There was yet more wind-assisted rain forecast for this afternoon but the morning was quite pleasant in a grey sort of way. So, rather than waste part of the morning driving too far, we chose to explore a close stretch of the coastal path between Pentire Point and Port Quin. We took our waterproofs and, this time, I took my boots. 😉

I’m never quite sure whether to be impressed or frustrated at what seems to be a typical British over-optimistic assessment of our weather. I think on the whole I verge towards frustration. Having lulled us into a false sense of security by allowing us to begin our trip with four or five very pleasant, essentially sunny, days, nature has more recently been making us pay, and pay dearly. We began paying with “cyclonic” winds battering us with rain for the best part of 24 hours and have continued paying with what will have been at least five subsequent days featuring various quantities of rain, several of which were large. Oh, and let’s not forget the hail.

With this background, we began our walk and soon met a couple on the coastal path. As I eyed the approaching solid dark mass of cloud in the west that would bring this afternoon’s rain, they greeted us with a cheery, “lovely day”. “Well, so far it’s OK”, I reluctantly allowed. “It’s nice at the moment”, amended the lady. Nice?

Further along our walk, what turned out to be an advanced guard of the advertised band of rain began spitting at us. We met another couple. “Isn’t it beautiful?”, said the lady of the couple as sporadic rain spots splashed on my unprotected head. Really, this ridiculous over-generosity was just more than I could take. “It might be alright without the rain”, I retorted. “But the primroses are so lovely, don’t you think?”, she tried. Ye Gods! “Yes, indeed the primroses are lovely; all the spring flowers are an absolute delight”, I agreed, thinking that it was little short of a miracle that any delightful spring flowers remained after the severe battering they must have sustained from Mother Nature over the previous week.

Is it a mark of just how bad our British weather is that people assess a grey day with approaching storm clouds as “lovely” or “beautiful”? The light may be flat and unscintillating doing nothing to flatter nature but it’s “beautiful”. Are we that undiscerning? It seems to be a lovely or beautiful day if it isn’t actually raining at the moment.

What a complete crock! A lovely or beautiful day is one in which the sky is essentially blue rather than grey. There may be a few fluffy white clouds to break what some (not me) could regard as the blue monotony but no more. It is one in which the sun shines more often than not producing golden light which enhances the colours of nature making them glow and sparkle. Birdsong should be audible above nothing stronger than a moderate breeze. It is a day on which I can wear something less than a fleece and not have to carry my waterproof. That’s a beautiful day.

The morning was acceptable and our walk was very enjoyable. The rain spots ceased and the main rain held off until we had returned. It has now been raining for the last four hours and looks set to continue into the night.

Carol and I spent many happy years camping variously in France, Germany, Switzerland or Austria during the height of the season. Our timing was in large part dictated by the fact that, though we ourselves were unencumbered by rugrats, we frequently travelled with close friends who were encumbered by rugrats. So, we got quite used to campsites that were approaching capacity and therefore always having neighbouring pitches occupied.

When we did more solo travelling, we deliberately avoided rugrat season and went to France typically for the first two or three weeks of September after the main rush had ended. We became accustomed to visiting camp sites that were less than half full and really enjoyed the extra space. Now, happy in retirement, we tend to go to France for six weeks encompassing June and have become thoroughly wedded to half empty sites with almost too much choice as to pitch selection. Whilst we are basically sociable creatures and generally enjoy friendly interactions with fellow campers, we also value privacy and seclusion and typically strive to choose a pitch that puts as much space as possible between ourselves and any immediate neighbours.

It has always struck us as odd, therefore, when on occasions we’ve watched new arrivals who seem to enjoy creating a crowd; folks who appear to shun relatively sparsely populated sections of a site and seem inexorably drawn into close proximity with others. Are they perhaps looking for security in numbers?

Such was the case today. Having first cleaned our car and caravan of all the cherry blossom stripped from the surrounding trees by yesterday’s gales, we drove out to investigate the Torpoint peninsula. Upon our return we noticed a new arrival. Behind us are two rows of ten and eight pitches each, a mere four of which were occupied. Opposite us is another file of seven pitches, none of which were occupied. Where was the new arrival? Directly between ourselves and our erstwhile nearest neighbour two pitches away. You have to have worked really hard to find a pitch on this site with two immediate neighbours but these folks had valiantly succeeded. It’s not as though their chosen pitch has a particularly great aspect, either – they have artfully treated themselves to a view of the roof of les sanitaires (the facilities block).

It’s not a problem, the spaces here are reasonably generous so nobody is exactly crowded. I just don’t understand the mentality. Why would anyone ignore strings of empty pitches in favour of plonking themselves directly between two others? Weird!

Oh, and it’s pissing with rain again. 🙁

A depression lurking off the north Cornwall coast eventually delivered the promised bad weather after dark yesterday and we had a slightly disturbed night punctuated by heavy spells of rain hammering on Billy Bailey’s roof. By this morning, the wind had increased and was gusting up towards gale force. We are in an exposed position atop a hill and Billy shook and rattled on his stays as the gusts slammed into his windward side. Some of the wind bled in through the fridge vents, which unfortunately faced into the wind, and caused some cooling draughts inside. In particularly strong gusts, our roof vent rattled even though it was as firmly shut as possible. Things were worse on the north coast where a car had been inundated at Zenner and some poor folks had been washed away by a flash flood.

Wifi here is also proving to be a wash out. We are in a McDonalds and, therefore, a McWiFi black spot. We had vainly searched Liskeard, our nearest decent-sized town, yesterday but all to no avail. The Caravan Club site’s telephone book subsequently suggested that the nearest McWiFi is 20 miles away in St. Austell. The Caravan Club’s site itself has wifi but I refuse to pay anybody £5 an hour for the privilege. It’s also “invisible” from our pitch. The neighbouring Tregoad campsite has a considerably more distant but surprisingly “visible” wifi to which our laptop occasionally claims to have connected but it isn’t open so we’ve had no joy on the piracy stakes there, either.

The wind persisted all day but the lashing rain was more intermittent. During one intermission we ventured out on foot to a neighbouring farm shop which reputedly possessed a cafe complete with an Internet connection. Here, the espresso was disappointingly mediocre and two people tried, without success, to provide us with the relevant security information to hook into their BT Homehub wifi connection. I was also somewhat bemused as to why the signal strength was a paltry 50% when we were sitting no more than three feet away from their router. After failing to connect twice, we gave up and returned to sit out the storm.