latch. And what if it gets so scared it poos itself? I tried my absolute best to push that thought out of my head.

Then, very quickly, I was there! Sunlight flooded in, the door swung open. In a flash, the little squirrel bombed out and ran full-pelt towards the road, the park and the trees. I closed the door with my foot and sighed with relief.

Starting a new job feels a bit strange you know. I miss my old trees - though it was time to leave. I wonder whether I’m like the squirrel: frightened, confused, not exactly sure where I’ve landed and trying to not to cower in the corner.

I don’t think so actually. I think I’m more together than that, and I think I’m okay, even if at times today, I’ve felt like bombing around in a panic. Can I do this job? Am I up to the challenge? Will I ever understand this massive and complex software I have to figure out?

I say yes, to all three. It might take me a while, but I’ll be alright.

ISOLATION DIARIES PART 100: FREEDOM DAY

The sky was bright blue, and cloudless in every direction. I pulled the shiny rental car into the parking bay and climbed out, the early morning heat rising from the concrete to meet me.

This is what they call Freedom Day then: the final lifting of all restrictions after sixteen long months. Delayed by four weeks, following the rise of the Delta Variant, but now here at last: we’re no longer required to socially distance, to stick to the rule of six, to wear masks... it’s all over. We are free.

I... slipped my mask on, carefully hooking it round my glasses, then I pushed open the door of the rental place and immediately sanitised my hands.

‘Freedom’ is an interesting concept isn’t it? It needs boundaries, definite edges, a code of morality - we all know this deep-down. And all that’s really happened on this Freedom Day is that the government have shifted the impetus from the law, with all its penalties, fines and guidelines, onto us and our consciences; onto our codes of ethics and personal choices. We are free from the law, but not from the virus. And we’re certainly not free from the consequences of our decisions.

“That all seems to be good,” said the guy, checking round the car. His eyes glistened above his mask in the unmistakable pattern of a smile. I smiled too. I thought I’d scratched it on holiday, but it turned out to be nothing to worry about. I bade him goodbye, slung my hands into my pockets and started walking home.

The dawning truth is that there might not ever be a literal freedom day, a WATIO (when all this is over) as I used to call it. That’s why the government’s message around this is ‘If not now, then when?’ 

Covid is part of our world, like flu or chicken pox - the theory being that we learn to live with it, fighting it with the best tools we have, hopefully including more and more thoroughly researched vaccines, and yes, for the time-being, people making responsible decisions.

And so I’ve decided. I’ve decided to end this Isolation Diaries series at 100. I think otherwise, I’ll be writing about it forever. And like the skipper up front says, hey, if not now, when? I’ll do an epilogue, and I’ll still keep mentioning it, for sure, just not quite so specifically. I think probably, like the rest of the country, we’re all fed up of the talk.

I caught the bus back home in the end. It was too hot to walk, and even in the early morning I was already sweltering. I haven’t been on the bus for a while; funny, I used to catch it all the time. How strange that life was as close and as packed and as busy as it was!

I fell into an empty seat, mask on and face steaming pink with the heat. There was nobody else, save the driver in view. Would it be my freedom now to take this stuffy mask off and breathe? Or is all of our freedom protected by people like you and me keeping these things on? Is it an exercise of liberty to push that freedom to its outer limit? Or is freedom best expressed in wisdom?

‘I guess,’ I thought to myself, ‘The freedom is being able to make the choice.’

The bus rumbled on down the leafy streets, past tired shops and houses caught in the dust and sunlight of a baking hot day. People milled around out there, pushing buggies and chatting, debating and remonstrating, laughing and listening. ‘They are so precious,’ I thought, ‘each one of them.’

I pondered that choice in the empty bus. And I kept my mask on.

STONES

Usually, we’ve been at the beach when the tide has been going out. Gradually the water recedes across the mud and sand until you can’t hear the waves any more, and all that’s left is a sheen of flat wet grey, peppered with glistening stones and rocks.

Today though, we were earlier. It was the last day, so we’d packed up after breakfast and vacated. And today then, we sat on the beach while the tide was coming in, and not out.

We had to move backwards three times. I was in a bind because my Dad had persuaded himself that high tide was at noon, and I knew from the Internet that it was actually at 12:16. I didn’t want to say anything so I let him tell us that it wouldn’t reach us, that it would ‘turn and start going out again’, ‘couldn’t get much further in’ as it was ‘already midday’... and as I say we had to move three times. I should have told him I suppose, but I didn’t want to be a bubble burster, and there seemed little benefit at the time.

