|Lone Ranger at the back|
We arrived via Pheasent Country and the winds were racing. We traded in our drums and guitars for wetsuits and surfboards and "hit the surf!". It was all getting a bit spiritual before Tommy almost knocked himself out with his surfboard, during a rad freestyle move called "biting the board without opening your mouth." He rose from the brine, dreads akimbo, with blood gushing from his toothy grin. Luckily he had only managed to bite a chunk out of his lip and his pearly tombstones were all pretty much present and correct. We packed up and flew the windy beach in search of food and shelter.
In the evening we revisited a favourite haunt of ours in Mortehoe and set the world straight again with beer, fish and chips and whisky chasers. Come bedtime the wind roared and rocked our vans as the rain like nails hammered down. No one slept a wink and I almost froze to death. Who's idea was this?
The next day we decided to visit the old Victorian seaside town of Lynton, twinned with Lynmouth and famed for its cliff railway and valley of the rocks. The brochure read: "fun in any weather" - Tommy would probably agree. This is bullshit. We bid farewell to Tommy, as if for the last time, who strolled on into Lynmouth Gorge like a ghost from 1958.
Can't wait 'til the next Martyr's weekend tour!