Below me, on the slipway to the beach, an excited commotion was unfolding. I guessed it was Shona arriving. Rightly regarded as a bit of a local hero, she pretty much knew everyone and was greeted warmly wherever she went. Everyone secretly wondered if she might just choose to interview them, about the state of the restraining sea wall which crumbled frequently in the winter as the waves lashed against it. Or perhaps the marauding dog, that killed sheep by the dozen and which no one could catch let alone see, leading to a story about it actually being a black panther. Shona had dutifully followed this up, since a few years earlier a similar story had unfolded on Exmoor, but Peter had shown me a hilarious outtake on YouTube, which had Shona rolling her eyes after she'd done her piece to camera in a windy field, wondering aloud where on earth this panther might have sprung from. St. Mawes Cattery? Should she go there next? Eventually a huge Doberman belonging to the Porthmarron caravan-site-owner was caught in the act and shot by a farmer. Shona had to politely decline to show the dead dog on TV, despite the farmer's insistence.

I hung over the wall now and watched her. She was springing from the passenger seat of a BBC van with her crew: a cameraman with a beard and a young chap with a furry boom. I was close enough to give her a shout, when I realized she was very much in work mode. She was on her mobile, nipping round to the back of the van in a hurry, wearing white jeans and a navy silk shirt, looking fab. Shrugging on a jacket, she collected her crew, who were still getting their equipment from the back. With a jerk of her head, she led them towards a group of people on the beach. Smiling broadly and shaking hands with them all, she then efficiently sectioned off an important-looking chap in a blazer, who I recognized as a friend of Roger's, and the captain of the Sailing Club.