430 years ago Francis Drake calmly continued his game of bowls on Plymouth Hoe as the Spanish Armada closed in. We have to do likewise. Remain calm. Not feel intimidated.
Unmelodious family conversations converge. We try and close our ears to their calamitous continuous claptrap. We’re hemmed in on all sides. Like a wild west wagon train we are now surrounded. Taken by surprise. Strange sounds shoot across our bows. Excited incessant chatter creates an incomprehendable cacophony. Thursday 31st May – a public holiday. This quiet calm site transformed within twenty four hours. Now bursting at the seams. If you can’t beat them – join them. Time to turn up the music!
This morning sees Scoot scoot us away from the nutty natter. We go exploring. End up in a quite little town, Cartaya, 20K further east. Remove ear-plugs. Relax. Time for us to blow our own trumpet. Crunch on a shared cornetto. Do an about turn. The “over the road” beach beckons. It’s hotting up.
As we step through and down from the dunes, there’s an overhead war raging. The sharp behind our backs northerly is having a head to head with it’s coastal counterpart. The upside is that the clouds are being kept at bay. Downside is that we’re being slapped briskly in the face. Fried eggs struck off the menu.
The dunes create their own secluded sun-traps. We allow ourselves to get trapped. Spend a couple of hours on a low sizzle. A couple of kippers kipping.
Then it’s time to get back to base and turn up the music . . .