We set off along the coast path for Porthrose at nine. I was in some discomfort with my rucksack, but we made good time and as my shoulders grew accustomed to the dead-weight, I began to enjoy myself. We bought packed lunches from the Quinstow hostel so we flaked out gratefully and ate near an ancient caravan which sold cans of pop. We arrived at Porthrose mid-afternoon and spent the next few hours watching the gulls on Bodgeath Point.
At the hostel, as we washed up after tea, we talked to a Dutch cyclist, but it all felt so unnatural and forced. Afterwards, we wandered down onto the rocks of Bodgeath Point. Why is it I hate people of my own age? Is it because I don't know them? Or is it just another manifestation of my paranoia?
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