Now that the weather has turned again and we are in the April version of January — cold, incessant rain, general misery, I keep thinking of the perfect Sunday afternoon I spent on Greenaway Beach two weeks ago with P Bad. I had left lil’sis having a massage in the delicious Cowshed Spa at the St Moritz Hotel, and wandered south, towards the sea.
After a steady ten minute trot, we reached the concrete stairs down to the beach. Greenaway is a dogs-welcome, coarse sand beach, tucked up to the north of the family-friendly Daymer Bay. You can’t swim here: It’s all rock pools which P Bad with her new found fascination with the sea, found irresistable.
I really don’t understand why she feels the need to eat so much seaweed.
I’m afraid this isn’t a beach for the less able: those steep, steep steps saw me carrying a wriggly P Bad under my arm both up and down.Water pours down the edge of the mossy steps, making them a twisted limb hazard.
Everything about the beach is wonderful. I perched up on a handy bit of rock n the shade of the cliff, with that ravishing view at top in front of me — it was knocking seventy in the full glare of the sun and I go tomato soon as look as a blue sky, and threw endless bits of shingle for the rat to chase. Although the sand is much coarser than the beach around the corner, it’s a wonderful place to sit, in the lea of the rocks, look out to sea and dream.