It was with an air of anticipation that we journeyed to the beaches of North Devon on that first may evening. I'd like to say that the sun was shining, but it was actually going down, and it didn't return until early next day. When it did come up on Saturday morning, the first thing I noticed was that Laura and ms Manic had some how managed to pitch there tent in the middle of the road. Ah well.. there's always one(or two), and it's usually them.

After persuading the grump campsite manager that we would move the tent at our earliest convenience("would Monday morning be O.K.?") we headed into town for breakfast. Despite the warning from an eagle-eyed pensioner in wellies, we managed to finish breakfast with a parking ticket.

When we finally made it to the beach(after visiting all of them to find out where we should be), a few eager paddlers went surfing. I of course had priorities. For reasons that I don't remember, I had chosen to attack Marco outside the Salisbury chip shop the previous night. Naturally, victory was mine and Captain Big Nob demanded a re-match on the beach. Ever obliging I agreed, but remembering that this was my landlord to be, I just had to let him win. I soon regretted this cunning move when - reassured that they wouldn't be eaten by a girl - the other menfolk joined in. The result?...Beaucoup sand in panties.

A bout of wrestling matches ensued, until several of us had the urge to bury an Invader. Those who didn't feigned a disinterested superiority, but we knew they envied our childish ways. There was a point later that afternoon when I had a more sensible urge to learn to surf,but it was an urge the size of a grape, which turned into a dried raisin when I saw how far out the tide was.

When Sunday arrived(with no sign of a hangover) I was keen to get in a boat. So I did. Finally. By the time I Paddled out a reasonable distance my arms were aching with the effort and it seemed like such a shame to go right back again. So I drifted around in the sunshine, temporarily avoiding the inevitable(i.e. salty eyes, fear, head stuck in the sand, a drowning sensation)But I eventually put into action another cunning plan (note- from now on substitute cunning with stupid). This involved weaving towards the beach on a pathetic little wave, hitting surfers left right and centre and capsizing in three feet of water in the vain hope that i would be rescued by a bronze Adonis. (Really - I did it on purpose) Destined to failure, I was rolled up by a thirteen year old I'd knocked off a surfboard.

After some technical pointers from Bri, I decided to try again. I had a bit more control this time, although I still hit a few people and ultimately capsized. But this time I rolled, and it gave me the confidence to go on. Half an hour later, having heaved a full boat of water to the beach after swimming, I was to exhausted to do anything other than build sand castles. I (sadly) got quite excited when some one suggested a sand castle competition(sadly - nay, tragically - it was probably me), but Richard lowered the tone by building a sand willy. There's so much more to tell, but my word could never do it justice(especially with a one page limit). Suffice to say, it was an unforgettable Bank holiday weekend.

All that remains is for me to thank our intrepid drivers, Marco and Brian, and the trip organiser - me. Oh, and how could I neglect to mention the heroic few who suffered de-bagging and lived to tell the tale! Let us now observe a minute's silence for the pants that didn't.