The merest glimmer of sunlight this morning proved sufficient encouragement for Mrs G. to break out the picnic hamper and steer yours truly coastwise, for an assault on Padstow beach.It must be a British thing? A national eccentricity that derives pleasure from sitting on harbour walls, drinking oxtail soup whilst dressed in an Arctic fleece and balaclava helmet. Everyone gazes rather wistfully out to sea - maybe wondering why we’re not in Malaga, sipping a cold one.
Even sadder was the number of people with the same idea: I had to circle the car park for ten minutes until a space became vacant. Most of those camped out alongside us were earnest young couples with obligatory bambino in harness; Rohan-clad grandparents bringing up the rear. Entire groups of these extended families were supporting ethnically-inspired hats - the ones with ear flaps, that used to be de rigueur for climbers returning from Nepal. Fair put my woolly bonnet to shame.
Padstow, or PadStein as it is known, is a small fishing village that’s primarily given over to tourism. There are plenty of pubs that sell a variety of locally brewed ales. Doubtless a frightening place to visit at the height of the season.