Sunday wasn’t perhaps the best day for taking a long walk on the sand dunes; it was extremely cold and windy but I had bought a new vermillion red dufflecoat the previous day and I was eager to give it an airing (which was quite convenient considering it was so gusty). I mention that my new coat is red only because Chris and a few other people have mistakenly called it “orange”. To be honest, I could tell that Chris wasn’t too keen on going out – he would much rather have stayed in to watch the final  F1 race of the season – but I was yearning for a “proper walk” and Chris could record the race.

“The days are so short, why don’t we walk locally?” Chris suggested.

My face fell.

“Let’s walk to the Warren and go a bit further than usual – onto the dunes,” he added to secure the deal.

We met two men dressed in orange (our beloved sea wall repairmen) on our way down to the seawall farther on from our section, which has been closed off since the storm damage in February. I could have wished that my new coat was the same colour orange (but is not) to show allegiance. Chris said we matched.

The wind was even stronger at Dawlish Warren.

“It’s very cold,” Chris remarked, hoping that I would recommend turning back for home.

“But you said we could go further…” I reminded him.

“Let’s take the beach then – it’s easier to walk on firm sand,” he suggested.

“But I had visions of us taking the path through the sand dunes…”

We took the winding path that took us over the dunes (we’re very democratic in our household) and we were exhilarated by the wind through our hair and the dramatic clouds that made an arrow in the sky towards Exmouth on the other side of the river (the Warren dunes are on a spit that meets the mouth of the River Exe). Chris said they were jet-stream clouds.

Ahead of us was a couple; the woman had long dark hair and she wore a red jacket which attracted us like a beacon, leading us onward. I was reminded of the poppy fields painting by Monet and I secretly hoped that my own new coat looked as picturesque… although I suspected not because the red dot in the distance was rather more crimson than vermillion… or orange.

In spite of another attempt, or two, by Chris to shorten our walk, we made it out past the golf course and the estuary on our left, to the very end of the spit. The sun shone beautifully over Exmouth. I pointed out the jetty where a little Jim, our son, at three years old caught his first fish.

With the afternoon sun in our eyes, we walked back along the beach, scrambled over the many lines of wooden groynes, and before even we joined the path again we were feeling the rigours of the walk.

“My left hip aches,” I announced, “not to mention my left thigh, which still hurts from Zumba.”

“It’s funny you should mention that because my right hip aches,” Chris admitted.

On “terra firma” once again we found a spring in our step…for a few minutes at least. Some hot chips helped us summon the energy for the last mile and a half to home. We had been walking for four hours.

“Sorry it was such a long walk today,” I said later, my aching legs up on the sofa.

“No, I’m glad – it was wonderful – but I can still feel it in my hip. And Darling, your new coat is orange,” Chris said.

Last word man.