The dog ambles at my side, still limping a little, his mini-monster of a face looking up at me every time I look down at him. It makes me smile, and gives me the boost I need to keep going. The heat is punishing now, even though it’s almost 4pm, and there is no breeze at all. Just us, and the fireball in the sky, and a very long road. I feel a bit like an extra in a Mad Max movie, and I suspect I look like one too. My personal grooming has taken a nosedive since I became a nomad.
It takes a while, and I notice that the dog is limping even more now. I realise belatedly that the road is probably really hot on his paws, and I scoop him up into my arms. He weighs next to nothing, and licks my chin to say thank you.
“You’re very welcome,” I say, narrowing my eyes to try and see where this road to nowhere might be leading us.
Sadly, it looks like ‘nowhere’ might be the right answer. The tarmac abruptly stops at the bottom of the hill, and turns into a wide dirt track that leads off to the left. I follow it, and we enter another patch of woodland, less dense than that up at the top, trees rooted in sandy soil. Sunlight is dappling through the scattered branches, and there are clear signs that the path is regularly used – but so far, no signs of who uses it, and still no bars on my useless phone.
I am about to despair and turn back when I see a large gate, closed but not locked. There’s a sign on it, and I expect it to be one of those usual friendly countryside messages – you know, ‘If you leave this gate open you will be shot’, or ‘Beware: if you enter this field you will be eaten alive by wild vampire pigs’, that kind of thing.
Instead, I see a completely charming hand-painted board that looks like it was created by children, or possibly a Turner Prize-winning artist. There is a picture of a bay – blocky stripes of bright yellow sand, blue water – and a smattering of extra images. Ice cream cones, cakes, footballs, teddy bears, a princess’s tiara, flying pixies, an animal that looks like a cross between a giraffe and a hippo.
‘Welcom to Starshine Cove!’ it says, unapologetically missing an ‘e’. ‘Population: nobody knows!’
I smile, but I also take a photo of it. Old habits die hard, and if I end up getting abducted and burned like a Wicker Woman, I want to leave as many clues as possible. The dog licks my phone as well, so I start to think he does that to everything.
I open the gate, keeping him firmly snuggled in the other arm, and emerge onto yet another path – this one much more narrow, and lined with yet more works of art. There are tiny wooden houses populated by cuddly toys, a little tea set laid out on a miniature picnic blanket, and a small hammock stretching between two shrubs that is filled with plastic dinosaur toys. As we progress, I see colourful pompoms tied to the tree trunks and branches, and a dangling mobile made of intricately perfect fairies with iridescent wings. Amid the shade and the birdsong and the wildflowers all around me, it is really quite magical.
The dog wriggles, and I set him down. It is cooler here, and he seems to want to explore, poking his nose into the leaves that carpet the floor, tail properly wagging now.
“Okay,” I say firmly, “that’s fine, but don’t pee on the dinosaurs, all right?”
He trots away, still unsteady but obviously keen, towards a brook that is living up to its kind’s reputation for burbling. The water flows steady and clear, and I am so thirsty I am almost tempted to scoop some up in my hands – but I’ve treated far too many bacterial infections in my time to do anything so wild. The dog, being a dog and all, has no such concern and throws himself into the stream.
When he emerges, his fur is flat to his body, and I see how skinny he is, the poor thing. He shakes himself right by my legs, spattering my jeans with mud, and we continue to walk.
The next gate has another sign – this one is made out of letters that are covered in stuck-on glitter, and it simply says: ‘This way to the beach!’
Okay, so it doesn’t say ‘this way to the luxury spa’, but it is hopeful – somebody painted these signs, made this little trail of whimsy, and if I can find them, they might have something amazing with them, like a chilled can of Diet Coke. Right now, that is the one thing I wish for most in the whole wide world. That and a loo.
