Work/Life win: "Boss, can I have a half-day leave? The surf is epic and I won't get there before dark unless I leave at lunchtime."

Got to Croyde and the sets are marching slowly in, wide-spaced and stately.  The big stuff is overhead; the little stuff is keeping the half-term kids in a happy foamy place.  The wind's light and offshore, it's warm, there's broken low cloud: it's a perfect Autumn day.

There's a tradition chez munky of getting a good first ride then fighting for ages; in this case after a Zenly foamy run, my bad feet cramped up super-fast and I left the kids and the handful of gnarly dudes to play: the gnarlies were way out, where the waves were maxing out around eight feet, getting up, getting down and getting utterly obliterated.

While I was in, the sun came down and did that low metallic Highway to Heaven thing; the clouds were fringed with silver, the spray blowing off the tops of these huge waves curling and gleaming in the light.  I half expected Michael Landon to paddle past, or Harry Secombe in the lifeguard's ute.  As it was, of course, it made me think of Nick.  If there is a good place to go after you die, well, I hope his was a bit like that. 

New year surf was all about the light: frost-covered sand glowing blue in the dawn dune shadows; a low, clear, golden winter sun picking all the detail out of the cliffs; bar after bar of wave-machine perfect foam like regiments of butterscotch, spray glittering off the top of each breaker, rainbows following after. And then, once hands were unable to grip the board any more, it was all about steam and shivering.  Hot chocolate and gingerbread and pasties, and plumes of steam from de-suited surfers suddenly reminded that the air was at freezing, even if the water was relatively balmy.

This new-year's day surfing rocks.  Last year we got hail pinging off the boards at Puttsborough.  This year down at Woolly we got awesome waves: clean, big but not silly, no wind, and spaced wide apart.  Downside?  Duck-diving those big walls of trundling grey water is like being hit in the face with a refrigerator.  They're heavy and man, ice-cream head like woah.