Each move up the beach, I set up a little cairn of stones where my feet had been, then watched it from the new position. The water seeped in. Each pile was lapped, surrounded, and then submerged by the incoming sea, toppling over with a musical little clack as the pebbles fell. I was feeling deep so I wrote this little poem called Stones.

Stones

Today I built a pile of stones 

Upon a pebble beach

And wondered if the sea would know

My stones were out of reach

So grand the things I build today 

So wondrous in design!

But when the tide has washed its way

What will I leave behind?

After that, the plan unfolded deliciously, with lunch at the Driftwood. We even managed to find a table in the shade, which my skin was very grateful for.

And then, just like that, we went home. Petrol, services, M5, M4, home and tired and happy and sad all at the same time. The hot sun pounded through the evening, even as I said goodbye to the Intrepids and wound my way back to my flat.

“What’s been your highlight?” asked my Mum on the journey. I took ages to think it through.

“Maybe the steam train,” I said. “Perhaps the funicular railway, or just sitting and sketching.”

My Dad (who’s always thought I was a really good artist) nodded in agreement from the back seat. His highlight was Lynmouth, which my Mum found surprising. It occurred to me much later that neither of us then asked her what hers had been! I wish I had.

We build piles of stones everywhere, I think. Little empires of stuff that feel like the most important thing in the world at the time; I’ve just left a job with 9 years of empire to let go of! But time and tide wait for no-one, and stones are precarious against the changing waves. I don’t want to forget, not even for a moment, that it was people who mattered, people whose lives were changed  and people whom I had hoped would grow in love and kindness.

There were my parents, shuffling chairs down the beach as the waters rolled in - the kindest people I know. There was I, building piles of stones, spending the last day of five years of holidays with them, hoping that that little kindness (and believe me, my sisters think I’m a bit crazy) has made a difference to them, and perhaps to me too.

Some things after all, the tide cannot touch.

SUBJECT TO WHIM AND ADVENTURE

The plan was to catch the open-top bus today, all the way to Lynmouth (Devon), faff around there for a while, then catch the same bus back on a return ticket.

How do you plan your days on your holidays? I know some people who wake up as late as possible, read the paper, lounge around, and then decide what to do with the rest of the day. They focus on relaxation. I also know people who meticulously plan every single detail required to get the most out of their time away, not wanting to waste a moment. They focus on maximum enjoyment, which for them is more like a militarily precise schedule.

Never go on the same holiday with both types of people! It’s fine if you’re either, but go with your tribe.

Having said that, I think the Intrepids are a bit of a mix, but they’ve learned to use their 50 years of compromise to land themselves somewhere in the middle. My Dad needs a plan, my Mum needs an adventure. So we usually end up with a rough idea the night before, a sensible get-up-time and an outline of what we’d like to do, that can be fine-tuned, and if necessarily (though it would be difficult for Dad) completely changed. As I mentioned last year, that works, but only if you keep going over and over it with everyone - which can sometimes be exhausting.

So, en route to the bus, ‘faff around in Lynmouth and Lynton’ was about as clear a plan as we needed. And it was just as well.

The open-top bus upper-deck was full, so we had to sit downstairs for the journey. That was okay until just outside Minehead.

There was a thump, followed by a cracking and clattering sound. Something heavy seemed to fall out of the trees, straight by the window of the bus and into the road! Calmly, quietly, without the hint of any kind of surprise, the driver pulled over to the side of the road, left the engine beeping and rumbling, and walked back along the pavement to investigate.

Moments later, he was back, holding a very recently detached and smashed-up wing mirror - something that had clipped a yellow signpost, and had been snapped from the side of the bus!

Without a hint of drama, the driver simply climbed into his seat, clicked shut his little door, and moved the bus out into the road for his onward journey to Lynmouth. I’ve never seen anything like it.

-

Lynmouth and Lynton are two extraordinary villages: one’s at the bottom of a cliff (Lynmouth) and has the harbour, the rocky sea and the river churning its way over the rocks to the ocean. The other (Lynton) is at the top, overlooking Lynmouth Bay with its beautiful sweep into the bright blue Bristol Channel. Gainsborough apparently, said it was a landscape painter’s dream, the best in England, and on days like today, I can quite see why. Good call, Thomas.

