Hartland

These photos tell a happy little holiday story, a classic tale familiar to anyone who has holidayed anywhere in the British Isles.

Self and Chris are staying with my family in Devon this week, in a labyrinthine old farmhouse near Hartland. One of those places whose old-fashioned quirkiness is simultaneously fabulous and awkward. Think amazing beams, creaking floorboards, gorgeous fireplaces, and cranky plumbing.

We spent our first night sitting on giant cushions in front of the fire playing with a Trivial Pursuit that dated from 1983 – knowledge of arcane Formula One regulations and which parts of Berlin were which side of the Wall essential – and wondering whether we could get the ancient VHS copy of White Fang to work.

Sunny Sunday morning found us meandering along the cliff path to Hartland Quay, taking in some of the incredible views on the way…

Progress was slow because someone (ehem) kept stopping to take photographs!

We arrived in Hartland to find (much to the delight of the Men) a digger on the beach. The quay wall was badly damaged during the storms, and rebuilding work was in full swing. Needless to say the chaps were in seventh heaven.

“Think of the sandcastles you could build with that.”

I even found some topical graffiti on the harbour wall. Now don’t all sing at once.

Ice cream was consumed (my holiday preference is always mint choc chip), the digger was further admired, and finally we all took to the cliff path to wend our way home.

I’m now happily curled up in a cosy window seat alternately editing photographs and wading through chapters of Moby Dick. But now that lunch has worn off and a nap has perked up the drooping eyelids I think it might be time for another excursion. Watch this space…