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.

The Sunday ride to Cockwood was somewhat deflating. As you may know, it’s incredibly tiring for both the rider (me) and the pumper (Chris the stalwart) when your bike has a tyre with a faulty valve; it is a case of pump, pump, pump, then ride as fast as you can for as long as you can (until your bottom can feel every tiny stone and you begin to worry about the rims of the wheels); then all over again pump, pump, pump – and dash, dash, dash – and walk, walk, walk (up the steep hills) and so on.

It’s amazing what a difference a new inner tyre with new valve (they are integral nowadays) makes; I felt like I was riding on air, which I was at last, after months of making do with a gradually increasing emission of air from my rear tyre. Eurphoric to realise that my usual fitness had not all but deserted me, I rode like an athlete (albeit a ‘ride for fun’ style of athlete) and in next to no time we had ridden to Cockwood Harbour.

To top it off the tide was in and the sun came out to welcome us, and the members of Cockwood Boat Club were out in force (well, there were four of them). One gentleman had made it out on a tender to his fine-looking catamaran and another chap paddled over in his rowing boat to a larger boat, which was moored close to the edge of the harbour wall above which Chris and I had parked our bikes and were walking.

“Is this your boat?”I asked as the man stepped on board.

“No, it’s for sale. I’m just inspecting it,” he replied with a smile (it seems that most boating people are friendly and happy to talk about boats).

“How much is it?”

“One thousand two hundred pounds,” he came back.

At that moment another small rowing boat, bearing two men, came onto the scene;a man with a cap rowed to one of the many sets of steps on the harbour wall and the two got out and sat on the railings at the roadside where they opened a flask.

“I hope you don’t mind that I took photographs of you coming in,” I said, “But you looked so picturesque.”

“No, we don’t mind,” the man in the cap looked at me with a smile of recognition, “you took some photos of me before…”

“That’s right,” I remembered him too (although he appeared quite different in his cap and high green waders), “I still have the photographs – you were picturesque then too”.

“Why don’t you buy a boat yourself?” asked the friend of the man with the cap and he pointed to the boat that was for sale. “That’s a lovely Orkney Long-Liner!”

“An Orkney Long-Liner? I’m not in the market for a big boat. (A rowing boat is more the ticket!) I wonder if the owner would take less than twelve hundred pounds for it,” I pondered.

“One thousand – without the outboard motor,” his eyes twinkled with glee.

“How do you know? (he chuckled) Is it your boat?”

“One thousand two hundred with the engine,” he continued to chuckle.

“I suppose it’s expensive to moor a boat in the harbour?” I queried.

The two friends looked at each other and laughed.

“Twenty-two pounds a year,” they agreed.

“Wow, that’s cheap,” I looked at Chris.

Chris smiled in his quiet negative way and said nothing.

“You can have my boat for one hundred and seventy-five pounds,” Den said (he’s the man in the cap).

“I could afford that! I could go fishing in it,” I turned to Chris who was still smiling negatively.

“Or, you could join the club for ten pounds a year and take out the club tender for a bit of fishing – there are plenty of eels and the mackerel come right in here” suggested Alec (the man without a cap).

“I could sell them to the pubs,” I had it all planned out in two seconds flat.

“But,” said Den, “if you take the tender out you have to bring it back whenever club members need it to take them to their boats…”

As you can tell, readers, this all needs some consideration. For now I’m going to settle for joining the Cockwood Boat Club – the man who inspected the Orkney Long-Liner came along and he just so happens to be the Vice Lord Admiral (or something like that) of the club. The forms will reach me in a few days and my membership will begin in January. I can hardly wait till next year to go fishing in the harbour with Chris (apparently he can be my guest). It is my hope that the other members will be equipped with their own tenders by then (Den could sell someone his) so that I’ll have enough time to catch a few nice flat-fish such as plaice.

Oh, speaking of flat-fish, that reminds me, the tyre stayed up and I’m buoyant about it!

And here are the words to Messing About on the River, written by Tony hatch.

When the weather is fine then you know it’s a sign
For messing about on the river.
If you take my advice there’s nothing so nice
As messing about on the river.
There are long boats and short boats and all kinds of craft,
And cruisers and keel boats and some with no draught.
So take off your coat and hop in a boat 
Go messing about on the river. 

There are boats made from kits that reach you in bits
For messing about on the river.
Or you might want to skull in a glass-fibred hull.
Just messing about on the river.
There are tillers and rudders and anchors and cleats,
And ropes that are sometimes referred to as sheets.
With the wind in your face there’s no finer place,
Than messing about on the river. 

There are skippers and mates and rowing club eights
Just messing about on the river.
There are pontoons and trots and all sorts of knots
For messing about on the river.
With inboards and outboards and dinghies you sail.
The first thing you learn is the right way to bail.
In a one-seat canoe you’re the skipper and crew,
Just messing about on the river. 

There are bridges and locks and moorings and docks
When messing about on the river.
There’s a whirlpool and weir that you mustn’t go near
When messing about on the river.
There are backwater places all hidden from view,
And quaint little islands just awaiting for you.
So I’ll leave you right now to cast off your bow,
Go messing about on the river.