Lockdown from Bridport - Part 2 - Day 2

I'm absolutely shattered by 9am. 'The Undertakers' alarm goes off at 6am which is a constant source of irritation and completely unnecessary in my opinion for an 8am start a mere five minute walk away. Relishing the warmth of the feather and duck down duvet and wriggling contentedly on what promised to be the 'most comfortable mattress you'll ever sleep on', (not strictly true but lets not split hairs) I am rudely interrupted by him falling through the bedroom doorway hopping around uttering a string of expletives. 'Oooh oooh oooh', he goes, 'ouch ouch ouch' as he clutches onto the bedframe wincing in agony. Who walks into a large solid desk anyway? 'Why didn't you put the light on?' I demand, 'I didn't want to wake you' he replies through gritted teeth. A broken toe it is then and I'm wide awake.

So that I don't fall into any bad habits or commence anymore new sluttish ways I decide to go on a hike. The utterly divine weather has a lot to do with my decision,  rather than any desire to set a shining example of how to behave. A wee picnic wouldn't go amiss either I decide, nothing worse than feeling faint through lack of sustenance bought about by poor planning. The contents of the fridge are uninspiring. In the end I am forced to settle for a sliced brown sandwich consisting of German sliced ham and Jarlsberg sliced cheese. (None of which have been purchased by me) To add to my dismay the biscuit tin is empty, totally devoid of any naughty nourishment. 

Undeterred I set off with a spring in my step. The local brewery is hard at work, the smell of hops permeates the air whilst the water wheel churns steadily round. There's a couple of bonfires on the go too, its all rather industrious. I don't notice any decline in the traffic either and when I pass through the local caravan park to reach the harbour people are busying themselves around the site. This is a rum lockdown I think to myself, but obviously keep my council. 

Huffing and puffing up the hill, leaving the holiday makers far behind loitering dangerously close to the recent landslide of rocks from the iconic cliffs of West Bay, I can't help being an uninvited guest to a conversation taking place behind me. 'So' says this earnest young woman' 'I've decided to edit my own vegetarian cookbook'. Her partner agrees with this decision, 'no-one has meat on their plates these days anyway'. As they pass me the conversation goes deeper into the complexities of dietary requirements, catering for vegans as well as lactose intolerant guests. 'It's kind of hard these days' they mutter as they leave me far behind. In the distance a farmer is herding a flock of sheep into a new field. Hundreds of tiny white dots surge through the gate and then with alarming speed head into the farthest corner. I imagine a succulent slice of roast lamb.

By the time I reach the beach I realize that the woollen layers that I imagined gave off a whiff of Bohemian eccentricity are all wrong. I feel like a baked potato, if that makes any sense. The tide is out and the shingle and stones have been replaced by firm fine sand. It's exhilarating and breathtakingly wonderful in equal measures. I find a large smooth rock to sit on which I swear was the very one I sat on some fifteen years previously and in those days I recklessly stripped down to my undies and plunged into the sea. I remember my parents with whom I was with at the time being both amused and bemused by my antics. My Father took a picture of my Mother and I sitting on the rock afterwards. It all seems so long ago now as I awkwardly try to peel off my thermal vest. 

What on earth happened to my inner wild child I think, as I pick up a pointed spring cabbage for supper that evening from the supermarket. Like the sparse meagre rockets that lit up the clear sky last night I must have fizzled briefly and burnt out as I headed for the stars. 

I slump briefly over the computer screen then sit up brightly. 'No' I say aloud, 'I'm merely growing old gracefully' and head out with fresh determination to peg my washing on the line.