Getting deliberately and totally drunk in Watchet

Next morning, Sunday, up early. I must have been the only person at the Butlins music festival minus a hangover. Day three, and I was yet to hear a live musical note or get myself an altered consciousness. I walked into town along the promenade feeling ever so noble. Perhaps I might go to church, I thought, and underline my great goodness. I savoured an image of my new pals, hands on hips, indignantly saying to me, ‘So where were you last night?’ And my answering, ‘I had an early night.’ And them saying, ‘And today? Where were you today?’ And me saying simply, ‘Church.’

The sea was flat and grey. Other festival-goers, cold and crapulent, were slouching grimly into town, as though on a forced march. The promenade ran out near a quaint old railway station. I was surprised to see one. I’d imagined that the hills of Exmoor were a barrier to every line of communication except the unbelievably stoney, winding road that had brought me here.