I did sketching in Lynmouth first of all. It was so nice to pull out the sketch pad and pencil case, and just draw whatever was in front of me! I drew a telephone box, a river scene, and some jackdaws who were poking around on the grass. I think my drawings still have that cartoony feel, but all the really good artists I know (Sammy, Jenny, etc) tell me that’s just part of who I am. Who knows what Gainsborough would have made of it! As Jenny might say, who cares?

Then we went up to Lynton on the Cliff Railway - the world’s highest and steepest water-powered funicular railway. It’s amazing: two carriages are counterbalanced, given weight (with either people, or a tankful of water). One’s at the top, one’s at the bottom, but the two carriages are linked by a pulley, so that the heavier of the two slides down the track, and the lighter one is pulled up! It’s so clever! Then when the lighter one reaches Lynton at the top, they fill up its tank so that it’s ready to pull the other carriage (water out) up... as it ratchets heavily down the hill. Someone figured all that out in 1888!

We stayed up there for a wander round and then an ice cream. Then, after a heated debate about why salted caramel might melt faster, we climbed on the downward carriage and acted as ballast while gravity did its thing and pulled us back to Lynmouth.

Having checked the bus timetable, we wanted to be first in the queue for the open-top bus going back. And so, in the shadeless car park, we sat boiling for forty minutes.

The wing-mirror incident was the talk of that car park. We weren’t the only ones who’d been on the same bus in the morning. What we all failed to anticipate though, was that the open-top, the so-called Exmoor Explorer... had now been taken in for servicing, due to a ‘wing-mirror related incident’. So after our long swelter in the car park, the bus that pulled round the corner turned out to be a single-decker replacement.

I strapped my mask to my already sweaty face, and climbed aboard. No matter I suppose. One hour later, we were back in the cool sea breeze of Minehead eating fish and chips on the sea front.

So that was that day; our last full one. Tomorrow we pack up and head home. I have a sense of finality about that, but also transition. I know it will all be okay. And this time has been very sweet actually.

The outline plan (subject to whim and adventure) is a time on the beach tomorrow, followed by a decent lunch at the good old Driftwood Café, then the long trek north, east and home.

Honestly? I’m kind of looking forward to that.

THE B-ROADS OF SOMERSET

The Bakelite Museum might have closed down, but you’ll be glad to know that the passage of time hasn’t yet affected the Watchet Boat Museum! No sir! Nor indeed the Radio Museum! - we toured both extensively this morning.

I like a museum. You get to find out things you didn’t know about, see real artefacts and objects, and interact with history as it unfolds in the story in front of you. You can see human nature stretching into pockets and corners you might not have considered, and you can discover how, why and when things were thought of, invented, explored and debated.

Or, you can stand around in a big room full of boats. Watchet Boat Museum is one room, with boats in it. I liked it. I learned about the tsunami of 1703, the design of the Somerset ‘Flatner’, how to tie a bowline, and of course the International Maritime Signal Flags! Gosh, I love a code. Hanging up around the room were several strings of flags which I went round decoding as I learned the letter-symbols. Admiral Nelson would be proud! After all, England expects every man to do his duty!

After that we shuffled across to the Radio Museum. That appears to be run by one guy who’s somehow turned a lifelong hobby into an exhibition. We wandered round, chronologically from the 1920s to 1978, from the marconiphone to the tuppence Radio Times. In the background, he played a collection of gramophone records.

I couldn’t work out whether it was coincidence, but as I stepped back out into the bright sunlight, I spotted that the Radio Museum is right next to a pub called The Cat’s Whisker. I chuckled about that, and then the radio guy gave me a knowing wink.

Next was a quick lunch, back on the beach. I wore a long-sleeve shirt today, under which my arms itched as I ate my salad. It was nice though. The sun was really pleasant.

This afternoon then, we went to Wellington to see some friends who had invited us over for tea while we’re here. I’ve driven to Welly before, a couple of times, so I kind of know where it is. I’ve never had any real trouble.

It seems though, that approaching it from the North West (where we are) involves driving through several farms, single-track country lanes, and dirt roads that the map-makers must have referenced as little more than smudges. Meanwhile the satnav programmers went ahead and counted them as actual B roads, which I would like to state for the record is a stretch.

