Hey, let's get naked

I was first on the beach this morning at about 5.30am. No other footprints in the sand, which had been washed flat by the tide. The beach was mine and my dog's. She didn't seem that impressed, but this morning was special, clear views from Hartland Point to Baggy. A container vessel lumbered its way the landward side of Lundy. All this under a sky laden with lilac, purple and pink clouds and the occasional patch of clear blue. What's that line in one of the songs on Quadrophenia by The Who? 'A beach is a place where a man feel/ He's the only soul in the world who's real.' That was me, but, obviously, not my dog.

So we walked along the beach and then headed down to the water's edge. The sea was whisper quiet and as I approached I decided a paddle was in order. Shoes and socks off, and carry on walking towards the water. It was then I formed the idea of going for a swim. Strip off and run headlong into the sea. Nobody was around, who would know? Skinny-dipping is the best way to swim, although not something you can do easily all the time. To swim in crystal clear sea (not round here, then) with the hot sun beating down (definitely not round here) is an almost transcendental experience. To appreciate the difference swimming without any clothing makes, try taking a bath in your underwear. Trust me on this. Anyway there I was, shoes and socks off gearing up for a daring dip when the first ripples of the sea washed around my ankles. God's teeth, it was cold. The dog ran in, but I decided a cup of coffee was in order.

Life on the road

I used to have to drive all over North Devon for work, but now I don't. Instead I drive just one particular stretch of road most days and, as a consequence, I've got to know it pretty well. I travel along part of the A39 between Bideford and Barnstaple and it is very familiar to me, which is how I noticed the man in the red Renault Laguna estate. Most days, in the lay-bys closest to the Barnstaple end of the Torridge Bridge (on both sides of the road) you will see him. There seems to be no rhyme nor reason to which lay-by he chooses, but it is rare for him not to be there. I think he could be living in his car.

I told my significant other about this and she suggested that as we were driving along the A39 at the time we should see if he was parked up and take a look. He was there, in the lay-by on the Bideford-bound side of the road, but he was facing towards Barnstaple - maybe he wanted the sun. We stopped our car opposite his and looked at him, and he looked at us. If we were not going to initiate a conversation there didn't seem much more we could do, so we carried on with our journey. I noticed that the rear window of his car was missing and the back door was dented.

So for the time being the man in the red Renault Laguna estate remains something of a mystery. I suppose I might just be intolerably nosy, but why people do things fascinates me, and I can't begin to understand why a person would spend so much time sitting in their car in one of two lay-bys. I first noticed him about a month ago and it has become impossible for me not to glance up at the lay-bys as I drive by. Nine times out of ten (an entirely unscientific assertion) I would say he was there. But why?

Him? Oh he's The Boss

I was watching Bruce Springsteen - The Boss to many of his fans - at Glastonbury on Saturday. I wasn't one of the hordes actually at Worthy Farm, I hardly ever leave North Devon, but sat at home in front of the telly I got a pretty good view of the best that Bruce and the E Street Band had to offer. I thought it was great, but then I do like Bruce, and immediately suffered a pang of regret. The regret stemmed from knowing that Springsteen is to appear in Hyde Park today and I could have gone.
Yes, I know I said I hardly ever leave North Devon, but I was all set to make an exception in this instance and venture to London. I find our great capital alternately terrifying and fascinating and in order to have seen Bruce at Hyde Park I would have placed myself in the level-headed care of my big sister, who lives in London and is still looking out for me after all these years. However, work intervened and so I passed on the chance and that left me wondering about something that has been on my mind since the spring when my dad died - it's the whole question of regret.
Regrets, I've had a few, but then again, too few to mention. Yes, someone got there first to say that, but my point is should we allow ourselves to run the risk of regretting what we have not done. As I said, since my dad died (after a long illness and at a good age) I have been thinking that ultimately what we ought to look for in life are memories, not regrets. Following on from that I also think that sometimes none of it matters, we are, after all, merely mortal. But that is perhaps allowing the nihilist side of my nature to show through.
This all came to me this morning as I trundled along the Tarka Trail on my bike, where my chief regret was tender nether regions due to not riding often enough. Eventually, I decided that life is too short and I should get on with a) enjoying having seen the Glastonbury performance, b) taking in the beautiful sights and sounds of the Tarka Trail, and c) cycling more often so I don't end up with a funny walk.

Pop...and he's gone

Michael Jackson is dead and here in North Devon I didn't think there was that much of a connection with a story that resounds around the world. But then of course I remembered that the Peter Pan of Pop is alleged to have once attended the Queen's Theatre, Barnstaple, for some sort of awards ceremony. Did he, didn't he? I don't really care. I'd like to think he did, although I have my doubts.
And then the Jackson clan - give or take Michael and one or two others - found themselves deposited in Appledore looking for a house. For much of the time they looked rather shell-shocked and left North Devon without having purchased their dream property. A sad day for North Devon's estate agents, but can you really imagine the Jacksons propping up the bar of, say, The Beaver necking pints of real ale and trying to work out the intricacies of cribbage or euchre.
So RIP Michael Jackson. I'll freely confess that I have never been a great fan of his music, although early stuff from 'Off the Wall' takes me instantly back to blundering around on the dance floor of the students' union of what was then Sheffield Poly. In this hugely connected world in which we live, Sheffield, for me, is linked to my having been in North Devon now for close to 30 years. I only came here as a stepping stone...anyway, moving on.