A September Surf Trip

So. What do you do when you reach a juncture in life where suddenly you have no commitments, no money and no direction?

Well, you could slowly let despair eat away at you until there is nothing left in your hollow, empty, embittered soul so that even you don’t notice when you step in front of a bus one day. You could be pragmatic - pick your self off the floor and start with a careful evaluation of whatever you might possibly still have going for you and from there start to build a healthy and fulfilling life plan. You could decide that now you are freed of any ties and that, not really having anything of significance to throw up, now is the perfect time to throw everything up and follow your dream. Or, you could persuade several other people to aid in covering your petrol costs and go on holiday and leave all the other stuff for when you come back.

So it was that at around seven minutes past eleven a blue Volkswagen golf containing four souls, in varying degrees of wretchedness could be seen entering Lobbfields campsite in North Devon on a Friday night. Having been travelling at some quite impressive speeds for some quite considerable time the occupants where quite naturally relieved to have arrived. With the obvious exception of Patrick that is who, never the most perspicacious of souls, had dulled his wits further through the consumption of cider ever since his being admitted to the vehicle in Bristol and consequently probably had no idea of where he was anyway.

Given this situation it maybe readily imagined the responses which where elicited when their arrival was greeted with a surly,

‘We’re closed.’ From the man leaning against the gate, evidently nauseatingly pleased with himself for having closed it just in time to make this statement. Diplomatic arguments along the lines of,

‘We’ve booked,’ and

‘Some people have to work before leaving for a weekend,’ did seem to have a response, it was however unfortunate that the response was always the same,

‘We’re closed.’ Varied only by a cunning,

‘You can’t be booked in ‘cos the office is closed now.’

Further explanation of the purpose of booking ahead seemed, in the circumstances, somewhat futile. The arrival of his wife (a large assumption has been made here as no evidence was given either way, but the assumption will be allowed to stand) progressed the situation to the point where a small patch of grass directly inside the gate was made grudgingly available for camping, though much to the chagrin of the husband. Attempts to bypass this area of grass and gain the booked pitch proved futile and it began to look as though it would have to be this patch of grass which would be occupied.

Stuart decided however that he couldn’t really be having with this kind of shit. So he dragged Rich off in search of another campsite, leaving Sarah and Patrick behind to guard the small patch of hard won turf should the quest prove futile. It was beginning to look desperate when having driven right through Croyde and dismissed all the campsites on the way through Rich and Stu headed down towards Putsbourgh with the vague recollection that there may be a campsite there. A sign reading ‘no tents’ was not a good indication that they had remembered right – and indeed it transpired that there was only a caravan park.

Luck though, was about to change – as occasionally it will, for better of for ill. In this case it was to be for the better. Two guys where seen hanging around the small car parking hut looking proprietorial, if a little out of place at half past eleven at night. Whatever their business, and reason was never seen for it to be asked about, they where able to advise of the location of a suitable sounding campsite. So Rich and Stu headed off for this new campsite and soon found themselves following a car bearing a surfboard and seemingly following directions as clear as their own. However sketchy the directions, following the car proved useful since on seeing it overshoot the campsite entrance by some considerable distance they where able to enter it with only a short reverse.

On entering the campsite it was quickly decided that it was infinitely preferable to the first in nearly everyway. (Before anyone points out the strange combination of infinitely and nearly in that sentence I should point out the mathematics of infinities are extremely complex and in my mind the sentence is perfectly valid and, after all, that’s all that really matters). Still, to continue, Sarah and Patrick where phoned and informed that we would not, in fact, be requiring the small patch of ground they were laying claim to.

Leaving Rich to stake a claim to this new patch of ground Stu left to bring the others to the new site. Upon returning to scene of the former battle it became clear that the hostilities had not, despite the supposed end to the conflict, actually subsided. Though the nature of the volleys had light of events changed with the husband with the Hitler complex now insisting that we must be mistaken in finding a campsite we could properly camp in at that time of night. It was felt the best way to prove him wrong was to leave; after all, there was beer to be drunk.

