A walk at the seaside

29th November

After some pretty low, lows and both exhausted by appointments, meetings and phone calls; the seemingly endless talking and explaining that goes with cancer- we declared today a ‘no cancer day.’
A day where he, who shall not be named, would be ignored, shunned and given the cold-shoulder.

Michelle had the day off. No appointments. Nowhere in particular to be. The world was our oyster.
We got up early, smiled at each other and, for the first time said, ‘what shall we do today?’

The brilliant Sunshine that flooded the conservatory, decided for us.
A walk at the seaside!

Teignmouth, in Devon; situated on the north bank of the river Teign, was the last place in England to be invaded by a foreign power. I used to be a bit snobby about it and said that I could see why!
When you’ve been spoilt by Salcombe, Bantham and the many other lovely places in Devon and Cornwall- it didn’t quite come up to scratch.

Since the local council had tarted it up a bit, and I had paddled my kayak, and fished my way down the river to the sea- I had completely changed my mind. The light was often sublime- changing the scenery, minute by minute.

One summer’s evening -a couple of years ago, I had drifted, thoughtless on the evening tide. The setting sun still warm on my back. A pod of dolphins, followed a boat behind me. I looked up the estuary towards the high moorland and saw Haytor Rocks. I photographed that moment in my mind, carefully recording every detail. What and how I felt. The salt on my lips and skin. The smells and sounds. The sea, the gulls, the distant bustle, baffled. The absolute peace, I enjoyed.
I have recounted this, now boring story, many times since -to anyone that will listen; such was the impact on my soul.
It was the perfect place to walk, with my wife, and our three border terriers. They are our family too.

We decided to start at the beach huts in the narrow passage where river meets sea. Countless tonnes of water rushing past at a rate of knots, at the turning of the tide. Now, it was glassy, smooth and still. The colourful boats adding interest to the scene.

“Have you brought enough poo bags,” says Michelle, shattering the glass.

There is always a bit of fuss at the beginning of any walk when you have dogs. My three always starburst like a motorcycle display team- in perfect unison, and I run to each site to clear it up- a yellow bag attached to both hands, as if participating in some lunatic game of rounders.
Taz- my boy-dog, is always most particular about where he deposits his doings! Specifically in the most hard to reach place.
Against railings, on a rope or some thorny bushes – it seems in order to have a good laugh at my expense.
I screw up my nose, scoop up the horrid mess, tie the bag, then- blow- it! He’s doing another twenty yards away on some seaweed!

Once all the fuss has subsided, we resume the walk. Relax-mode.
We stop to admire the view; Collect a colourful pebble or interesting piece of driftwood and amble along, savouring the moment.

All the way up the beach, under the old Pier, inspecting the rust covered symmetry, and all the way to the end, where the sea covers the sand.

We turn and wonder what time the ticket on the car runs out. We’ve got time for a coffee if we like.
We amble back, stopping to admire a young pup, congratulating its owner.

I lead Michelle into the Beachcomber cafe and we take a seat. The sea on one side, beginning its twice-daily churn, the crisply painted Georgian facades on the other, bathed in full sun. ‘It’s such a lovely place- Teignmouth,’ we agreed.

We relaxed and talked, sharing this most beautiful of days.
That’s what life is about- I think- especially with the one, or ones, we love.