Hang-gliding

Mr Pandammonium sent me back to Old Hunstanton today – ‘The high is going to be nineteen degrees,’ he said.

Not on Old Hunstanton beach it wasn’t.

After a panini, a slab of the most deliciously gingery ginger cake (the last slice is the biggest, I’m told) and a cup of tea, I took my shoes and socks off and walked the million miles to the sea. It wasn’t windy at first, but then a northerly breeze started up.

After plodging in the freezing cold water (see extras), I put my flip-flops on and walked the million miles back to the dunes.

I found a cosy dune out of the breeze, laid down a towel to sit on and got out my writing. It was so peaceful there, watching the dog walkers’ dogs and catching snippets of conversation (e.g. ‘Do you understand why you’re not to hold someone by the head or neck?’).

The peace was shattered by two powered hang-gliders. One flew directly overhead one way then back the other way.

When I started to get cold, I decided to go. Back at the car, I rubbed the sand off my feet with the towel – and was taken back a million years ago to my mam rubbing sand off my legs with a towel. She’d do it like she was sandpapering paint off.