SJ, the kids and I actually managed to escape for our little break in Minehead – incredible really, considering the chaos that preceded it. Ernie stayed behind, not because he ate my breakfast (though he does have recent previous convictions in that department) but because he pinched some of the carefully rationed food I’d put aside for my Marcher Castles Way trip. Should I blacklisted him from all future family holidays? (Nah, he's too cute and was super pleased to see me once back home - probably sniffing out the rock...)
To make matters worse, Ernie was not the only creature causing grief at home. A rat – yes, a proper rat – decided to remind us that our house is apparently part of the local wildlife circuit. On the evening, before departure, I thought I’d treat myself to a stress-busting soak in the bath… only to pull out the plug and watch the ceiling below get its very own indoor waterfall. Homeserve arrived swiftly and confirmed the culprit: a rat had chewed clean through the waste pipe. A real menace. Supposedly they’ll gnaw anything – pipes, wires, carpets, even your sense of calm. It had also taken a nibble at Moo’s carpet but I decided against sharing that detail with my daughters, because let’s face it, there are some things children don’t need to know before a holiday. In fact, my kids don't need to know this at all, so please don't inform them!
Anyway, water damage and rodent assaults aside, we did finally set sail (in a car, but still) and made it to Minehead. Now, Minehead has had something of a reputation whispered to me as being a little “tacky”. I can officially report that this is slander. Coastal charm, sandy beach, and not a whiff of tackiness in sight. Our campsite was perched on a proper hill climb – all hairpin turns and “are we nearly there yet?” – called Moor Camp (I think), top of Moor Hill and next to Moor Woods (appropriately enough). From our tent we could see the sweep of beach, the sea stretching out to the horizon, and the town glimmering below. Quite the reward after surviving the drive and the kids antics.
 |
| Sleeping Spoon |
 |
| Sleeping Moo |
Did I mention pillows? Forgotten entirely. SJ had to buy herself a posh, compact camping pillow, while I improvised by folding up my jacket – a surprisingly adequate but distinctly less glamorous substitute. Spoon’s airbed punctured within a night but was replaced in good humour, and at one point she slid herself clean out of her un-zipped compartment and was snoring happily in the middle of the tent floor. That girl has a hearty snore!
 |
| Not a Diplodocus, but not far off |
Our seaside routine was simple but satisfying: early dips in the sea, sand between the toes, the tide running away faster than you could shout “wait for me!”, and barefoot jogs along the shore that made me feel like I was in training for Chariots of Fire. The land around has that slightly prehistoric feel in places – jagged coastline, big skies, almost expecting a Diplodocus to appear around the corner.
The town itself was easy to wander about, despite signposts that occasionally claimed we were in two different places at once – we simply assumed we had mastered time travel. The harbour was blustery enough to whip your hat off, and stern signs were pinned about forbidding you to leap dramatically from the pier. Unlike in Torquay, my bravery was not to be tested.
Minehead also had these quirky little model characters scattered about – not entirely sure what the story behind them was, but they gave the place a playful personality. The weather was mostly kind: warm, sunny stretches perfect for a lazy beach day. Sadly, we did spot smoke from nearby forest fires, with teams of fire crews rushing out – a sobering contrast to our holiday calm. We packed up a night early to dodge an oncoming storm, much preferring to fold the tent up dry than attempt it with thunderclaps cracking overhead.
One highlight was our day trip to Dunster Castle, a magnificent pile of history just a short hop away. Perched on a wooded hill above the picture-perfect village of Dunster, the castle has been everything from a Norman stronghold to a Victorian family home. The views over Exmoor and the Bristol Channel are worth the climb alone. The girls had a crack at archery in the grounds – Robin Hood beware – while I ended up scaling a rock-climbing wall contraption that reminded me a bit of Birmingham’s The Depot, though geared more towards overexcited children than creaky dads. Just next door is Dunster’s working watermill, still turning with a steady, soothing clatter that makes you wonder if life wasn’t better at this slower pace.
And in a final triumph, I actually remembered to pack and wear my “Bearded Bimbler” hat for the whole adventure. Small victories.
All in all, it was another cracking family “hollibobs” (to use the technical term). Very little resting involved, of course, because family holidays aren’t for rest – they’re just a lively prelude to the next adventure. Which in my case is tomorrow’s bike-packing escapade. Hardly time to let the tent pegs cool.
No comments:
Post a Comment