The Hidden Hut by Judy Mitchell
It was one of those late summer days when harvesting had started that I first visited Porthcurnick Beach. Wheat that had spilled from combined harvesters had mixed with sand and was thrown from our spoked wheels in golden clouds of dust on the dry, narrow roads . We were three. Two young women and one Labrador dog in a sports car, top down, our eyes shaded by flamboyant sunglasses. For five days the sun shone down on us from a cloudless sky and the blue English Channel lapped the Cornish coast in warm, watery folds. This was The Roseland where the sea had nibbled sandy coves from the land and where headlands, bays and cliffs provided easy walking along the South West Coast Path. To the west was Portscatho, a former pilchard fishing village and to the east, past the coastguard lookout, was Nare Head and the path to Mevagissey and Fowey. In that shimmering heat we joined others on the path through the stile and down the steps to claim our daily space on a sandy beach awash with fam