The preceding Portuguese coastal break and the future Romanian road trip were distracting enough to prevent me giving too much thought to a handful of days in familiar and convenient Devon. I’d guess that we’d surf, maybe kayak, take a loop round the most appealing local town or city. We’d fill our days well and full like I always plan to on holiday, be cultural, be exciting.
In the end these things didn’t make a good holiday. The weather made it a good holiday. It drizzled and poured, the wind went wrong for kayaking, the waves went wrong for surfing. It was foul.
All we could think to do was walk in the less drizzly spots. Walking to the local lighthouse and seeing the jaggedy rocks below. Walking to the pebble ridge and hearing nothing but the tide quietly making its way through the stones. Walking along the beach and finding a way through rock pools and cliffs. Walking the coastal path and being greeted by scores of seals lolling on rocks and sleeking through the water.
When it drizzled harder we went back and read and did a jigsaw and watched Wimbledon.
It wasn’t a very productive holiday.
It was a really good holiday.
It wasn’t exotic and cultural and pushing boundaries and otherworldly and braggable and “travel”.
It wasn’t expensive, it wasn’t intricately planned.
It was just a few small good things.