We got there. I was a little frazzled having had to concentrate intently on undergrowth-navigation for half an hour round the hairpin bends of rural Somerset.

That being said, we actually had a really lovely time in Bob and Maggie’s garden. As ever with them, I felt confident, relaxed, free, and above all loved. It was a couple of hours of joy, much as I might imagine Heaven. The sun twinkled over the garden, the shade fell over the cake plates and teacups, and we said our goodbyes.

This is ‘Yankee Jack’ by the way. He’s in Watchet Harbour, where apparently, he was from. He had a voice that carried two miles on a clear day. Sometime in the early 1900s he met up with a musician and sang through all the sea shanties he’d heard on his prolific voyages as a first mate and able seaman. With something of a precise ear for a tune, he remembered hundreds of variations, and was able to boom them out with a fine baritone, even as an old man.

The musician wrote them down, and so now for us, there exist things like ‘Spanish Ladies’ and ‘Donkey Riding’ and a whole load of other shanty standards. Without Cap’n Jack, we’d have no reference for Quinn to make in the film Jaws, and probably no Wellerman flooding through TikTok, as it did a while ago in the great sea shanty craze of 2020. Way to go, Jack.

A seagull landed on his head and gave me a wry look. I wish I’d captured that moment.

I was determined to get back the easy way (there was no way I was going back through FarmVille and the scratchy collection of unnamed roads, even though Bob said it would be fine. I like the countryside but I think my courage might be urban) so we flew back up the A39 and reached the cottage unscathed.

One more watch of S4C’s round-the-coast screensaver and it was time to draw a close to the day. This time it was Criccieth and Pwllheli (P’thelli) on the Llyn Peninsula. The Intrepids were, once more, enthralled. I stayed until Aberdaron and then went to bed.

Had it been the B roads of Somerset, then maybe I’d have paid more attention.

AL FRESCO RADIATOR

My arms feel as though all the heat of the sun has been trapped inside my skin. I’ve come out into the garden, late after sunset, to try radiating the heat back into the sky.

The night is cool, one of those July evenings you get that remind you of camp, of friends, of starlit conversations and being young enough to stay up laughing into the small hours.

I’m alone though tonight, pondering the moment and the day. Whatever happened to that do-anything feeling? Where did it go?

We went back to the beach today. Not much happened. I threw stones into the sea, then sat burning while the wind took my mind off it. It isn’t clever, and I feel a bit bad about it. I’m also redder than a bashful traffic light.

Once again, the sea retreated, leaving flat expanses of sand and mud that glistened in the sun. I read about pirates, and how scientists have worked out how to fit an ultrasound microchip inside a hypodermic needle. There was plenty of reference to the fact that wavelengths of electromagnetic radiation can’t be used due to the tiny size of the chip, but I still don’t think it would be enough to assuage the conspiracy theorists.

I needed a sketch pad, so just when the light was starting to turn golden, we packed up the beach things and drove into Minehead. My face felt tight and salty, which I remembered had always been a sign of a good day on the beach.

Minehead is the largest seaside town in these parts, and thanks to a wide expanse of once sandy beach, has a long esplanade and sea front. The other day, we saw it in the melancholy rain; today it was brighter and much more like I remembered it, though unfortunately, sandy no longer. We walked along for a little bit before heading for the tree-lined high street, in search of sketchbooks.

That street, actually called The Avenue, is a really nice road to walk up. Leafy green trees cast the whole thing in the sweetest kind of shade, and the collection of bistros, restaurants, pubs, haberdasheries, tattoo parlours, seaside gaffs and fashion stores just adds character.

“In a way,” said my Mum later, “It’s just a shame it doesn’t have a nicer beach.” Fair enough, I thought, casting a glance at the stony expanse that stretched out to the mud of the Bristol Channel. Though, I have a feeling that a nicer beach would in turn cause Minehead to be a little less quaint and a little more kiss-me-quick-punch-and-judy.

I found a sketchbook. Then we had al-fresco dinner in a place called ‘The Hairy Dog’ (it gave my Dad a lot of amusement and I genuinely don’t know why) and eventually found ourselves ambling back to the car.

I really am boiling. I think I might go for a late night walk, and swing my arms around in the cool air. It would be so useful to have these arms in the winter! Instead of teeth chattering in my flat while I’m cocooned in a duvet in front of my laptop, I could just whip out my red, sunburned limbs and toast the room up without even thinking about it.

