After the glory of last week my ego driven head swelling had reduced to the point that I could actually get into my car. A prolonged run of bum winds was finally swinging, we hoped, into a quarter that would gift us with a splash worthy of the word.
Unfortunately it seemed we were to be disappointed. After the early start, coffee and croissant in hand, and laughing like drains all the drive down, our befogged old eyes had nought but cross shore crap to gaze on when we got to the beach.
Looking to that magic corner at the far eastern end of the beach, that end protected from the cross shore and home of a near permanent set of well shaped banks, I spied a ripping right reel off. Peering more intently, I then noticed a depressing detail I'd originally missed.
Six contest singlets and a crowd on the beach.
Rats and double rats.
So we decided to look about, driving up and down the island before detecting a wind shift gradually tracking around to near dead offshore. We hightailed it back to our original beach, the contest was still on but the banks that were originally being messed up by the wind were now, happily, being blessed by a more benevolent breeze.
A couple of hours of fun though we both felt a little flat.
At least we got wet.
The pics, a crestfallen Rich at our third beach check, a Stairway to Heaven Knows Where and our fourth beach check, with Mr Long Legs and Headless Harry.