We took two weeks off work to take Burt on holiday. I say we, Tim obviously already had time off, 6 weeks of time. We spent several weeks buying all the necessary camping stuff, like a large coolbox and a drive-away awning, in order to make sure we had the best first real camping experience in Burt.
There was just one thing we didn’t do, which was actually book anywhere. We made enquiries before setting off and decided we’d find somewhere to camp. Rather than head straight for Cornwall’s famous surfing beaches, we decided to take a few days in Devon. Tim had read that there was a great little surfing beach, with camping next to it, which he wanted to try out.
Now had I realised prior to setting off exactly where this beach was, I might have vetoed the detour. Croyde is about 10 miles from Barnstaple. That’s the Barnstaple we were supposed to drive to last time we were in Devon when heading for Woolacombe, only we thought that there was a bypass to the main town and ended on dark road to hell, before ending somewhere on a cliff. Not quite the Italian Job.
This time we stuck to the dual-carriage way, and navigated our way to Croyde a lot easier than we did to Woolacombe, which is just 4 miles further along the road.
Croyde would be hard pushed to call itself a town, though I’m sure it does, certainly in peak season. Comprising of a couple of pubs, cafes, an ice cream parlour and a village hall, there appeared on first glance to be more campers than residents, with plenty of campsites dotted a long a stretch of road about a mile long.
We drove along the road round the town until we reached the beach, only to be met by a sign on the campsite, recommended by websites as the best, to say it was closed. It looked like we had the options of a Holiday Park chain, a sloping muddy field or a families only campsite. We chose the family campsite with electricity and a hard standing, hoping the gravel pitch would save us from having to be towed out from the campsite several days later. It also had a fish and chip shop on site, always a bonus.
After an hour of wrestling with poles and canvas in a strong, rain sodden wind we eventually had the awning up. There was something in the instructions about having a trial run putting it up, Mmmmm.... I don't think so. And after all our hard work we decided we’d earned a pint.
We headed for Billy Buds first, and ignoring the few drops of rain in the air, we took our drinks to the beer garden. After 10 minutes we were accosted by locals selling raffle tickets for the Croyde Lifeguards. £1 lighter, we decided Billy Buds was missing something, being a little soulless.
We walked back up the road to the next pub, The Thatch Pub. A few hours later we discovered they not only shared a beer garden but owners. Still the atmosphere was better in the olde wilde thatched one.
We stood in the thatch covered entrance, now a prime smokers spot, chatting to all those who stopped for a cigarette. We ended up swapping stories with a couple of guys from Leeds, who had driven down to pick up a second hand surf board bought off eBay. Since they’d driven all that way, they’d decided to make a weekend of it. Which wasn’t that strange, until we discovered they’d been here for the previous two weeks on holiday. One week later they were missing the place; I’m thinking the eBay thing was merely an excuse to go back on holiday.
The girls with the raffle tickets arrived shortly after we got chatting trying to sell us tickets again. The lads bought some, and they went on their way saying they‘d be back with the winning tickets later.
After a few pints (too many) we were engaging a local in conversation, when the girls came past with the winning tickets. None of them ours. 15 minutes later they were back again, still with no winners. They were getting desperate, possibly as they saw their chances of getting a drink afterwards diminishing. Tim swapped his ticket with one of the girls winning tickets and announced he had the winning ticket. Cue me being sent to the back of the pub with the “winning ticket” to collect my prize. There were surfing t-shirts in various sizes and a 90’s 3CD compilation amongst the prizes. Reading the CD listing was like reading the songs from hell. Literally the worst songs from the 90’s. We’re talking Cotton Eye Joe and Toploader.
I picked up a green men’s surfing t-shirt and took it back to Tim. The girls had disappeared pleased they had at least one “winner.” 10 minutes passed and they were back. This time the Leeds lads relieved them of a ticket, picking up the only t-shirt left, they handed it to me, as it was a girls surfing top. But they didn’t stop there, and 2 minutes later were handing me the 90’s compilation. By this time I was pretty merry and onto Jack Daniels. I’m told my ranting about Sonia and Robson and Jerome was hilarious but possibly scared the rest of the Thatch drinkers.
