Dolphin street, Port Isaac

How come the holiday postcards never look like this? It doesn't rain in Cornwall, does it?

I woke to the sound of rain, so stumbled off to the bathroom and back to sleep. it was still raining later. Made a huge cooked breakfast and then set off to explore the options for today. CleanSteve slipped on the rocks a few days ago, and now doesn't want to walk. I am dyspraxic and can't drive. Hmmm.

So I caught the bus to Port Isaac, and walked down the narrow lanes to town and the slipway. Since the filming of the UK series, Doc Martin, Port Isaac has become popular with tourists and is now filled with Cornish fudge shops, galleries, restaurants and cafes. I bought some fudge; browsed a gallery; bought fresh fish for supper; wandered the streets looking for blips; and then wondered where the 'real shops' were. I was delighted to be in a village of such understated charm and history, BUT it dawned on me that I was supposed to be buying painkillers for CleanSteve. I walked back up the hill to the Co-op, where I was pleasantly surprised to find Portuguese custard tarts for sale. This was real, and there was even a bus stop outside. Problem was, there was no bus for two and a half hours. Usually I take refuge in the town library, but in Port Isaac I did not find one. So I began to walk.

Big mistake, but by the time I realised that there were no verges to walk on, and that I would have to keep on jumping into a high hedgerow every single time I saw a car coming in either direction. I was too bloody-minded to turn back. There are no bus stops either, unless you're in a village. It became a mission: get to Polzeath by nightfall. I knew there'd be foothpaths, but did not have the map on me. Stupid.

Eventually I reached a junction, and the main road. Moments later, a van pulled over and a nice guy offered me a lift. I would probably have said yes by tnen, unless he'd looked like Peter Sutcliffe, or had curly hair and a monobrow. His van advertised Poldark Country tours, but he said that local traders were experiencing the worst August in living memory. Too much rain, not enough gain. So much of Cornwall's tourism depends on the weather...

He dropped me near a junction, where the familiar landmark of the Bee centre was suddenly visible. I decided to go in. The shop was what I'd describe as a 'twee bee gifte shoppe' and the actual bee exhibition was only viewable on payment of a fee, so I settled for a pot of tea and some honey cake upstairs. This gave me time and space to dry out, and the honey cake was a new taste sensation.

Then it was time to get back on the road again, jumping up a bank at the approach of every car. It is impossible to walk facing oncoming traffic if you're walking round a blind corner, but by this time there were small rivers running down either side of the road. The average vehicle in this part of Cornwall at this time of year is the size of a Land Rover, Range Rover or small lorry, so it's a testament to the power of prayer that I wasn't completely splattered by the spray of these behemoths.

Reader, I survived. I got home to the caravan, had a shower, cooked the Cornish sole, and cracked open a bottle of Prosecco. I was immeasurably happy just to be dry, alive, and not returning to a squelching field and sodden campsite.