How I found salvation in a church in Torquay

Last Tuesday a Mistral wind blowing across the Bay of Angels jerked the plane all over the shop as it circled to land. The French lady in the next seat but one to mine vomited raucously and copiously on the carpet and a speedy boarder sprinted for the toilet. A second before the wheels should have touched down on the runway at Nice, the pilot had second thoughts and accelerated the plane back up into the air. Afterwards he came on the loudspeaker to explain. Most surprising of all was the distinct tremolo in his voice. Five days later, flying in the other direction, our touchdown at Bristol in the gathering Storm Ciara was accomplished at the first attempt, but jarring buffets of wind on the approach made we adults secretly brace ourselves and the infants wail.

From Bristol I made a dash by train for Torquay before the storm hit in earnest, to sit it out through Sunday in a seafront hotel room. I checked in at 11.30 on Saturday night. A birthday party was going full blast in the hotel bar. At the reception desk I was greeted by the manager holding a big square birthday cake flaming with candles. In half an hour it was my birthday. ‘You shouldn’t have,’ I said.

I looked like a drowned rat. ‘Business or pleasure?’ said the manager when he’d returned from the bar amid cheering on his way in and singing on his way out. ‘Hospital on Monday morning,’ I said. ‘Oncologist. Crucial scan results. It could go either way.’ He gave me some excellent advice. ‘Well, they are still serving drinks at the bar,’ he said, ‘and will be for at least another hour.’ I settled up in advance. The two-night stay cost £50, continental breakfast included.