I have just got back from a few days on the north Cornwall coast. When you cross the River Tamar you’re in another country: a classless, easy-going land where your pulse slows down and so does your Wi-Fi. Jackets and ties and even long trousers are a thing of the past – so too is any sense of urgency.

It is possible that ‘mañana, mañana’ was in fact a phrase of Cornish origin, a loose translation of, ‘There’s no chance I’ll fix your plumbing today, bro, because the surf is up and I’m off to the beach.’

A local builder we were urging to get a move on once gave us some sound advice: ‘It’s too late to start hurrying now.’ Dogs are allowed on the beach during the off-season and it’s fun to see the faux bravura of our cockapoo, Gussie, facing down the waves, a barking King Canute.

For me, the most exhausting part of surfing is getting into and out of the wetsuit. The shallows are awash with silver surfers, all of us anxious not to disrupt our new hips. Further out, the real dudes are loitering, waiting for ‘the big one’. During the war, the Home Guard apparently strung barbed wire across some of the beaches of north Cornwall, at the low-tide mark to prevent the Germans from landing.