But thermodynamics won’t permit it; the arrow of time is driven by the increase of entropy in the universe, and so roll I inexorably from can-do summer nights, when everything is possible, all the way to plain old Thursday. Which is tomorrow. If I don’t turn combustible in the night.

THE POSH ECCENTRIC LADY’S QUESTION

“Are you having a nice holiday?” asked a lady, jolting to a stop on her mobility scooter. Her little dog, sandwiched between her comfortable trainers, yelped as she suddenly braked. We were loading the car for the day. She stopped, we stopped.

She was immediately eccentric, I thought. ‘Are you having a nice holiday?’ should probably be at least three questions into the conversation, not really top of the bill. Also, at this point I realised (and did one of those comedy double-takes to prove it) that her dog was wearing sunglasses.

I wish I had that sort of confidence. There’s a charming Marquess-Of-Bath eccentricity that some people have (often from a life of privilege that’s protected them from the knocks and scuffles responsible for chiselling the edges off the rest of us) that entitles them to be unusually colourful, and often act as the freewheeling dynamos of a conversation.

We simply must go to Crowcombe and to the top of the Quantocks, she informed us. Right. Then my Mum thought to ask her where the Bakelite museum was, as we’d seen it advertised, and thought it was in the village.

“Closed down dear,” replied the lady, “Last year. Real shame.”

I asked whether it had been replaced with the plastics museum, but only my Mum and I found that funny.

That was how we set off today then - with the travel advice of a posh lady who’d made her dog wear sunglasses.

We went back to Blue Anchor Bay this morning. A quick check of the tide times last night proved useful as we planned to arrive half an hour after a high, to sit and watch it slowly recede. And that we did. And that it did. Three green chairs wedged into the stones, a picnic bag with flasks of tea and a little foldable table, as the water got further and further away.

In about 1988, my Grandma, my little sister, my Mum and I came here for holidays. Blue Anchor was that one beach we loved going back to; wide, wet sand, quiet aspect, not too crowded. Behind the beach, across the road, were empty fields, and then sticking out like a sort of lonely beach hut, an outpost of decency and refreshment, was the Driftwood Café.

My Grandma loved the Driftwood. Its decor, its style, its aspect was all straight from the 1950s. From then on, the Driftwood Café became a lovely reference for our family, and Blue Anchor Bay always raised a smile of fond memory - for all of us.

I think it still will. Obviously it has changed - you’d expect that. The empty fields are now a caravan/holiday home park, the sand is more stone and shingle, and the Driftwood is surrounded by static homes. But essentially it is all still there, and all still the same. It was nice to be there on a sunny day too. We had our lunch on the sloped café garden and talked about old times. I am not ten years old any more, it turns out. Though sometimes, I do wonder.

It was time to take the whizzy lady’s advice after that, so we got in the car and set the satnav for Crowcombe. The satnav then picked out a route for us that involved hairpin turns and an overgrown single track road, so with a little first-gear engine work and a quick replan due to lack of machete, we found ourselves ratcheting up the hill to Quantocks Common.

I expected more views from up there. A hazy looking Bridgwater spread out on the horizon, and perhaps even Weston-Super-Mare beyond it, but other than that, it was all trees.

“How many trees do you reckon there are?” asked my Dad. Trillions, I thought, remembering that old fact about Earth having more trees than visible stars. I didn’t say that though; he meant there, on Quantocks Common. Too many to count, but not trillions.

I’m not sure how to answer the posh eccentric lady’s question. Yes, I think so. I feel relaxed, but there’s also a sadness I can’t quite put my finger on. Beaches that have silted up, memories of things being better than they are? The ongoing pace of progress? Perhaps just the thought that this is the last of these travels with the Intrepids?

I don’t know. There are still a few days left though - and even the weather is improving, which always makes things a hundred times better.

COASTING AND CASTLING

So where we are, the TV is tuned to Wales for some reason (glacial movements probably). This has inadvertently led to a little ‘treat’ for the Intrepids thanks to Welsh Channel S4C.

Who knew this? At night when there are no Welsh-language programmes to show, S4C puts on footage of the Welsh coastline with a soporific backing track of Welsh music. The helicopter slowly tracks around Wales to the gentle harps and vocals of traditional Celtic tunes.

