WHEN there's wind through your hair, sand on your toes, gulls swooping and waves crashing, it's easy to believe everything on the beach is lovely.

Or it would be, if you were by yourself.

I am so thankful I live close to the sea that I actually manage to say 'thank you' to whatever powers there be, quite often. However there is a down side. I love going to the beach but can't quite bring myself to leave the dogs at home, because it would be so selfish.

Which is why I ended up crouching in thick bush, on a sand dune, cursing.

I couldn't possibly repeat what I was saying, but I told my eldest son in a weak moment and he thinks I was lucky not to be arrested for soliciting.

Our four dogs, ranging in size from medium to very, very big, gallop along the sand, wallow in the lagoon, hurl themselves into the sea and enjoy it all thoroughly. However, they have to be coaxed to get there. In fact two of them have to be lifted up bodily and tossed into the back of a small VW.

Of course we live within walking distance, but that is out of the question. Just try attaching yourself to four leads which are about to be hauled by two Collies and two St Bernards.

Once on the beach (where dogs are not allowed) this canine quartet disappears into the distance. It is a long and lonely stretch but you get the odd holidaymaker wandering foolishly off the beaten track.

With a menacing growl, my dogs soon settle their hash.

Then there is the child who takes his fishing seriously. He has laid out his bait, which consists of gleaming, fat, silver fish, and is fishing a few metres away.

You cannot imagine how much St Bernards relish raw, fresh sardines, dusted with a little sand.

Further along a group of men are attempting to haul their boat out of the sea and onto a trailer. It's not easy but they've almost made it when this howling pack descends upon them - and they drop the boat.

Meanwhile I am doing the sand, sun and sea bit - isn't life marvellous - and scooping little packages, which the dogs have left behind, into a plastic bag. After all, I do consider other beachcombers - most of the time.

I can see what the mutts are doing, but there is no use shouting because the wind is blowing in the other direction and they never take any notice.

However, it is hard to relax completely. Sooner rather than later I am going to catch up with the frightened holidaymakers, the deprived child-fisherman and the men loading the boat.

The dogs will choose that moment to come bouncing back in order to identify me as their mistress - and I will have to apologise and apologise - perhaps even grovel - again.

It wouldn't be so bad if I wasn't clutching the plastic bag and I only hope no-one knows what's inside it.

Once the groveling is over it is time to turn for home.
Time to clip on the leads which is possible when they are tired; to walk back to the car and reload the two Collies who object to any form of transport.

Only this time they don't wait for me to put on the leads but, instead, pelt off into the overgrown dunes and disappear.

And I completely lose it.

The dogs have gone - probably forever. There's no-one to help me. I long to be at home, preferably in bed. Soon, however, my self-pity turns to fury. I hurl the plastic bag into the bush - and to hell with other beachcombers.

Omygod - where are the car keys?

So I'm down on my hands and knees in the thick undergrowth, croaking and cursing. In fact, almost crying with rage.

Perhaps someone up there does, after all, like me because the dogs are coming back - to see what I 'm doing, no doubt - and I miraculously find the keys.

I might bring those dogs back to the beach - some day.