There is one week each year that all my fashion sense goes out of the window. When embarking on a family holiday in this country heels are replaced with plimsoles and my normally obediant hair overtaken by something not disimilar to an 80’s Diana Ross do. Humidity is not my friend.
Yet I something inside me yerns to not care about whether I should be this season’s pastels or that I need that Mulberry bag. A week in Cornwall is my outlet. A combination of a particularly badly packed suitcase and some dull drizzly weather for the first few days leaves me wondering what the hell I was doing. Yet as the sun emerged by Monday afternoon I slipped with ease into dressing like I didn’t give a damn. Mismatching shorts and vests, sundresses I wouldn’t normally even admit I own and my battered old gladiators…well, got a lot more battered. I’m not sure I could give up fashion for good, but how refreshing to realise how happy you can be in clothes you worn for 3 days running.
We all got caught short though when on Wednesday morning as St Ives’ mediterranean looking sky and burning sun went out like a light along the coastline as an eery thick sea mist enveloped us all like a blanket. Goosebumps all round.