Summary
LET'S go down here," shouted Dale into the night, with the air of illadvised confidence that only too much Sauvignon Blanc can instil. "Are you sure?" I said, weakly, as he veered our borrowed golf buggy off the road and down a sandy path to the moonlit beach where he insisted we were to take a romantic stroll. He was quite sure, he said. He shouldn't have been, because five seconds later, the path came to an abrupt end, complete with 30ft drop. Thankfully the brakes worked. He laughed. I whacked him.
Not sure how we'd have explained that one to the lovely receptionist at The Island Hotel, who kindly lent us the buggy to save us walking the mile or so over the hill to the Flying Boat Club where we were heading for dinner.See the full content of this document
Extract
... Doorstep? Tanya Gledhill Explores
Anyway, giggling late-night ramblings and the odd whack aside, we'd had a lovely night. On Tresco, one of the Scillies' prettiest islands, the Flying Boat Club, named after the wartime Royal Naval station, is the place to be seen. Smart, clapboard beachfront houses in New England style with charmi...
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