It’s August 1970 and Ian has just come down by train to join
the lads’ Cornwall hostelling holiday, hopping off at Hayle. A Western diesel
powers through with a Penzance to Paddington express. It is too quick, both for
me and my camera. We are staying the night at Phillack youth hostel and spending
much of the day on the nearby sands.
Hayle and St Ives may face each other over the estuary but
they are like chalk and cheese. St Ives must be one of the most scenic and
fascinating of all British seaside resorts, Hayle, by comparison, rather dull, once away
from the beach.
We had our dune jumping competition there, however, running
seawards towards the crest, launching off and falling into soft sand. I don’t
think that I’ve ever been airborne under my own power for a longer period of
time on any occasion since then, though I have occasionally been known to fly
by the seat of my pants.
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