It’s fair to say that the Intrepids are riveted: I mean edge-of-the-seat excited, about what might be coming up next! Abertawe! the Mumbles! Three Cliffs Bay! Oxwich! - all the places from previous holidays they’ve been on over the years... from the air. They’re glued to the telly.

“When we see Worm’s Head,” my Mum just said, referring to a particular outcrop of rocks on The Gower, “I’m going to bed.”

I’m not sure it’s the best sign when a highlight of your current holiday is an aerial tour of all your previous ones.

Especially when today, the weather actually brightened up! The overnight rain eased and blue skies greeted us on the road to Dunster. By the time we got there, it was really hot.

Dunster’s a small medieval market town. At one end of the high street, the octagonal Yarn Market sits squat in the middle of the road, at the other, the tree line rises to a great castle that overlooks the town. Between them, the long street stretches with timber framed buildings of painted colour stone, and low fascias, housing modern coffee shops and curio-sellers, Tudor jewellery stores and old-fashioned sweet shops.

I think it’s been used for quite a few TV shows. You can see why. The street is very picturesque. The turrets and windows of the castle face the pretty little town below for a reason: on the hill, the owners, down below, the villagers. Est. c~1066 along with the rest of the feudal system.

The Intrepids wanted to visit the Dolls Museum, so I sat outside on a bench, enjoying the sunshine, somewhere between the Castle and the market. Blue sky, warm sun, white clouds and shade. It was a beautiful moment.

At some point, the descendants of the landowners up there, ran out of money. One died without a will, leaving crippling death duties on his son, who then had to sell off half the village just to stay afloat. Eventually, in the 60s, the castle was left to one old lady, who dwindled out her last days there as the last of a long chain of landlords before her, and then the National Trust took over its running. It is a thing that’s happened to a lot of old places.

We went up the very steep slope to Dunster Castle. The path wound gently round the hill through exquisite grounds - gunneras and gerberas, black grass and alliums, fronds and flowers, hollyhocks and pokers of red and yellow and blue, all sprang up along the circular route that twisted up to the castle.

There at the top, with the finest views of sea and village, was the magnificent building. Stone towers, arched windows, arrow-slits, flags fluttering - all intact and looking splendid in the afternoon sun.

It’s not the original Norman castle. Oliver Cromwell blew that one to pieces for reasons of military precision I won’t go into. Since then, it was rebuilt, and then subsequently altered over the next three centuries to become the grand castle it is today.

We went inside. It’s really well done. Libraries and private studies, bedrooms, bathrooms, the drawing room, the inner and outer halls, the breakfast room, even a room full of plants. A lot of it Is exactly what you’d expect: dark green Victorian wallpaper with gold feathering, mahogany bookcases, plush chairs and sofas by a head-high marble mantelpiece, a grand piano tucked into an alcove with bronze busts on high shelves. There are paintings and wooden floorboards and grand staircases with banisters carved exquisite from elm, there are long, tall windows set into the stone facade that look out onto the pleasant grounds and of course the sea. High backed velvet chairs surround polished wooden tables and lamps stand on plinths like statues in the corner, all under ornate and shapely ceilings. It is all delicately grand.

“What were your impressions?” I asked the Intrepids as we blinked back out into the sunshine.

“That’s a lot of house for one old lady,” said my Mum.

We fancied an ice cream after that, so it was back to Minehead for a cone of afternoon sunshine by the seafront. Inexplicably I chose ‘rum ‘n’ raisin’ while honeycomb and mint choc chip were also available. Call it a spirit of adventure. The sticky ice cream dribbled deliciously down my hand as I licked the raisins out of the cone.

I was really glad the sun came out today. That made things look a lot brighter, and a lot friendlier. We’d managed to pick a moment once again when the tide was far out, and that always makes the channel look so much less inviting. Nevertheless, further along at Minehead, the beach does still turn a little sandier, and I expect more summery when the flat waves start rolling in and the sun sparkles from the sea like diamonds.

Tomorrow, the weather should be sunny again, so we do wonder whether it might be much more of a picnic-chairs on the sand day. I like those because I usually get a lot of reading done, listening to the waves. I guess the Intrepids like those because they can sit and think about how far round the coastline stretches and whether one day, they might see this narrow stretch of very same beach... on a TV channel that doesn’t have anything better to put on.

Honestly, they were absolutely riveted.