Soon I moved on to giving the local advice on women, and swapping stories of men with his female friend. I can’t have scarred them too much as he invited us to his surf film night at the village hall the next evening. A regular evening event in the summer, showing amateur local surf films to the camping residents. Not as I suggested, a night of Blue Juice and drinking. Sadly, such was my hangover the next day we never made it.
(I do have a new hangover cure, surfing. A bit of sea air and a gallon of salty sea water does wonders for headache and mineral deficient body. )
That first night I was convinced the awning was going to be blown from it's tent peg anchors and smash into Burt. The wind was so strong even Burt was being buffeted about. What chance did an awning have? But next morning the awning was still upright and all the guide ropes still taut. We were lucky it seems, as one unhappy camper explained to Tim how they'd decamped the whole family to a B&B in the middle of the night as their tent pole snapped in two. Two days later when I went to chuck some rubbish I found the bin overflowing with another broken tent. This might be a reoccurring theme.
We were woken early each morning by chickens doing what they do best, cockadoodling. That first morning they sounded like they were right outside the door. Turns out they were right outside the door. They were literally marching round Burt, as if on chicken army patrol.
There was just one thing we didn’t do, which was actually book anywhere. We made enquiries before setting off and decided we’d find somewhere to camp. Rather than head straight for Cornwall’s famous surfing beaches, we decided to take a few days in Devon. Tim had read that there was a great little surfing beach, with camping next to it, which he wanted to try out.
Now had I realised prior to setting off exactly where this beach was, I might have vetoed the detour. Croyde is about 10 miles from Barnstaple. That’s the Barnstaple we were supposed to drive to last time we were in Devon when heading for Woolacombe, only we thought that there was a bypass to the main town and ended on dark road to hell, before ending somewhere on a cliff. Not quite the Italian Job.
This time we stuck to the dual-carriage way, and navigated our way to Croyde a lot easier than we did to Woolacombe, which is just 4 miles further along the road.
Croyde would be hard pushed to call itself a town, though I’m sure it does, certainly in peak season. Comprising of a couple of pubs, cafes, an ice cream parlour and a village hall, there appeared on first glance to be more campers than residents, with plenty of campsites dotted a long a stretch of road about a mile long.
We drove along the road round the town until we reached the beach, only to be met by a sign on the campsite, recommended by websites as the best, to say it was closed. It looked like we had the options of a Holiday Park chain, a sloping muddy field or a families only campsite. We chose the family campsite with electricity and a hard standing, hoping the gravel pitch would save us from having to be towed out from the campsite several days later. It also had a fish and chip shop on site, always a bonus.
After an hour of wrestling with poles and canvas in a strong, rain sodden wind we eventually had the awning up. There was something in the instructions about having a trial run putting it up, Mmmmm.... I don't think so. And after all our hard work we decided we’d earned a pint.
We headed for Billy Buds first, and ignoring the few drops of rain in the air, we took our drinks to the beer garden. After 10 minutes we were accosted by locals selling raffle tickets for the Croyde Lifeguards. £1 lighter, we decided Billy Buds was missing something, being a little soulless.
We walked back up the road to the next pub, The Thatch Pub. A few hours later we discovered they not only shared a beer garden but owners. Still the atmosphere was better in the olde wilde thatched one.
We stood in the thatch covered entrance, now a prime smokers spot, chatting to all those who stopped for a cigarette. We ended up swapping stories with a couple of guys from Leeds, who had driven down to pick up a second hand surf board bought off eBay. Since they’d driven all that way, they’d decided to make a weekend of it. Which wasn’t that strange, until we discovered they’d been here for the previous two weeks on holiday. One week later they were missing the place; I’m thinking the eBay thing was merely an excuse to go back on holiday.
The girls with the raffle tickets arrived shortly after we got chatting trying to sell us tickets again. The lads bought some, and they went on their way saying they‘d be back with the winning tickets later.