So it was that returning to the final campsite beer was drunk, and phone calls to other cars made explaining the change of plan. Communications with Tom’s car were hampered variously by Dan’s extreme exuberance, which it could not but be helped feeling would have gone down extremely well at Llobfields, and the fact Tom decided to drive over various of the roundabouts in Barnstable rather than around them thus attracting the displeasure of the local constabulary. They did however arrive at the campsite, upon which event more beer was drunk. Then Tom’s somewhat sizable tent was erected. Some time during this process Hillary’s car also made it, having taken the somewhat extended three-month scenic tour through central London and, given the time, possibly several other major European cities as well.

Finally everyone was happily ensconced in the palatial nylon structure drinking alcohol in various forms, with the exception of Dani, who was happy but doesn’t drink (and is German, though has yet to be seen in a full face helmet) and Patrick who was drinking, but not entirely happy – due to it being felt that the best way to finish a bottle of tequila was to mix it with his cider. For everyone else this was the best way. Patrick however seemed out on a limb in his opposition to action. Stu, Rich and Amanda drank a bottle of sherry, for no particularly good reason other than it was there to be drunk. Around 4 in the morning it was decided that the time was about right for sleeping. Decided that is by everyone except Patrick who decided that in revenge for filling his cider with tequila he would snore all night and keep everyone else awake. Unfortunately choosing to do this when sleeping next to Amanda could be considered a mistake. The extent of his injuries is yet to be fully assessed but, but given the nature of their infliction they should be substantial.

Saturday morning dawned without anyone paying any particular attention – other than noticing that the sky had lightened when half waking up to the sound of Amanda disembowelling Patrick. Eventually people did get up, Tom D ensuring everyone knew it was morning by throwing empty beer cans at their tents. Tom B and Hillary’s tent gave the distinct impression it would not survive this onslaught for long, however it in no way prompted them to get up. Finally it was decided to leave for breakfast upon which it turned out that they didn’t want to come anyway.

Breakfast was had in Braunton and took slightly longer than expected due to having to explain cricket and a tabloid pun to Dani. After breakfast it was finally time for surfing. There seems little point in writing about the surfing as it is one of those things which is definitely better experienced first hand, beyond noting that Sarah swam and maybe to make a comment to say that the surf that day was a little like life, or love - occasionally it would be big and exciting, but mostly you just spent along time sitting and waiting for the next big wave to arrive. Then, when something does come along you can’t be quite sure whether to commit to it in case there is something better behind, but then in the end you’ve waited too long and it’s all gone flat again. Or if you do take the plunge then there is a brief moment of exhilaration then the world comes crashing down on you and everything turns into a big mess. Occasionally you think you’ve made just the right choice and glide, speed and spin towards the beach but, even then, it fades away into ripples and spray until it’s so small you just can’t cling onto it anymore. Maybe you should just stay on the beach to avoid disappointment, or then again maybe you should just get out there and commit to those biggest waves ‘cos the bigger the beating you risk the more fun you’ll have risking it.

Anyway, you can get quite tired paddling through white foaming philosophical questions so soon it was time to push such issues to the back of the mind and head back to the beach for lunch. This was followed by an afternoon of sandcastle, or as the case actually turned out to be, sand Cambridge College, building. This was followed by the construction of sand bridges largely constructed from wood - and then a spot of cricket.

Eventually all such fripperies have to come to an end, and this case was no exception. It was hunger which, in the end prompted their termination. It had been decided that the food for the evening would take the form of communal barbeque. So Stu’s car headed towards the supermarket to do some shopping and the others headed back to do some old-manish sleeping. The shopping took slightly longer than might have been hoped. The size of the shop proved slightly prohibitive and their lack of disposable barbeques caused some consternation. At this juncture the mistake was made to split the party sending two of their number in search of barbeques, leaving Sarah and Stu to finish the shopping. The mistake here was in leaving two of the most indecisive people in the world to finish the shopping. However, around half and hour later the decision on what beer to buy was finally made. It turned out the decision had been to buy far too much beer, but at least that was better than the alternative.

