She had a few friendly words before the camera rolled and they looked out to sea at the dinghies. When it was clear they were on air and she was posing a question, it seemed he might dry up. He began opening and shutting his mouth and growing a bit pink, and then with her easy manner she prompted him gently. He grew more verbose, even rocking back on his heels, expanding on his theme: the growing importance of the regatta, the sense of community it engendered, the bonding between tourists and locals. A little group had gathered to watch. Overhead, the throng on the Sailing Club balcony had moved to the railings to listen, amongst them Roger and Belinda, beach duties accomplished. When the interview was over, a small cheer rang out from the crowd. Shona looked up at the balcony and laughed. Seeing so many people she knew, she executed a mock bow. Suddenly she spotted me. She hurried up the beach to the sea wall. I leaned over.

"I've literally got one more person to interview round in Kylatter Cove and then I'm free. Shall we meet back here? In an hour? Have some lunch?"

"Yes! Or – so crowded here, Shona – shall I come round to Kylatter? There's that beach café there."

"Good idea. I'll see you there." She gave me a huge grin and a thumbs up. She was about to speed back to her crew when she turned. Sped back.

"Oh, by the way, I'm meeting that friend of yours there, Ted Fleming? He came and saw me in Truro. Wants to do a piece on the clean-up operations on the beaches."

I stared. "Oh . . . right . . . I didn't—" But she'd gone, leaving me gaping.

She hurried back to her crew who threw their equipment in the back of the van and then leaped in themselves. Job done, dinghy racing in the can, it was a bit of local color which might be useful on the six o’clock news, but if truth be told, could well end up on the cutting room floor if something better came up in the meantime. The cameraman started the engine, and, with the three of them in a row in the front, they roared back up the slipway to the road.