After a few pints (too many) we were engaging a local in conversation, when the girls came past with the winning tickets. None of them ours. 15 minutes later they were back again, still with no winners. They were getting desperate, possibly as they saw their chances of getting a drink afterwards diminishing. Tim swapped his ticket with one of the girls winning tickets and announced he had the winning ticket. Cue me being sent to the back of the pub with the “winning ticket” to collect my prize. There were surfing t-shirts in various sizes and a 90’s 3CD compilation amongst the prizes. Reading the CD listing was like reading the songs from hell. Literally the worst songs from the 90’s. We’re talking Cotton Eye Joe and Toploader.
I picked up a green men’s surfing t-shirt and took it back to Tim. The girls had disappeared pleased they had at least one “winner.” 10 minutes passed and they were back. This time the Leeds lads relieved them of a ticket, picking up the only t-shirt left, they handed it to me, as it was a girls surfing top. But they didn’t stop there, and 2 minutes later were handing me the 90’s compilation. By this time I was pretty merry and onto Jack Daniels. I’m told my ranting about Sonia and Robson and Jerome was hilarious but possibly scared the rest of the Thatch drinkers.
Soon I moved on to giving the local advice on women, and swapping stories of men with his female friend. I can’t have scarred them too much as he invited us to his surf film night at the village hall the next evening. A regular evening event in the summer, showing amateur local surf films to the camping residents. Not as I suggested, a night of Blue Juice and drinking. Sadly, such was my hangover the next day we never made it.
(I do have a new hangover cure, surfing. A bit of sea air and a gallon of salty sea water does wonders for headache and mineral deficient body. )
That first night I was convinced the awning was going to be blown from it's tent peg anchors and smash into Burt. The wind was so strong even Burt was being buffeted about. What chance did an awning have? But next morning the awning was still upright and all the guide ropes still taut. We were lucky it seems, as one unhappy camper explained to Tim how they'd decamped the whole family to a B&B in the middle of the night as their tent pole snapped in two. Two days later when I went to chuck some rubbish I found the bin overflowing with another broken tent. This might be a reoccurring theme.
We were woken early each morning by chickens doing what they do best, cockadoodling. That first morning they sounded like they were right outside the door. Turns out they were right outside the door. They were literally marching round Burt, as if on chicken army patrol.
Left....
Right...
Changing of the Guards
Not ones to let naff British weather get the better of us, we headed off dressed up in our wetsuits to the beach. A path near the campsite took us straight there, with only a few rain filled pot holes to negotiate along the way.
This would be my first time bodyboarding. Tim tried to show me how to do it. It took me sometime to successfully surf all the way into the beach, but it was fun trying and exhilarating when I did it. Knackering though, especially if you're as unfit as I am. My hands were the first to feel the pain, cramp from holding onto the board so tightly.
We had a well earned few drinks after we showered.
Not ones to let naff British weather get the better of us, we headed off dressed up in our wetsuits to the beach. A path near the campsite took us straight there, with only a few rain filled pot holes to negotiate along the way.
This would be my first time bodyboarding. Tim tried to show me how to do it. It took me sometime to successfully surf all the way into the beach, but it was fun trying and exhilarating when I did it. Knackering though, especially if you're as unfit as I am. My hands were the first to feel the pain, cramp from holding onto the board so tightly.
We had a well earned few drinks after we showered.
Just a tad on the windy side still...
Next day the weather was appalling, even by British standards. We headed to the beach but the red flags were out, signifying it was closed. We checked with the lifeguards and they said the swell was bad and it wouldn't reopen that day. Word had it all the beaches in the area were suffering the same fate.
Each day I checked the BBC website for the 5 day forecast. Each day it gave a miserable 24 hour forecast, nice or better weather always on the horizon. What's that saying, tomorrow never comes?... The next day was supposed to be better but it was hard to see it in the skies that morning as we ate our sausage butties. I made enquiries at the campsite shop and at the surf shack about the chances of the beach being open. But they had no idea. So we put on our wet wetsuits and headed down to the beach to see for ourselves.
