Feels like distant memories, like we’ve been stuffed in cryogenic suspension and travelled half a galaxy since we last came to the beach. And since an outpost of family is camping near Woolacombe, that’s the side of the sea we drive towards.
It would be easy to never leave home. We live in a beautiful place, have lots to do, are not bored. Who could feel sorry for us, stuck in our beautiful rut? And yet, it surprises me, always, the change in a change of scene: no matter how good I am at looking, new things open my eyes wider.
Mr takes his mini-mal into the pitch and trough of white-topped ocean, me and Boy take a handful of dogs, walk, ogle, untangle leads.
A landscape of textured craters rolls out flat, rolls into a lunar haze. At the water’s edge bumps an alien pod of jellyfish. Boy catches digital images. My mind shutters click, over and over; look, the pools are sky mirrors, see the clarity of that cloud shadow, the turning angles of waves, the reptilian bump of the beached tree trunk.
Mr comes out of the silver sea, sparkling.
Reconvened on our homely pitch of sand, snuffling Boy sits, warmed by Fat Beagle. Bouncy Beagle bays, because Dog is off lead and flaunting. The rest of us; Misters Mac and Thorn, myself, Abbey Princess and Kirsty Pickle, watch Little Grandson roll down dune slopes with a towel dried Grandad. Curls of air wisp at our cheeks, takes down the heat of ultraviolet pulses. Under gravity fixed bodies, the grains of a vibrantly uncertain surface.