Spotty John, the local street-level weed dealer, shuffles up and down the beach front in his regulation grey sweats. My, he’s piled on the pounds. He wheezes by the railings. The tide is out and the rocks are crowded with out-of-towners, blow-ins and clowns from the city in their inappropriate footwear. They are looking for lobsters, crabs and wash-up.
Hannah J works at the delicatessen on the corner of Front Street. Audrey, her cat, is curled up on the counter, apparently napping. Each time Hannah reaches up to take down a roll of cheese or a shoulder of ham from the shelf behind her, the little cat pushes a saucer of milk from the counter. The customers are complaining of milk stained crotches. They should be so lucky. Audrey, of course, pretends to be asleep the whole time.
We take a walk down the hill, through the forest, to the tea room nestled in the tree lined valley – brother Chris, Tasty Brown, Daren K, Angela D and myself: what a curious crowd! Of course, when we get there I realise that I don’t have my wallet. So, I head back up the hill to get some money.
A zip wire rota, or ski lift contrivance, runs between the foot and the summit. I climb onto the next passing one and – many things falling from my pockets into the undergrowth – ascend.