How happy we were to see yellow and red flags, meaning our trek in wetsuits wasn't in vain. The water was choppier than our first day. The distance between the flags was smaller than before. Happily practising my bodyboarding skills, Tim was off surfing in the larger waves. I was with the kids and other newbies in slightly shallower water. Occasionally waves would come in that would suddenly leave us in deeper water. The sea was strong, I could feel the sand beneath my feet swirling. I hopped on to a wave, along with a couple of others. It started to drift towards my left. As I'm heading left I can hear the lifeguards asking us to stay within the flags. I look to see where the flags are in relation to us and our wave. The lifeguards are picking up the flags and moving them across to the right. The wave I'm on dies mid sea. I attempt to put my feet on the floor. It's not there. I can see people further along, within the flags, they're able to stand where the are. Then I feel the sea pulling me out. I start waving to Tim and shouting help. I don't know how to get on a wave without my feet being on the ground.
Now you can probably tell from my tone that I was panicking at this point. Tim thought I was waving to say hello. As we wanders over the floor goes from beneath him, he can see my face and realised I was having trouble.
Tim tries to instruct me to jump on waves. I fail dismally. No amount of swimming seems to get me anywhere. The lifeguards using their megaphones ask for people to wave if their in trouble. I am waving like a mad man. Within in what feels like seconds a blonde guy in red life gear surfs past me with amazing ease. I didn’t even see a wave! He grabs the girl next to me and swooshs in to the beach. Within seconds another is brushing a young boy to land. Me and Tim, slowly start to make progress and the sand is getting closer. I think once I saw how easy I could be rescued, I stopped panicking, and our efforts to get out started to pay off.
In the end I didn’t need the services of the Baywatch team. Not sure what I would have done without Tim to rescue me.
Needless to say I didn’t fancy getting back in the water that day. As we headed off the beach we heard them announce the beach closed for the day. Enter the sea at your own risk.
Next day the weather was appalling, even by British standards. We headed to the beach but the red flags were out, signifying it was closed. We checked with the lifeguards and they said the swell was bad and it wouldn't reopen that day. Word had it all the beaches in the area were suffering the same fate.
Each day I checked the BBC website for the 5 day forecast. Each day it gave a miserable 24 hour forecast, nice or better weather always on the horizon. What's that saying, tomorrow never comes?... The next day was supposed to be better but it was hard to see it in the skies that morning as we ate our sausage butties. I made enquiries at the campsite shop and at the surf shack about the chances of the beach being open. But they had no idea. So we put on our wet wetsuits and headed down to the beach to see for ourselves.
How happy we were to see yellow and red flags, meaning our trek in wetsuits wasn't in vain. The water was choppier than our first day. The distance between the flags was smaller than before. Happily practising my bodyboarding skills, Tim was off surfing in the larger waves. I was with the kids and other newbies in slightly shallower water. Occasionally waves would come in that would suddenly leave us in deeper water. The sea was strong, I could feel the sand beneath my feet swirling. I hopped on to a wave, along with a couple of others. It started to drift towards my left. As I'm heading left I can hear the lifeguards asking us to stay within the flags. I look to see where the flags are in relation to us and our wave. The lifeguards are picking up the flags and moving them across to the right. The wave I'm on dies mid sea. I attempt to put my feet on the floor. It's not there. I can see people further along, within the flags, they're able to stand where the are. Then I feel the sea pulling me out. I start waving to Tim and shouting help. I don't know how to get on a wave without my feet being on the ground.
Now you can probably tell from my tone that I was panicking at this point. Tim thought I was waving to say hello. As we wanders over the floor goes from beneath him, he can see my face and realised I was having trouble.
Tim tries to instruct me to jump on waves. I fail dismally. No amount of swimming seems to get me anywhere. The lifeguards using their megaphones ask for people to wave if their in trouble. I am waving like a mad man. Within in what feels like seconds a blonde guy in red life gear surfs past me with amazing ease. I didn’t even see a wave! He grabs the girl next to me and swooshs in to the beach. Within seconds another is brushing a young boy to land. Me and Tim, slowly start to make progress and the sand is getting closer. I think once I saw how easy I could be rescued, I stopped panicking, and our efforts to get out started to pay off.
In the end I didn’t need the services of the Baywatch team. Not sure what I would have done without Tim to rescue me.
Needless to say I didn’t fancy getting back in the water that day. As we headed off the beach we heard them announce the beach closed for the day. Enter the sea at your own risk.
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