The Daily Novel

It’s not a long walk across the sands from the car park at Bigbury-on-Sea to Burgh Island. But the gusting wind is buffeting us in all directions and it is not easy to keep your balance and avoid the ruts from the four by fours. It is just the right kind of wind to provide some excitement for the surfers. To the east, where the surf is at its roughest, a race develops between the man on a sailboard and a surfer towed by a billowing blue sail. Both are whisked over the roaring surf out to sea, leaving their own trails behind them.

We press on across the sand towards the large hotel shining white in the sunshine. Our goal is the bench in front of the pub adjacent. The Pilchard Inn, dated 1336, is a solid stone building which looks good enough to last another 670 years. We sit down and look back. Centre view there a group of a dozen or so managers, we had seen earlier, are standing in a circle. All but one are men in their middle forties. They are being briefed on the basics of surfing as part of what is probably a team-building course.

They march, carrying their surf boards, in a stately crocodile down to the sea to the west, where the surf, sheltered by the grey chalk cliffs, is less violent. Soon they are in the sea floundering around clinging to their boards. A few manage to ride the waves, crouching on the boards hands and knees. There is one star, who stands erect, and surfs in again and again. Obviously a true fat cat in the making.

On the walk back the wind is really getting up, threatening a storm. This time we feel battered rather than buffeted. And a thin film of sand blows beneath our feet and ripples across the length of the beach. Bliss it is to reach the shelter of the rocks on the other side where we sit down and I light a fag in the stillness. One family is lying on the sand finishing their lunch. In front of them two Jack Russell terriers, leads hooked around a stick in the sand, are chasing each other round in a circle, yapping all the way.

Suddenly the sun breaks through again. I feel a warm glow on my cheeks, reminding me of winter days crouching beside the fire making toast with a long brass fork.

Later we walk back up the hill turning for one last look at the sea. The managers have given up trying to learn how to surf. They are clinging to their boards giving us a cameo picture of a gaggle of fat cats floundering in the sea. Engaging, no doubt, in team building chat with lots of positive feedback as to how brave and adventurous they all are.