Some years ago [well- quite a few years ago], Husband took to body-boarding. This was, in part, due to our living by the sea and a perfect, flat, surfy beach. He had wetsuits and all the paraphernalia. Someone asked me if I went out to watch him enjoying this activity, which I found profoundly amusing. [He certainly doesn’t sit and watch me gardening]. Anyway- this is all in the past now.

But my point is, much of Cornwall’s coast is famed for surfing. Indeed, Newquay is surf city and alive with night clubs and the rest, resulting in an altogether rowdy summer scene.

Polzeath, near Padstow, however, is a relatively quiet spot with a small beach, although still hosts crowds of everything surfy: tuition, board hire, wetsuit sales, wetsuit hire, outdoor showers, an explosion of pizza vans and kiosks and anything else surfers need. The small town is just about walkable for me- down through an adjacent site, along a lane and we’re there. Among the pizza places and board hire vans there are one or two useful outlets for us- a Spar supermarket offering most items and a lovely-looking bar/restaurant facing the beach.

To re-enter our site at this lower end, we have been given a fob. We set off [slowly in my case] down to the gate. At this point there are still a fair number of tourers and tents on our end of the site. I like to see tents on a site. We were tent campers for many years before we succumbed to vans and I missed it to begin with.

We’ve got down through the gate and have begun the descent through the steep chalet site on our way to look at the town and buy a few groceries when Husband realises he doesn’t have the key fob to get back. He turns back, leaving me sitting outside the chalet site’s posh reception building, which has a handy bench. While he’s gone [and he has to gain entry to our site by throwing himself on the mercy of a fellow-camper] a robin keeps me company, coming to stand between my feet and staring beseechingly up at me while I chat to him/her. I don’t have any tasty titbits so eventually the tiny bird leaves.

After quite some time, Husband returns, although he hasn’t found the key fob and had to go to our site’s reception for a new one. But we can continue down to Polzeath, where we go down to the beach and get a drink in a rustic bar nestled between wetsuits and pizzas. The beach is mostly obscured by parked cars and vans in a vast car park, but we check out the Waterfront bar and restaurant for another night and trek [and hobble] back to our site, secure at least that we can get back in.

In the van, I find myself staring at Husband. ‘What’s that in your pocket?’ I ask him and he puts his hand into his pocket to pull out the ‘lost’ key fob…

Novels by Jane Deans [Grace]: The Year of Familiar Strangers and The Conways at Earthsend. Visit my website: janedeans.com