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.