Trainers on and headphones in as I leave the teens in bed, groggily catching up on the social media juggernaut that has ploughed on through the night as they slept.
Outside, the village is waking too. Bleary eyed fathers are already herding their broods down to the beach, their silhouette a peculiar seaside monster made of crabbing nets, buckets, sun tents and all-terrain buggies.
Around the corner I side step a couple of Boden clad mummies furtively vaping with big, deep drags, sipping on takeaway coffees as they try to banish the taste of Sauvignon from the night before.
Down the hill to the town beach where the sea, glassy smooth, glints and shines in the morning sun. I glance over to the mainland where I left the everyday niggles of normal life a few days ago, and try not to think that soon we will be back on the ferry to pick up where we left off.
I follow the sweep of the bay and slow my pace as I come up behind a few of the elder states people of the community. Soft, washed out chambray caps sitting on pillows of white hair. Nut brown, weather worn faces a physiological log of a lifetime of sailing.
On past the sailing club and down to the beach. There is no sail training on today but plenty of fresh-faced children pulling dinghies out to the water’s edge, buoyancy aids flapping in the breeze, shouting to each other across the sand as they anticipate another day on the water.
Up ahead there is a gathering along the sea wall, a gang of families have erected a temporary cook out and breakfast buns are being dished out and handed down the line in a sort of bacon buttie relay. No-one makes space for me to pass and as I cross to the other side to get by I am reminded that the ‘Down from London’ contingent often seem to leave their manners at home in Clapham but always pack their huge egos and sense of entitlement into their Musto kit bags .
Homeward bound now and I make a loop heading inland to the village. This road is wide and tree-lined, big, moneyed houses all with their own collection of shiny four by fours lined up in the drives. Propped up against one of the gates are the remnants of last night, a burnt out bbq, a half full plastic pint glass, all the curtains in that house are still closed tight, it must have been a good party.
Up the hill and nearly home, the cafe on the corner is spilling onto the pavement with morning service. The little shop that sells everything has set out its street display of nets, painted rocks, beach balls and paperbacks. As I put my key in the front door I spy the vaping mummies again, this time hair brushed and lipstick on as they head down to the beach to play parenting tag and relieve the dads who have completed the early morning shift.
Time to rouse the teens into action. Let the day begin.