Beach baby...

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I'm not too sure what it is about this holiday.  What with the twelve minute set up for the awning (58 minutes, new PB) and the 'three' minute walk to the pub (more like ten), I should have known that the '52 minute walk to Perranporth' would be anything but that.

The husband, armed with a map from the campsite, set out at a brisk pace at around 10.30 yesterday morning.  How do I know this?  Well, I was having a last minute comfort break in the shower block, and contemplating the last question on Pop Master, that's how I know.

We started off well, and climbed a steep field to the very top, before the husband realised that he'd navigated us into the wrong field.  The right field was located after this fifteen minute detour (or warm up as the husband jokingly called it) and with our best feet forward we set off on the mile and a half walk to Perranporth beach, where parts of Poldark are filmed.

An hour into the walk, there was still no sight of the sea and we were walking down a very narrow path with vicious brambles on one side and vindictive nettles on the other.  'It said on the instructions that long trousers were recommended because of this bit', said the husband.  Well, my darling, it would have been lovely of you to have shared this snippet of information with me.  My right leg was lacerated with tiny scratches, making me look like I'd had a fight with a tiger, and my left leg was sporting several red bumps courtesy of the stingers.

We then hit the sand dunes, and I would guess that's where it all went wrong.  It all looked the same, and we wandered round and round before finally espying a small patch of blue which may or may not have been the sea.


The next hour was spent playing with the dogs as they went in and out of the sea, and apart from a good quantity of sand in my walking boot, it was a whole lot of fun.  It was then time for cider, food and contemplation of the walk home.  Now bearing in mind that the walk there had taken three hours, and 8.2 miles (that was some detour we took) I did suggest to the husband that a taxi home might be a good idea.  He must have been knackered as he agreed straightaway although he did voice a concern as to how much it would cost.

                                
 
Finally locating the only taxi in a ten mile radius, the husband gave the driver the name of the campsite.  'Oh I know that, it's only seven minutes away.  Hop in.'

Seven minutes.....seven minutes....SEVEN BLOODY MINUTES...

As the husband and I recovered in the afternoon (alcohol, more Bakewell Tart, a beautiful sunset and a barbecue) he reminded me why I love him so much.

He's taking us back to the hotel in Portloe where we honeymooned to have a cream tea, having already checked that a) they still do them and b) they allow woofers in.

He also bought me some antihistamine for my nettle stings.

Not too sure which bit I'm more pleased about....


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