The path is beginning to flatten out now, and to the right, beyond the fence, I can see a golf course. Then comes a pressure on my arm as Christianne pulls me to a halt. To our left, there’s just the hint of another path – nothing more than a smudged boot print or two – through the tangle of shrubs and bushes.

‘There,’ she says. ‘Follow me.’

She steps into the undergrowth, losing her balance for a moment, and then she recovers, tramping down the vegetation, and I follow, trying to avoid the nettles and the prickly stands of wild rose. Abruptly, this barely trodden path turns to the right to avoid a knot of tree roots, and suddenly we’re out on the bareness of the clifftop. This little patch is the size of Evelyn’s kitchen, not small, and a dry summer has crazy-paved the ochre soil with deep-looking fissures, but the real headline is the view, which is dizzying. Away to the left, prompted by a jerky wave of Christianne’s hand, I can see a mile or so along the coast to the distinctive cluster of trees on Otter Head. In between nestles Budleigh itself, a comfortable muddle of rooftops, while a glance to the right reveals yet another promontory.

‘Here. Look.’ Christianne pulls me to the very edge of the cliff. The drop, which must be hundreds of feet, is near vertical and I feel a stir of fear in my belly as I peer over. Where the sea washes in against the foot of the cliff, the water has turned the strangest shade of red. We could almost be on Mars – a thought I share with Christianne.

‘Exactly.’ Another sweep of her arm takes in the entire bay before she grabs my hand. ‘Special, eh?’

She and Andy, she explains, discovered this hidden gem within a month or two of moving to Budleigh. On hot summer days, they’d hike up here with blankets and a picnic and a bottle of cheap wine. The people who look after the coastal path had already done their best to seal the place off on health and safety grounds, but Andy, she says, has no time for all that merde and they were more than happy to take a risk or two for the sake of privacy and a decent tan.

‘It’s my favourite place in all the world,’ she says wistfully. And looking at her, I know she means it.

By now it’s begun to rain but I want to take this image, this view, back to London with me. I get my phone out, holding it at arm’s length while I position us both a pace or two from the edge of the cliff. Christianne is hanging on to my arm again, fighting for balance, and I wait for her to settle down before taking the photo.