Goodbye Thames. We headed off along the West Coramandel coast. The views were stunning. Poor Hubby missed most of it as he was driving, as usual. We did stop occasionally so we could take the odd photo or two. Just hoped they weren't too odd.
At one stop, a mother and daughter appeared to be searching for something. Curiosity got the better of me. I had to ask. They were geo-caching (is that how it is spelled? And is that how spelled is spelled??). Using co-ordinates, they were trying to find the hidden treasures. I joined in their quest, having a liking for Enid Blyton type adventures. Alas, alack - nothing there. The mother wasn't even sure she had the correct co-ordinates. So, off they went. We saw them in another lay-by, still searching. I just waved and wondered how many lay-byes would be investigated before nightfall.
We stopped for lunch in Coramandel, a pretty little coast town. The Information Officer gave us plenty of ideas. He invited us to his Stargazing site, offering overnight parking. I couldn't resist name-dropping. I had once received a letter from the late Sir Patrick Moore, the eccentric but loveable 'Sky at Night' presenter and xylophonist. In his autobiography, he stated that he ways replied to letters, so I put him to the test - and he passed!! A few weeks after penning my letter, I received a wonderful reply which he had typed on his old typewriter. Some letters were black, others red. Some were a mix of red and black, others just an imprint where the ribbon had failed completely. A unique memento of a unique person. I still have it.
I could name drop further, but I must fly on. We made our first visit to the aptly named 'Dump Station'. I left this department of motor homing firmly in Hubby's hands. I merely waited until the cassette was removed, emptied, washed and reinserted. Then I gingerly approached Hubby with the disinfectant gel to squirt on his hands before he was allowed back on board.
With fresh milk and water purchased from the local store, we drove along, stopping to admire various bays. The sealed road turned to gravel but it was flat and trouble-free, so we ventured as far as Otuatu Bay Farm Camp. For a small fee we were allowed to park here with power.
Our van's rear window faced a sandy beach with a turquoise-blue sea. There wasn't a cloud in the sky. The camp owner (as in the man who owned the camp, not the politically incorrect meaning) had thought it too cold to swim. I couldn't resist the challenge. Donning my costume, I ventured forth. I had to walk out quite a while before the water passed my thighs (memories of Skegness there). Eventually it was deep enough to swim. Hot-cold-hot-cold. It was the equivalent of swimming across a zebra crossing. I stayed in long enough to prove that I was a brave British lass (with blue legs!).
The onshore shower seemed so warm - for the first ten seconds. Then the icy jet,that hadn't been heated by the sun beating down on the pipe, hit me with its full force. I danced and whooped like a scalded cat.
Of course, I wasn't allowed to enter the van dripping wet. I shook myself like a mad dog. I tried to remove as much water as possible with my 24 x 12 inch super fast drying towel ( ha ha!!). Eventually Hubby took pity on me and let me in. I then performed a ballet routine, hopping from mat to towel to mat to towel before twirling and disappearing into the shower room to complete the dressing process.
Warm and dry, I was ready to cook our evening meal. Hubby must have liked it. He plugged in his iPod (naughty thoughts there methinks), turned on his music and we danced - or rather shuffled in circles - to the sound of Katie Melua, with the sand, sea and stars as our backdrop. Ahhh - that's love for you!!! OUCH - that was my toe you trod on! X x
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