Wading out West

UNTIL I went to Cornwall I thought it was a Ginsters paradise of pasties, Poldark, and people who work underground, jostling for space with holiday camps full of sex-crazed middle-aged men in Axl Rose bandanas picking off the surfing teens. Four days in Rock, on the north coast, proved that I couldn't have been more wrong.

Finding a window of sun in the endless spring downpours was pure fluke. So I packed the car and felt a tingle of excitement that I used to get as a kid.

It feels like we're actually going on an adventure, packing bucket, spade, and kite. I spend five minutes attempting to wash the car by hand before I realise I have actually become a middle-aged dad.

Hours later we are pulling off the M5 and into a rich, green countryside of giant wind farms, wavy roads and villages named Wizzledizzel sporting blackand-white Kernow flags and car stickers, which I presume is the icon of the Cornish nation. It's only a missing skull away from being a pirate flag, which is quite exciting. The sat-nav guides us past a King Arthur Centre advertising a battle reenactment. Finally we edge down into Rock, the lanes lined with boat trailers and family cars. It's taken just over five hours, with a slow start through London, but it didn't feel that long.

We almost miss the turn off to the hotel St Enodoc, with its sign claiming to be the most stylish restaurant in Rock. The hotel came recommended by a friend and at first glimpse we were slightly taken aback. With its sharp edges, low roof and yellow paint, it looked far newer than we expected, but crunching across the white rock gravel into reception, our fears were allayed. Pleasantly designed - pale aquablue wood panels and white walls - we could have walked into a page from World of Interiors.

Arriving in time for dinner, my son heads for the children's playroom and drags an alligator jigsaw out to the veranda. My wife joins him with a cafe latte, and I head for the sauna to iron out driver's cramp. I didn't really have cramp, but any chance to sit in a hot wooden box and read really dry sports pages has to be taken.

The hotel's baby-listening device is a godsend; it means we can enjoy the restaurant. It has a fantastic chef, and my sea bass followed by a blueberry and mango salad for dessert are as good as anything to be found in London.

Early morning finds bumblebees working the lavender beds between the terrace and the heated pool. Only the birds are talking, a distant coffee machine interacts with the crows, and there's an estuary breeze flirting with the sun. This is where the country meets the sea - obvious I know, but you can actually feel the clash of environments.

In the distance something that looks like Thomas the Tank Engine is reversing through a field. It's probably a milk van edging down a country-lane, but it looks like Thomas to me.

Across the water huge wheels of hay sit in patchwork fields and boats bob - it reminds me of Laugharne in Wales.

At 8.12am, the first speedboats of the day begin to carve up the estuary, adrenaline-sport heaven for the local wakeboarding youth. Once they've scooted by, the stillness returns and the sun begins to barge its way in.

"It's trying," observes the bar-footed gent next to me perusing his morning paper. I feel like I'm in the opposite of Fawlty Towers, where everything is calm and tranquil. What will the day bring?

We arm ourselves with beach toys and walk past a mini-jam of four- wheel drives queuing up for the car park. There's a jetty with mackerel fishing trips and wakeboarding, and people pottering around in their own small craft.

Ten minutes from the hotel we round a small headland and are amid the sand dunes of a raw unspoiled beach, a red and black football rolls away in front of us, and a retired executive struggles to come to terms with kite surfing.

Across the estuary the orange landing-craft ferry brings tourists to and from Padstow, the land of Rick Stein. You must go, everyone tells us, but why? I'm playing football on the beach with my son, this is great.

Elsewhere, highpowered speedboats called Jaws and Firepower are shooting up and down towards the Atlantic, catching air as the sea gets choppy.

After a morning of walking the dragon kite a half-mile upwind and collecting crabs and poking them in the blue plastic bucket, we leave our things on the beach and head back to the Blue Tomato Cafe. This open-fronted eatery, sand on the floor and full of busy families, had caught our eye as we'd passed the few shops on the seafront. We got in quick, ate a nice salad lunch and were out again before his lordship could cause too much chaos. It was a thoroughly nice experience.

And so the days rolled on, and on our one cloudy morning we drove over to the Eden Project, ate a massive pasty, and ended up in a tiny smuggling village called Fowey. This alone looked worth visiting at greater length, if only to sail up its beautifully inviting river.

Everything in Rock feels healthy.

Bright young things roll around, road signs forbid drinking in the street, and you can take your dog - which is rare on English beaches. The ambience of the St Enodoc Hotel was more than enough to keep us happy, with it's little library (well-stocked from John Le Carre to Zadie Smith), the tastefully designed lounge with board games, and the children's room with videos, toys and table tennis.

Spending days on the beach with the family is all that's needed, really. I could spend all our holidays chasing a football and diving on it. I only wish we could have stayed longer, but we'll be going back to Cornwall next year.

WAY TO GO James Brown and family stayed at the St Enodoc Hotel (01208 863394, www.enodoc-hotel.co.uk). Doubles from Pounds 150 BB, family suites from Pounds 200 BB.

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