We go through the gate, and within seconds we are there – at the end of the world. I stop, unable to take even one more step, completely stunned by the view opening up in front of me. To call it just ‘the beach’ does it a huge disservice. It is the most perfect beach I have ever seen: a small horseshoe of sand fringing the turquoise sea I spotted from the top of the hill.
There are large rocks that look perfect for sitting on, and the shadows of caves in the red-yellow cliffs, and sunlight that looks as dazzling in its watery reflection as it does in the sky. It is wild and beautiful and free – it is the absolute image of the happy place I have spent so many hours conjuring up in my classes. It’s here, and it’s real, and somehow, I have found it – my happy place, and a stinky dog that looks like E.T.
There is nobody else here, and I have no idea why – this cove should be full of people; it should be a tourist hotspot. Except…well, as I’ve just discovered myself, it’s not exactly easy to find, and from the main road you’d have no idea it was here at all. Maybe I am even the first person to ever set foot on it…
The dog scampers ahead, and pees on a half-crumbled sandcastle, which disproves my Ella the Explorer theory. Definitely not the first person here.
I stand still facing the sea for a few more minutes, floored by the beauty, by the peace, by the amazing resemblance that this place has to the one I’d imagined.
But soon, I start to be floored by other matters – like thirst, and the need for a loo, and clean clothes. I am not as flexible as the dog when it comes to these issues.
I walk further out into the sand, and gaze around. There are sandcastles, so there must be people. I do a complete circle, and behind me, I spot steps built into the landscape, leading up and away from the beach. They’re made of yellow stone, camouflaged by the fact that they are exactly the same shade as the sand.
As I walk up them they widen, and on either side of me there are terraces built from the same pale stone, cleverly designed to flow down the side of the hill to the beach. There are tables and benches and parasols, and the whole place is dripping with hanging baskets and barrels and tubs and troughs full of flowers of every type and shade.
I breathe a sigh of relief as I make my way up the steps, and through the terraces – they must be leading somewhere.
I soon see a single-storey building looming at the top. It is chalet style, all smooth blonde wood and walls of glass – which makes sense with that view on offer. A wooden sign has been planted in the grass, which looks to have been created by the same small hands that paved the way along the woodland – this one features every possible kind of cake, bowls of soup, mugs of hot chocolate with blobby marshmallows on top, and the words ‘Cove Café’. That sounds like absolutely the best place on the entire planet right now.
A path leads to the door, either side of it chaperoned by an amazing garden – obviously cultivated but still somehow wild, foxgloves and hollyhocks blending with vibrant buttercups and purple-striped irises. There are more of the little fairies nestled among them, and they look right at home, as though they’re about to sip little teacups of nectar and talk to the bees.
When I reach the door, though, I notice something absolutely horrifying – a sign that says ‘closed’. I let out a small growl, and decide that it simply can’t be closed. Not after all of this. The sign must be wrong, the door must be shut by mistake, and I WILL have my ice-cold Diet Coke even if I have to smash the glass, grab it, and do a runner. I have never considered a life of crime before, but today could be the start of a whole new career.
Before I try anything as deranged as lobbing a terracotta plant pot through it, I test the door. It slides open on well-oiled tracks, and I feel the remnants of aircon cool against my skin as I step through. Ha, I think, I was right – it was a mistake, and it isn’t closed. Except…well, most of the lights are off, and there aren’t any customers, and there are no staff, and… Yeah, okay. It’s closed.
It’s closed, and someone forgot to lock up, and I really shouldn’t be here – but that thing has happened now, and there’s no arguing with it. You know that thing when you really need a loo, and as soon as you’re near one, your body somehow becomes all relieved and happy and then you have to go even more? I glance around, see the door to what has to be the facilities, and half-walk half-jog in their direction.
I do my business, all the time the dog sitting still before me, staring at me as though he’s wondering what on earth is happening. Once that blessed moment is done with, I emerge into the washing area, and make a big mistake – I look in the mirror. Frankly, it’s terrifying.
