Ah yes. After the horrendously grim weather had passed, the weather improved and we headed for the beach. On the way down we commented on how this was the classic British burning weather: bright sunshine, a strong breeze, and occassional clouds combine to burn skin without even feeling that hot. Of course knowing this meant nothing, we were too distracted with purchasing pasties and drink to think about putting a decent amount of sunblock on.

Obviously the main thing to do at the beach, after we'd sat down, not applied sunblock, and scoffed a pasty, was to dig a hole. A huge hole. Spades were purchased and we took turns to help Pete dig The Hole.

Astute readers will notice the inevitable outcome of saying this is burning weather, not putting enough sunblock on, and digging a hole (an activity that results in the back being exposed to the sun). Ouch.

After the hole had been dug we had to full it in again to avoid trapping small childen in it. Obviously this led to a series of hilarious scenes involving burying Pete up to his chest, modelling breasts and a penis, and so on. Finally the hole was flat again, at which point an impromptu long jump sand pit was arranged. I came first in the long jump, and although failing miserably at triple jump although I swear my technique was best (it's all in the wrists).

Next was to explore the costal path in the opposite direction towards Porthkidney beach. The beach is pretty huge by my standards, and due to the lack of facilities (no close car park, shops, toilets, and so on) it's almost deserted: there were a few other people there with dogs (the other local beaches are dog-free in summer) and that's about it. Googling to confirm the name of the beach reveals that there is a history of naturism and "inappropriate gay activity", but we didn't encounter any of that. ;)

The costal path was great, far more rough than the walk to St Ives (often just a foot wide cutting in the ground), steep in places, and generally running very close to the cliff edge. The views were great, but I always think what a horror paths like these would be in winter, with the full force of the Atlantic winds pounding against the cliffs. As a finale it turns out that the costal path follows the cliff all the way along the back of the beach, which would easily be another twenty minutes of walking to reach sand. There is a shortcut down some stone stairs to the beach, but we arrived at high tide and the bottom of the stairs (well, rocks) were a foot deep in water. Wading up to the beach was a fitting end to the walk, and made the beach feel like our own little desert island!

I'll have to explain the expression on Vicky in the above photo. As a child when Vicky went to visit her father in Devon they used to go to the beach and spend the day annoying the wildlife: chasing crabs, kicking limpets off rocks and so on. When Vicky noticed that the rocks at the bottom of the cliff were covered in limpets, she shouted "limpets!" with a manic expression and preceeded to prod them frantically.

After lots of sitting around and digging tunnels, we headed for the dunes for a spot of dune diving. This involves running at top spead down the dunes and throwing yourself into the sand at the bottom. Ah, the simple pleasures in life!

After my dive I ran back up the hill in the manner of a mad man, arms out-stretched to Vicky as I collapsed in front of her, gasping "It's". "What?", was the confused reply. This is terrible, I really need to get Vicky to watch the Best Of Monty Python DVD we have somewhere...

Possibly more to write, but Lost is on, so I'm off for now.