The Amateur Ark-Builder’s Guide to Wembury Beach (Before the Rain Returns)
If you happen to inhabit this particular fold of the English landscape, a region so relentlessly lumpy it’s a wonder the sheep don’t all have one leg shorter than the others, it will not have escaped your attention that the weather of late has been, to put it mildly, biblical.
In fact, I am reasonably certain that since the turn of the year, the most frequently consulted entry on the internet has not been "how to lose ten pounds" or "easy sourdough," but rather "construction techniques for the amateur ark-builder." I have taken the role to heart, sprouting a beard of such patriarchal proportions that I’m often mistaken for a lost member of a Victorian climbing expedition. Mrs. C, while steadfastly vetoing my requests to adopt the robe-and-sandals look in public, has at least shown a surprising, if slightly alarming, openness to the idea of filling the spare room with two of every living creature.
So imagine our delight when, roughly halfway through another afternoon spent staring morosely at the rain as it sluiced down the windowpane in great, rhythmic sheets, a genuine miracle occurred.
The clouds, seemingly having grown bored of drowning us, shook hands and went their separate ways. In their wake, they left a sky of such startling, improbable blue that it felt almost like a provocation. In the centre of it all sat a fiery orb of such intense brightness that I vaguely recalled seeing something similar on an episode of Teletubbies back in the early 2000’s.
This was not an opportunity to be squandered on household chores or finishing the Ark (which joined the long, dusty ranks of my other abandoned DIY projects). I swapped my theoretical sandals for actual boots, lunged for my camera bag, and bolted for the door.
Given that the British climate treats a sunny interval with the same fleeting commitment a toddler gives to a broccoli floret, a dash to Dartmoor felt recklessly optimistic. Instead, we zipped along in our small car through a countryside that was less "rolling hills" and more "saturated sponge," bound for the nearest patch of coastline at Wembury. I have, it must be said, photographed Wembury Beach approximately four thousand times, but one does not turn one's nose up at actual, verifiable sunshine. After all, in this part of the world, there is every chance we won’t see it again until the next millennium.
