A Climate Of Surprise

Mr was attacking the pampas grass. It must go, lovely as it shakes under a night wind and brings to mind tropical storms and thoughts of white sanded island beaches. The whip of those leaves cut like paper edges.

I had a plan to dig up the bushy tree that grows nothing edible, to make room for cherry and plum. Before my hand can touch a spade, the rain comes cold and wet.

It's a commonly held belief here that if one is to be cold and wet one might as well be at the seaside.

From the damp earth to Widemouth Bay we travel, by rusty car. One 50 pence piece, and one 10, drop into the ticket machine to buy one hour of car park time.

Dog runs, the rocks are sculptural, the pools clear, the sun visible, warmth discernable, my feet jump out of their boots. Mr looks at bends of rock and sighs over forces.

We run back to the car under pelts of hail: stop halfway home to buy hot pasties, gobble them up, giggle at the steam on windows.