WEYMOUTH is waking up for summer.
Men dig foundations on the beach before setting up trampolines. Stripy kiosks do brisk business in candy floss, nougat and ice cream. Donkeys plod slowly, small children on their backs.
Youngsters kick balls around in the surf, dads build sandcastles for bewildered toddlers, crowds cluster round Mark Anderson’s sand sculptures. Even the sun puts in an appearance.
Round the corner from the Pavilion, we get on a rowing boat that ferries people across the harbour for 50 pence a head. We mosey back to The George Inn for one of their famed Bloody Marys and settle down on the wall to watch boats sail in and out.
At 2pm the town bridge lifts to allow yachts and fishing smacks into the marina, or out to open sea. Seagulls squeal and wheel above colourful harbourside cottages, cocking watchful eyes at families rustling chip papers. This is one of my favourite places in the world.