A Blast at Berrow

A pillbox just the other side of the golf course.

The church disappearing behind dunes as we walk the footpath to the beach.

It's got to be Berrow.

The last time we were there, last Christmas, there was snow on the hills and it was so cold the grimaces froze to our faces. 

Sunday evening it was scorching hot.

But there was a breeze. And if there had been lots of holiday makers there earlier ... which I doubt because there were few footprints on the beach ... they were now broiling in queues of traffic on the M5 heading north. As usual, we had the place to ourselves.

There is nothing at Berrow. No toilets, no ice cream vans or cafes, often no sign of the sea, just mud. 

It is Ted Heaven. 

His favourite spot of all is here, nestled in the hollow under the bows of the SS Nornen, a Norwegian barque wrecked on the flats way back in 1897. 

Here he is, extricating himself.

We walked a couple of miles along the mudline towards Brean. 

And then back again. Looking across the Bristol Channel to Wales, I could see Nash Point lighthouse, where we were a couple of weeks ago, but it was too distant for my camera to capture. 

The sun was beginning to set when we passed the wreck again, but it was still a big surprise to see that we'd been walking for three hours. 

Back along the sunken path that is almost a holloway, except for being on dunes. 

Then we sat on a bench above the churchyard like the elderly trio we are and enjoyed our dotage for a bit. 

There was barely a car on the motorway going home, either.