To the beach!

I caught the very-busy-due-to-Isle-of-Wight-festival train to Bournemouth, where Fred and I met up with Fred's dad and the JRs (Betty and Gally) at Bournemouth pier. We wandered down the promenade and gazed at all the lovely sand. It was bright, but there was a cold wind. It's not even paddling weather for me.

On the way to the car, I was extremely happy to find a fresh donut kiosk. That shut me up for a wee while.

We were all quite knackered by the accumulated travelling, being pulled around and tangled by JRs, and the scoffing of donuts, so we headed for the campsite in the New Forest. In the reception, I was greeted by six folk who had a strokey beard meeting about where to pitch our tent. I looked puzzled. Fred's dad's caravan was already in place since he arrived yesterday, but it seemed that we needed a man to tell us where exactly to place our tent. A man duly escorted me to where Fred had nigh on pitched the tent (not realising that there were laws about that sort of thing). The man stroked his beard, walked around the tent, and said that it would do. I could see that we hadn't earned any approval. Apparently six metres away from the caravan would have been much more legal. Presumably because it would have been less easy for the JRs to reach us. As it was, there were no accidents and despite his best efforts, Gally didn't manage to infiltrate the tent.