WESTDALE BAY. Beach is virtually deserted. Sky is grey and likely to turn greyer. Four surfers in the sea facing Skokholm island, lying on their boards and bobbing up and down as tiny waves almost apologetically head for shore. The waves are barely ripples in the surface. The quartet look like frogs in a pond.
Only one surfer takes on the tiddlers. Jumping elegantly on to the board and effortlessly gliding down to the shore several times before deciding to call it a day. On closer inspection, the surfer has long blonde hair and turns out to be female.
Paddling through the shallows in, it has to be said, Ursula Andress-style, she sweeps up a clump of straggly seaweed, fronds six inches long and adds them to her hair. She rearranges her locks to appear dreadlocked as she heads unabashed for the only two people on the beach Ben and Eirlys who have been declaring their love to us clifftop walkers - Ben loves Eirlys. And 'To the world one might be one person, to one person you might be the world'. Someone been reading a self-help book?
Clearly she knows Ben and Eirlys and poses for pictures with them, seaweed on her scalp, neatly arranged. She then ditches the weed and they walk back to their vehicles.
Drove past one of them - animal - kirstyjones.me.uk.
Turns out I've been ogling the surfing superstar.
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