Arrayed with purchases, but no barbeques they returned to the campsite. The decision having been take that Tom’s barbeque would suffice for the cooking. In taking this decision it transpired that the inadvisability of combining one small barbeque with one militant vegetarian had been overlooked. In the end however, exclusion zones were carefully guarded and the food was cooked, or at least warmed in true barbeque fashion, with the exception of the sausages – which were burnt. There was a reasonable amount of food leftover from the barbeque, which it was decided could provide us breakfast for the next day. Having packed the uncooked meats into loosely tied plastic bags and left them lying around the ground we moved into the palatial tent to continue the drinking.

The drinking turned out to be a fairly relaxed affair, with no one christening the floor of the tent. However Patrick, having been evicted from the tent for his snoring, took to his new homeless role as every homeless person does and drank 3 litres of cheap own brand cider before passing out. Or actually drank 2.75 litres before passing out and received various chastisements on account of his remaining quarter litre. Whilst the drinking may have been fairly relaxed – with the absinthe staying well in it’s bottle and too much pimms being mixed for any normal persons liking - the conversation flowed ozzingly along it’s normal guttural channels oft picking up a recurring theme for the weekend – that of anal sex. Whilst there were denials that anyone present had ever partaken of it, certain peoples obsession could give rise to doubt in a suspicious mind.

A surprisingly early night was had and so it was that people arose refreshed the next morning. At least everyone arose except Patrick in his little tent, banished to the other end of the field sleeping off his cider. It was decided that this state of affairs could not continue, so his tent was rapidly and comprehensively deconstructed, though not entirely without ceremony.

Thoughts now turned toward breakfast. However it was discovered that leaving the uncooked meat in loosely tied bags out in the campsite was not the greatest thing to have done with it, due to it’s no longer being there. There were two schools of thought on the reason for the disappearance. One suggested that an overly zealous drunken helpful person had unhelpfully cleared them away to the bin and not helpfully left them lying on the grass as had been thought. This line of thought was evidenced by the fact that unopened sausage packets had vanished, whilst opened burgers had not. The second school of thought, lead by the eminent Cambridge zoologist Tom Day was that they had been stolen by a wily fox, possibly looking to keep the food sealed for use on another occasion. Evidence for this theory came in the form of fox like teeth marks found in Sarah’s bread, which had also been left out over night. It is likely that we will never know the true reason for the disappearance of the sausages. But what is known is that we had to go the shop and buy some more.

Having now spent some considerable time on breakfast and packing up tents a considerable part of the morning had elapsed, and it was raining. But, not to be put off we drove to Putsbourgh and surveyed an almost completely flat sea. Having done that we drove to Croyde and surveyed a more undulating sea. Difficult choices now had to be made - to get out of the car, into the rain, into wet kit, into the sea; or just to be lazy and not bother? In the end Stu’s car plus Dan and minus some kit decided not to bother, whilst the rest stayed to play in the rain.

It having been decided that the whole party would meet up again at Rich’s in Bristol for dinner, Stu’s car departed and headed early for the metropolitan delights of that city. After some faff it was decided they would go bowling, after which decision followed some more road closed and driving round most of Bristol faff. Finally they arrived to go bowling, an activity it is probably even more boring to describe than surfing. Suffice it to say that, contrary to early indications, and in keeping with the standard of the party - Stu won with a couple of crucial (lucky) balls.

Later everyone did indeed turn up to Rich’s and bolognaise was cooked, in both meat and vegetarian varieties. It was then eaten from paper bowls due to a lack of crockery. Food having been eaten and belongings returned, there was then nothing else left to do except face the long dark of the road home, except obviously for Rich, since he was already at home. So people set out heading back to their respective lives.

And so it was that avoidance decision taken, the reality of facing the blank canvas of life returned, shining faintly as though a taunt in the dark of the wet night. And still no decision had been taken of the best way in which to paint it. One day maybe the inspiration will arrive to start again, or maybe it will just be time for another holiday…

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