"Last year, I slipped on the wet cobbles and fell over and hurt my arse," said the teacher as we set off on the school's trip to the beach.
It didn't bode well.
The weather had indeed broken. The sheep and grouse earlier that morning had been trying to warn me. The skies looked threatening and it did not look the day to go to the seaside.
It was a two bus job. The other driver looked up at the sky and said: "It's not like the seaside I went to last. I went to the Normandy beaches with a group of Veterans."
He went on, "there were loads of Americans there all dressed up in vintage uniform with period fake guns and bazookas. You couldn't move on the boat."
Some of the roads to the beaches were narrow and he stopped at the top of one particular road and pondered whether to go down it or not. At the same moment an old American Jeep came thundering up, being driven by a veteran in D Day landing uniform.
He leant out the window and asked: "Is this road suitable for a coach?"
"Well," the American replied, taking off his helmet. "I came down here in '44 in my tank. But I sure did some damage."
He drove off, leaving the coach driver to ponder.
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