Sunday morning on the island of St Martin’s saw drizzly rain and blustery wind. Various folk were dashing around the campsite propping up their tents. We were in a ‘proper’ tent so we weren’t bothered. We failed to notice that we were actually pitched on a part of the campsite that was more sand than soil …
We wandered the mile to the shop to get milk. On the way there, torrential cold rain started, so in the shop I spent a couple of quid on a disposable plastic mac. As we started to walk back, suddenly the wind cranked right up and my stupid mac actually exploded around me into shredded ribbons of plastic. Once Heather had stopped laughing, we hitched a lift on a farm tractor back to the campsite. As we reached the brow of the hill and looked down to the site, we saw a big empty space where our tent had been. Not good.
The wind had actually suddenly hit Force 10 and completely devastated the campsite. Luckily, our tent turned out to be flattened but intact, our gear soaking wet but nothing damaged. The other tents were huge family ‘Millenium Dome’ affairs. Most were completely destroyed. Bedraggled and distraught families were seen to be running around in circles, announcing the End of Days. In due course, the Dunkirk Spirit prevailed and order ensued; kids were packed off to the island’s shelter for the next 24 hours, and right-thinking adults converged on the Seven Stones pub for the rest of the day. I used the opportunity to type up a chapter in the pub, all good.
In the evening when the worst of The Storm had passed, Heather and I walked up on top of the island and watched wild seas pummeling the surrounding isles. Round Island, the island with the lighthouse on top, is 40 metres high.
We didn’t go paddling that day.
Latest Comments ...