STRAIGHT TALK: I’ll tell you what was wrong with our Indian summer weekend...

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THE low spot of our Indian summer weekend was the melting moment on the Coasthopper bus to Hunstanton.

I was melting, husband Nick was melting, we each squooshed up to our side of the seat because if we’d touched we would surely have ended up welded together.

We prayed for a breeze but our transport would need to be moving briskly along to conjure one up, and that just wasn’t going to happen.

Not on the coast road from King’s Lynn to sunny Hunny at 28 degrees, anyway.

But ours was a romantic interlude compared with the hell our fellow passenger was going through.

Squashed together standing in the aisle with her two little girls taking turns to wail “Aren’t we there yet?” she told us they’d set off bright and early from Cambridge, been diverted from train to bus then back to the train at Ely.

Once they’d trundled into King’s Lynn, eagerness to catch the bus to the beach lent their feet wings but her brain only caught up at Lynn bus station.

She’d left a big bag on the train seat, replete with everything a small family required for a splash and a picnic on the sands.

It was 1pm when we pulled into the outskirts of Hunstanton half an hour late, just as the two little girls had cottoned on that they needed new bathing suits, and needed them now.

Their mum wasn’t the only one that day thinking why, why are we putting ourselves through all this when we could have stayed home, got out the paddling pool and put our feet up with a cold beer from the fridge?

We passed thronged car parks with queues stretching back to the main road and thought of all the thousands of cars bunging up the road behind us. This was madness.

Then the bus door clanged open, and all was forgotten. The day hit a high spot that didn’t diminish until time came for the return journey.

The sea, still as a bowl of milk, blended with the horizon, both identically heavenly blue.

Never mind that the alternative to walking miles for a clear run at the sea was a scramble over rocks wearing wigs of slippery green weed into beds of mussels that stabbed your feet before with great relief you landed, splat, in suspiciously silky mud that welled up between your toes. And THEN you could paddle!

Sitting on the sea wall we devoured the best fish and chips, wickedly fried in dripping, then lapped ice-creams and snatched 40 winks on the sloping green in front of the pub.

The sun was bouncing off thousands and thousands of car bonnets all over town, extra buses were piling in at standing room only, and the sea-front was littered with a few hundred motorbikes.

I know that just like us, all the people who had struggled there in all those vehicles felt their troubles were over the minute they saw the blue of the sea.

It’s a law of Nature. Sun and sea are an unbeatable team – especially in October.