@OliSmithTravel
PICTURE THIS HAPPY SCENE: IT’S A sunny afternoon on a North Devon beach. A labrador is chasing a frisbee. Out on the waves, the Littlest Devon Surf School is getting a tutorial. And I am also on the shore, wetsuit-clad, board in hand, in a state of paralysis at the thought of entering the waves. Strange, because once upon a time I was actually a surfer.
PHOTOGRAPHS: ROMARJ/GETTY IMAGES, DMITRY_TSVETKOV/SHUTTERSTOCK, ANNA.ZABELLA/SHUTTERSTOCK, ADRIENNE PITTS/LONELY PLANET, SHUTTERSTOCK, PADUNG/SHUTTERSTOCK
Or rather, my friends were surfers, and I was an apprentice. Together we surfed distant corners of the world: from Morocco to Mawgan Forth. In minor ways I j oined the fraternity of surfers. They taught me about the ‘surf stoke’ - not surfing Stoke-on-Trent, but the indefinable buzz of days beyond the breaks. And other things that made surfing great: sand in your hair at bedtime, and beaded necklaces.