The world from my window

It's that time of year again, when the coach stops off at Lush Places to pick up villagers for the annual outing to Sidmouth Folk Festival. There were only six of us this year, after several cancelled at the last minute and another overslept. Still, the people from the next village made up for it, with seventeen of them climbing aboard as we pulled up outside their pub. The view from the bus was glorious as we wove around the lanes, past Dorset's highest point and then on to the main road down into Devon. It was a quick stop-off at The Volunteer Inn first, where one pint turned, quite magically, into several. And then we wound our way down to the seafront where it was all happening, including a mesmerising performance on a handpan and then off to another pub in a quiet backstreet where there was some foot tapping music going on. There was more music and more stops at various pubs in the town, a picnic lunch on the beach before the tide came in, music and more stop...

On the beach at San Stefanos - the one on Corfu's north west tip rather than the posh one on the other side - the wind is howling, umbrellas are flapping wildly and the breakers rush up to meet the shore. We walk along the long stretch of sand to a point where the sunbeds run out. A naked man and his topless wife sit in front of a small tent and an exposed, flat shelf of rock.  The tattoo on his arm could say 'gatekeeper'. I keep my head down and just follow in Mr Grigg's footsteps. A little farther along, a young man and woman paint each other with sloppy sand. It's as if they're in a commercial for Sure deodorant or something. There are a few stray souls who have on swimsuits but as we round the corner, we see more naked bodies.  I don't know about you, and I'm not sure what Jesus would do in this situation, but I can't help but look . A man crouches behind a bush to put his shorts back on. I turn away and my eye is almost taken out...

As I write, it’s a mad scramble to get things done before heading off on the annual weekend trip to North Devon. In years gone by, there would have been a charabanc pulling up outside my house, filled with cloche-hatted ladies and men with moustaches and a kite-tail trail of freshly-scrubbed children flying (securely attached) in its wake. But today we’ll be heading for the seaside under our own steam, with some taking their time while others - like me - will be rushing. It’s the first time I’ve been to this weekend event, organised by Manuel and Mrs Regal Bird, and I’m not really sure what to expect. We’ve been told to pack our swimming costumes (striped, knitted bathing suits) and hiking boots (hobnails) and be prepared for fun and organised games. Ooer. I’m not much of a participant, more of a watcher, so this could be very interesting. In the meantime, I will leave you with the following titbits that have come to me via the Enchanted Village’s jungle drums. Each of them...