—And Back
The wind and the rain were from the north-east next day. As we cut through a grey sea at between seven and eight knots the long, gay, lifeless ranks of bathing huts on the dun foreshore looked like a Ruritanian expeditionary force which, having been put ashore in expectation of a walk-over, had encountered determined opposition and didn't know what to do about it. Here and there, perhaps once in a mile, a pair of hunched ascetics plodded resolutely, and would soon plod back, along the water's edge. Behind them the villas, bunga- lows, hotels and boarding houses upon the littoral had the bathetic air of a Maginot Line, still fully manned but turned and impotent; behind the blurred windows of the sun-traps it seemed permissible to envisage, despite the compensations of television and canasta, an atmosphere of discontent. We were far colder, far wetter and slightly (for the BBC had spoken of gales) less secure than the thousands of our compatriots within whose view we passed on that Sunday afternoon; and we lost the race by a short head after an exciting finish. But I formed the impression that, in really vile weather, sailing is probably the best of the summer pastimes.
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