We walk along the long stretch of sand to a point where the sunbeds run out. A naked man and his topless wife sit in front of a small tent and an exposed, flat shelf of rock.
The tattoo on his arm could say 'gatekeeper'.
I keep my head down and just follow in Mr Grigg's footsteps.
A man crouches behind a bush to put his shorts back on. I turn away and my eye is almost taken out by a flapping appendage attached to another man just walking past. A woman a little farther along bends over, on purpose, I am sure. Mr Grigg does not know where to look.
So we stare up at the cliffs above our heads.
At the end of the beach, the sand and the people run out. We have no towels - we have come totally unprepared for a swim as we just fancied a walk. Mr Grigg strips off and gambols into the waves like a puppy unleashed.
It is tempting.
There is nobody here to see, and if there were, who cares? My body is better than Burka Man's any day. So I daintily take off my clothes, fold them up on the beach and get right in.
And as we stroll back along the beach fully-clothed, Mr Grigg turns to me and says: 'It's just like Woolacombe.'
I visualise the annual village outing back home, where all our Lush Places neighbours leave Dorset for the weekend and head for the North Devon seaside resort. Champagne-Charlie, cavorting naked in the sea foam? Mmm, I think not.
So, feeling all daring and gung ho, we head down the unopened Aviliotes by-pass and appreciate why the 'closed' signs are still up.
That's about it.
Love Maddie x