A Dingle Dell Day Out – Part Two
Sandy toes and a cowrie shell in her hand…. what else?
More than a beach day. A memory in the making.
There’s something wonderfully dangerous about writing a blog on a sunny day — especially when the sea is only a short walk away.
We’d started the morning sensibly. Me at the desk, Claire sorting laundry. But a glance out the window changed everything. Blue sky, no breeze, and a forecast that suggested staying home would be borderline foolish. So, like so many of our guests over the years, we packed up for a Dingle Dell day out.
By nine, we were already at Down End — early enough for the beaches to feel like ours, if only for a short while. We watched a small group of local lads carrying gear down to a tucked-away cove, heading to the shelter they’d made from driftwood and sea rope: their own Robinson Crusoe camp. They were off for a morning of fishing and swimming — on a beach hidden from the crowds. It reminded us that the best beaches are rarely the busiest.
Later in the day, we passed that same cove again. Their den was still there — but now occupied by a different set of holidaymakers who’d stumbled upon it and claimed it for the afternoon. A small reminder that good things don’t stay secret for long.
The sea was irresistible. I wriggled into a wetsuit I hadn’t worn in 30 years. It fit… differently. Tighter across the chest, looser around the middle. But the real surprise was the confidence that came with it. I didn’t care about looking out of place — because I didn’t. I looked like someone who still knew how to have fun.
The sun had been heating the rocks all morning, and the warmth had seeped into the shallows. Nature’s water heater. The top few feet of water were the temperature of a cool bath. Dip your toes down to the sand below, though, and the change was sharp — a natural line between comfort and thrill.
We ambled back to Dingle Dell for showers, salt still in our hair, sea still in our heads. It was nearly 6pm. Just like being 15 again and realising you’re late home to Mum. Only now the worry wasn’t missing tea — it was being late for sequence and ballroom dancing at Braunton Parish Hall.
We hadn’t expected visitors, but Charlotte and Oli had other plans. We got the expected text:
“Is there something yummy on, or shall we bring something?”
They knew the answer already. But it’s always worth checking.
They arrived just in time for afternoon tea — half past three on the dot — as if scripted by the Devon Tourism Board. The kettle had barely clicked off. The scones were fresh and still warm. No debate about jam or cream. At Dingle Dell, it’s cream first, then jam — and it’s served photo-shoot perfect every time.
But if your way is different, that’s fine too. We’re not chasing trends or clickbait. We just do things the way we always have — and that’s enough.
We sat with tea in proper china, pink cheeks glowing, sea breeze still in our bones. The sort of afternoon that starts gently and stretches long into evening without anyone noticing the time.
They stayed for a late swim — one of those post-tea, sun-still-glowing, magic-hour dips where the world turns golden and the day refuses to end.
That’s what a Dingle Dell Day Out is for.