Postcard from Salcombe

I'm lazy. I don't deny it. So if I'm going to climb steep hills there needs to be a reward involved. Fortunately for Salcombe, the view delivered from the top and the short boat trip across the estuary to sandy beaches drenched in late afternoon sun meant I felt the expedition to the bottom worth it when faced with the million steps back up to the car. Well, it felt like a million.

I admit it: I also can't deny that having partaken of tea and cake at the beach side cafe may have may have made the climb more arduous. But what are holidays for if not indulgence?

Postcard from my post bag

OK, so I make a lot of fuss about postcards, to the extent that several of my friends and family are kind enough to continue to include me in their travels by sending a card rather than email, text or silence. The above arrived in the last month or so and each brightened my day with its vicarious visit to Barcelona, Yorkshire and a Greek beach. From the article and comments here it's obvious I'm not the only one to still delight in them (the comment about 'middle-aged or elderly' rankled a little, have I really crossed that line?)

Last week I went to a preview of a show which will be at the Edinburgh Fringe Festival this month: Me, Myself and Miss Gibbs - the story of an investigation inspired by a postcard of Lincoln Cathedral sent in 1910. See? Postcards as life-changing dramatic device!

If you think it's just a photo of a beach, you're missing out. I'm off for a mini-break in Devon this weekend, anyone fancy a card?