Kimmeridge Bay in Dorset features regularly on this blog as a sacred place for windsurfing. I'm sure I've read on here by someone, probably even me, that it's always worth going to Kimmeridge. Well is it fuck.
Yesterday three of us crammed ourselves, loads of kit and a dog who turned out to be ill, into one van and headed there with a sure thing forecast. It was going to be sunny, head to logo high on the ledges, 5 metre weather and Clyde and I, both parents now, had even negotiated to miss baby bath time so we could enjoy the epicness for longer. The rain started just before we arrived. Then the dog was sick, luckily mostly over Colin but a bit on the van as well. Then Clyde began to moan, what would turn out to be an epic session of moaning that would last a solid, non-stop, four hours. There was a guy coming out of the water and we asked if it was any good. "Pretty shit." he said.
Matt Wigham and family seem to have moved to Kimmeridge where they now live crammed into a Mercedes Vito each with an apple product just in front of their noses. We managed to score a cup of tea and a Club biscuit each in a rare break from the rain. Then they drove off, telling us they were going home, but probably just driving to another part of the car park to get away from Clyde.
"Southbourne is always better than Kimmeridge", whinged Clyde, for another six hours, until we took him to the cafe and gave him an ale.
There were about four people in the water and I've never seen it looking so crap. Marginal planing, raining. Flat. Dead onshore. And most people using hoods, boots and even gloves when it's nearly May.
A deep depression settled over the van on the way back, contributing to no one offering me any petrol money. Clyde developed a Torette Syndrome-like problem with company names and swore violently all the way at Sainsburys, Beds R us and particularly Addicus Accountants.
Naturally we had a look at Southbourne on the way. Obviously it was much windier, wavier and looked ok, so after a quick baby bath we headed out there, except for Colin who also needed a bath. It wasn't an epic but enough to do a few back loops, ride a few waves and confirm Clyde's worst fears about Kimmeridge: It's all lies. Everyone who says Kimmeridge is good is either deluded, lying, mad, a lesbian or all four and Southbourne is always better.