I do like to be beside the seaside ...

Golly, it's been a while! I've had to dust down the typewriter, add a fresh ribbon and poke out a gangly-legged spider from its webspun home beneath the keys. Cheeky blighter!

Well, since June, I've been extremely busy with final term at the Hearn, Chamberlain & Keene College of the Linguistic and Origami Arts, and now I'm on hols - a heavenly breather for two months - hurrah!

Now then, the best weekend ever was had by myself and the dashing Sir S last month at the San-in Beach Party. In fact, it was the biggest cat's meow that you're likely to find outside of the KitKat Club on a Thursday during National Devon Rex Week.

Sir S and I caught a wild ride on the Festival Motorised Jeep and arrived on dusk at the charming Kozomi Beach, tucked between the ample bosom of two green-foliaged hills on the beautiful San-in Coast, Tottori Province. With tent, overly-stuffed satchels, picnic hamper crammed with ginger ale, iced tea, cucumber sandwiches and tinned pineapple, hurricane lamp, and a Deluxe Box of Glo-Sticks in tow, we set about putting up camp in the gathering darkness. Several punters had got there before us and their tents were cheerfully pitched in a row sandy-side with a perfect view of the Sea of Japan, which hushed and lapped onto the cool sands over which we scrambled with our load.

With gusto, pegs and ropes were flung about, hurricane lamps were hoisted and swung this way and that, and hammers were banged and biffed, with the occasional cry of "Hands off my peg!" and "Is the French letter dispenser supposed to be on the outside?" & c. Once securely pegged, Sir S and I popped open the ginger stuff, wiped the sweat off our brows and surveyed our surroundings.

To the left, on the rising, was a rickety but pleasant wooden shack where people sat about on the creaking veranda drinking ales and so forth. Just behind that was an open-air music hall heaving with a vibrant collection of dancing couples. Nearby the dancing was an illumination of intriguing tents, before which dazzling wares were set about either side of their entrances.



From this hillock, and down along the sands, was a delightful pathway glimmering with paper lanterns* which led along the beach past our row of tents, to the entrance of a white marquee dubbed the "Chill-out Tent". This tent proved a most treasured resting place throughout the weekend: colourful hammocks swung in the breeze to the perpetual tinkle of windchimes, people sprawled about on the tatami mat platform and penned wishes to tie onto the wishing tree, others supped chai, read books, or snoozed. Marvellous!

Before leaving our tent for the night, I took precautions and attached several Glo-Stick bracelets to the flaps as an easy means of identification, as well as for night navigation purposes (by this time tents were being pegged up thick and fast so that our one little "street" had transformed into a village in mere minutes).

Sir S and I enjoyed a quaff or six in the rickety old shack, admired the winking ships' lights on the sea (praying North Korea's fleet were safely tucked in at home) and then took several turns on the dance floor (like the bar of the shack, the floor was very sandy indeed and no need for shoes), poked our noses into the massage tent (oo err!), the henna tattoo tent and the hookah pipe tent (with strawberry and choc-mint aromas). At the festivalgoers' mess, we had a hearty bowl of Thai curry and savoured the smells of paella and the familiar Sydney greasiness of yiros. Although many festivalgoers were Nipponese, most were Antipodean, British, American, Canadian, Brazilian, Norwegian or Middle Eastern. Some were palely Irish. In fact, it felt just like an Australian bush doof, sans bush.

The days were spent snoring in hammocks, taking a turn on the beach (damned sun!), playing frisbee in the sea and artfully rearranging my turban in the shade of my parasol as I squinted at capoeira performances and a bizarre show of American football.

The Handsome Mr Hiroki and the Charming Miss Kaori dropped in for tea, a few cucumber sandwiches and a samosa, then enjoyed a few rounds of sand 'n surf frisbeeing. The evenings were spent dancing, firework-popping, Glo-Stick twirling and splodging in the cool, dark water.

Actually, my fireworks purchase was super-fun, although a tad dangerous to boot: got myself a packet of whizzing dragonflies because they looked pretty and I was most curious about what they'd do once their jacksies were aflame. One had to place the critters on the sand, and then light their pink, protruding posteriors mighty quick before fleeing with hands firmly clapped over one's head and bunking down behind someone else's tent for cover. The effect was pure comic horror - the lit dragonfly farted up into the air (a most embarrassing sound - making Sir S blush madly into the canvas of his bunker) and then zipped forth into the night with a big "whhhhheeeeeeeeeeeeezzzz!" and a trail of sparks as it headed off over the waves, bound for hell. One must always take care, though, to check the weather conditions and make note of any backwind. On our third go, the sea breeze propelled the dragonfly from whence it came, and it went tearing over the tent village in a whizz of sparks, squeals and triumphant farting.

Also, when setting off fireworks, be careful of pale-skinned, red-tressed Irishmen doing a nude run into the waves. Damned awful shock, I tell you. Poor sods.

* Gorgeous and most simply made from a brown paper bag, inside which a scoop of sand was deposited and betopped with a wee tea-lite candle.